Chapter 1: Morning Call
"Children, come out for breakfast."
A voice called out for us as we hurried down the stairs without putting on our flip-flops.
Someone nearly slipped in front of me, laughing as they caught themselves on the railing. The rest of us rushed past anyway, bumping shoulders and complaining all at once.
"Move, move!"
"You're too slow!"
"I was here first!"
"You say that every day!"
The house was already warm, the kind of warmth that made you forget the cold floor beneath your feet. It wrapped around us as we ran, carrying the familiar smell of food drifting from below.
I liked mornings like this.
Everyone was together. No one was missing.
Not yet.
By the time we reached the dining room, the table was already set. Bowls lined up neatly, each one filled and waiting. Steam curled upward in thin, lazy strands.
"Sit down properly," the voice reminded us.
We quickly took our places.
No one argued about seats. We all had our own. Even the smaller ones knew exactly where to go, climbing into their chairs with quiet excitement.
I picked up my spoon, tapping it lightly against the edge of the bowl.
"Do you think it's thicker today?" someone beside me whispered.
I leaned closer, pretending to check. "Maybe."
"That means it'll keep us full longer."
"Good," another one muttered. "I was still hungry last night."
A few of us laughed softly.
At the head of the table, the door opened.
The room fell quiet almost immediately—not because we were told to, but because we knew to.
Footsteps echoed against the floor, slow and steady. They always sounded the same, no matter how many times we heard them.
A shadow stretched across the table.
"Eat well," the voice said.
We smiled.
"Thank you," some of us replied.
Then we began.
Spoons dipped into the bowls, lifting the warm food to our mouths. It was soft, easy to swallow, and comforting in a way that made you want to eat faster without thinking.
Beside me, someone hummed quietly between bites.
Across the table, one of the smaller ones grinned, their cheeks already full.
"It's good today," they mumbled.
"It's always good," another answered.
"Not always," someone else said under their breath.
A brief silence followed.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the quiet chatter returned.
The windows let in a soft light, but they were too high to see through clearly. Not that anyone tried anymore.
There wasn't much to see outside, anyway.
At least, that's what we were told.
I glanced down at my bowl again.
It was already half empty.
For some reason, that made me uneasy.
I didn't know why.