And somewhere between the two, Esther realized, was the moment everything would change.
36
Esther
How to make a noble sacrifice: weep internally while being awkward externally.
The orphanage was quieter than usual when Esther returned
Children napped in uneven bundles across cots and benches, limbs tangled together for warmth.
The older ones swept the courtyard in lazy, circular patterns that suggested both routine and exhaustion. Lentil porridge lingered in the air, its scent clinging to the stone like a memory that refused to fade.
Everything looked the same.
Esther felt wrong inside her own body.
Each step echoed too loudly in her ears, as though the ground itself were aware of what she
intended to do. Her fingers trembled when she closed the gate behind her, the metal latch colder than it had any right to be.
Nythir knelt by the wall, carefully repairing a splintered chair leg. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with sawdust and faint, old scars. His hair was tied back loosely, a smudge of charcoal darkening one cheek where he’d forgotten to wipe his hands.
When he looked up and saw her expression, his smile faltered immediately.
“Essie? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered. “Just… thinking.”
He didn’t press. Nythir never did. He waited, steady and present, as if he trusted her to find her way to the truth on her own.
She hated how much that made her love him.
Esther folded her hands together so he wouldn’t see them shaking.
“I want to go out for a bit,” she said softly. “With you. Just us.”
“A stroll?” His brows knit together. “Now?”
“Yes.” She forced a brittle smile. “A stroll.”
His hesitation lasted only a heartbeat before he nodded. “Of course.”
They walked through the outer plaza as evening began to settle, the city shifting into its second life.
Lanterns were being lit one by one, their glow uneven where oil was scarce. Merchants argued quietly over closing prices. Somewhere, a child laughed too loudly, the sound sharp against the backdrop of fatigue.
Usually, Esther could lose herself in Nythir’s presence—in the warmth of his shoulder near hers, in the way their steps fell into unconscious rhythm. Tonight, her attention snagged on everything else.
Two women argued over a loaf of bread that was clearly too small to satisfy either of them. A man slept on the curb, ribs visible even beneath his coat. A little girl held out a cracked bowl, eyes too old for her face.
Each sight reopened the same wound.
Nythir noticed the way her gaze lingered. “We can turn back,” he offered gently. “The market can be… a lot.”
“It’s not the noise,” Esther murmured. “It’s everything.”
She wanted to remember him. The way he drifted closer when the crowd pressed in. The protective angle of his body. The glances he kept sneaking at her like she was something fragile and precious.
