The days blurred into each other like strokes of charcoal smudged on paper. Each morning, Anna would wake before dawn, her limbs heavy with fatigue, her mind wrapped in a fog that never lifted. She would slip quietly from beneath the thin, tattered blanket she shared with Calvin, and begin the day before the others stirred. Her first stop was always the kitchen, where the stone floor bit at her bare feet and the air smelled of rot and old grease.
She worked tirelessly, doing both her own chores and Calvin's—scrubbing floors until her knuckles split, washing stacks of greasy dishes in freezing water, carrying heavy buckets from the well with her arms trembling from the weight, and cleaning the reeking, stained toilets that no one else dared touch. She no longer flinched when the stench made her gag. There wasn't room for weakness. There was only survival.
Anna had become a ghost of herself, drifting from task to task. Her once lively eyes had dimmed to gray hollows, and her face had taken on a sunken, skeletal look. Her hands were callused and blistered, her joints stiff and aching with every movement. But she never stopped. She couldn't.
Calvin needed her.
He lay curled under the threadbare blanket each day, barely moving. His cough had worsened, racking his small frame with sharp, painful heaves that left him gasping for air. The fever that clung to him never seemed to break. Sometimes, when he spoke, he didn't sound like himself.
"Anna... I'm cold..."
She would press close to him, wrapping her frail arms around his body and whispering, "I know, Calvin. Just sleep. I'll keep you warm."
The other children noticed. They began to watch Anna with wide eyes and hushed voices, as if she were something not quite human. A few murmured about her when they thought she couldn't hear—how she never collapsed, how she worked like two children and never broke. But no one dared help her. Fear hung over the orphanage like smoke, choking out even the smallest sparks of kindness. To step in was to invite Nanny Elga's wrath.
And Elga was watching.
She always watched.
As weeks turned into months, Anna's body began to betray her. Her skin stretched tight over her bones, her cheeks hollowed, and her legs grew too weak to carry her for long stretches without stumbling. She often caught herself leaning against walls for support, her vision swimming.
But it was Calvin who haunted her.
He was fading. She saw it in the way his coughs now came with blood, small red flecks staining his lips. He no longer had the energy to cry, only to moan softly in his sleep or mutter things she couldn't understand. She sang to him when she could, humming half-remembered lullabies their mother once sang.
She would murmur against his fevered skin, "I'm going to get us out. I swear it. Just hold on, Calvin. Please."
One afternoon, as Anna was sweeping the courtyard under the fading winter sun, she spotted him. Calvin had somehow dragged himself outside and was sitting slumped against the wall, his arms wrapped around his chest.
Alarmed, she dropped the broom and ran to him. "Calvin?"
He looked up, his face pale, eyes glassy. "I don't feel good, Anna. My chest… it hurts… so much."
Her heart dropped like a stone. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his forehead. He was burning.
"You shouldn't be out here. Come on, let's get you back inside."
She wrapped an arm around him and struggled to lift him. He was so light now. Lighter than he'd ever been. She could feel every bone beneath his skin as she carried him back to their room, her legs nearly giving out beneath them. No one stopped her. No one offered to help.
That night, as she wiped the sweat from his brow with a damp cloth, Anna couldn't stop her tears. She turned her face away so he wouldn't see.
He needed medicine. He needed warmth, proper food, a doctor—anything but this place.
The next morning, Anna knew something had to change. She couldn't watch him wither away any longer.
She went to Nanny Elga.
Elga was in her office again, counting coins from a rusted tin box, her sharp eyes flicking upward when Anna entered without knocking.
"I need to speak with you," Anna said, her voice steady despite the way her hands shook.
Elga arched an eyebrow. "Brave, aren't you? What is it now, Anna? Another performance?"
"It's Calvin," she said. "He's sick. He needs to rest."
Elga snorted. "And who will do his chores? You think this place runs on kindness?"
"I'll do them. All of them. Just let him stay in bed."
The silence that followed was like the air before a storm. Elga stood slowly, her eyes narrowing.
"You already act like you're better than the rest. But this… this is foolish. You'll break. And when you do, no one will put you back together."
Anna held her ground. "I don't care what happens to me. But he needs a chance. Please."
Elga stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a smirk, she waved a hand dismissively. "Fine. But one slip, and both of you pay. Do you understand me?"
"I do," Anna said, already turning to leave.
When she got back to the room, Calvin was still curled up, his breath shallow. His lips moved when she came close.
"Did she say yes?"
Anna nodded. "Yes. You can rest now. I'll take care of everything."
For the next several days, Anna barely slept. She worked until her muscles screamed, until she could barely lift her arms. The other children kept their distance, casting furtive glances her way but never speaking. She was no longer just one of them. She was something else—a creature born of fire and desperation.
But at night, in the darkness of their room, she was just Anna. A sister. A child. A girl trying to keep her promise.
Calvin's condition did not improve. He drifted in and out of fevered sleep, his cough worsening. And Anna, despite everything, continued. She carried him water, found scraps of extra food when she could, stole rags to use as compresses.
One night, she held his trembling hand and whispered, "I'm not letting you go. I'll find a way. I swear it."
Calvin opened his eyes then, just for a moment, and gave her a faint smile.
"I believe you," he whispered.
And that was enough. For now.
Anna didn't know how long she could last, but she would last as long as it took. Because love, she'd learned, was not soft or easy. Love was a battle. A fire that refused to go out.
And hers still burned.