Children rushed to help those who were struggling to breathe, while others were vomiting across the floor in uncontrolled waves that spread panic through the halls. Some were being rubbed down with wet cloths in a desperate attempt to lower their burning bodies, while others hurried toward the well, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, as if urgency itself had replaced thought.
The victims were unsteady, weak, barely able to remain upright, and a few had already lost consciousness entirely, forcing the children tending them to carry them from place to place as though their weight had become nothing more than a burden of survival rather than a person.
Earlier that day, Hanabi had returned from the market earlier than usual, quietly carrying a rare sense of anticipation that he did not often allow himself to feel. It was not excitement in the simple sense, but something more restrained an expectation built from effort finally reaching its result. Tomorrow, he would finally harvest his sugar cane. He had never expected the plant to mature in just three weeks, and that alone had already left him with a quiet sense of disbelief that lingered in the back of his mind.
Yet beneath that unease was something else, subtle but persistent, a reluctant satisfaction that what he had done had not failed. It had grown. It had responded. That alone was enough for him to acknowledge it as real.
But as he drew closer to the orphanage, a faint but increasingly uncomfortable sense of wrongness began to press against his thoughts. It was not immediate, nor loud, but it was persistent enough that his steps slowed without conscious permission.
Something was wrong. The feeling did not have words, only weight, and that weight alone made his pace quicken again as if motion itself could prevent the outcome he was beginning to anticipate.
What he saw made him stop completely.
A large portion of his sugar cane had been cut down prematurely, its pieces scattered across the road as though the field itself had been interrupted mid-process. For a moment, Hanabi did not feel anger or frustration. Instead, there was only a strange, suspended confusion, followed by a distant, almost detached thought that perhaps this could be explained away or cleaned quietly before it became something directed at him.
But then he stepped closer, the smell reached him first. Fresh vomit, sharp and overwhelming, lingering in the air with a physical presence that immediately tightened his chest in reflex. Panic rose before reasoning could even begin to form.
"What happened?!" he called out, his voice sharper than intended, as he spotted the children who had collapsed nearby after the crisis.
Their expressions were dazed and unfocused, as if their awareness had not yet fully returned to them. That emptiness unsettled him more than the chaos itself.
"Many children got drunk after eating your sugar cane," Mother Lilith said, exhaling slightly, her tone calm in a way that made the situation feel even more distant from normal understanding.
Guilt struck Hanabi so suddenly and cleanly that it cut off every possible response before it could form. There was no defense in his mind, no justification, only a heavy realization that settled without resistance.
"I hope you're not tired yet. The place still needs cleaning," she added, as if assigning the next step in a routine rather than addressing a disaster.
Without a word, Hanabi lowered himself and grabbed a wet cloth, beginning to scrub the floor in silence, as though movement alone could prevent his thoughts from lingering on what had just happened.
Days passed.
The harvest was delayed because of the incident, forcing Hanabi to quietly reorganize everything he had previously planned. He adjusted his schedule without complaint, relying more on the other children than before, not because he trusted them more, but because the workload simply required it. Mother Lilith implemented stricter rules to ensure the same mistake would not repeat itself. Surprisingly, Hanabi was never directly blamed. Once everyone recovered, the entire incident seemed to dissolve into silence, as though the orphanage collectively agreed that remembering it carried no benefit.
"What's your plan for the sugar cane?" Mother Lilith asked one day, her tone neutral, neither pressing nor casual.
"I'll sell it at the market. Sweets are expensive, they say," Hanabi replied after a brief pause, already shifting his thoughts into a more practical direction.
Mother Lilith did not answer immediately. Instead, she watched the children take a short breakfast break, her gaze lingering longer than usual, as if measuring something beyond the conversation itself.
Then she spoke.
"I will buy it."
Hanabi froze.
The words did not immediately register as normal. Not because they were unclear, but because they disrupted the expectation of distance he usually associated with her decisions.
"She's… directly involved?" he thought, unable to properly place the meaning.
"How much is your price?" she added.
"That question doesn't make sense," Hanabi replied, slower now, as though trying to stabilize the conversation into something familiar.
"I'm not asking for profit. I just want to support the orphanage," he said. "Just make sure you earn well."
For a brief moment, Mother Lilith went still. Not visibly shocked, but quietly paused as if she had not expected that kind of certainty from him.
"You're too young to carry responsibilities like this," she said more softly. "I don't remember teaching you that, do I?"
She walked toward the center of the gathering, and in that moment, her presence shifted the entire atmosphere. The children quieted instinctively. Hanabi felt it too that subtle pressure of awareness, like being observed not just physically, but internally.
Mother Lilith pulled a whistle from her pocket.
Hanabi's attention sharpened slightly. That whistle was never used casually. At her signal, the orphanage moved as one. She assigned roles with practiced efficiency harvesting, carrying, peeling, and preparing barrels retrieved from her magic pouch. Everything was handled with a coordination that felt almost rehearsed, yet still flexible enough to adapt.
Hanabi's attention locked onto the jars inside the pouch, they were unfamiliar.
"What are those?" he asked, unable to suppress the curiosity forming in him.
"My friend sent them," she replied. "She said she'll buy as much sugar cane as we can provide."
"When did this happen?!" Hanabi asked, the timing itself overwhelming his sense of order.
"Last night. She sent letters… and this pouch as well."
Hanabi had more questions, but none of them could form clearly enough to leave his mouth. He remembered vaguely that sweets and wine were among the most expensive goods in the kingdom. If Mother Lilith trusted this buyer, then the scale of value involved was likely far beyond what he could easily comprehend at a glance.
The children worked steadily cutting, peeling, bundling, sealing. Everything moved in rhythm, not chaotic anymore, but organized, almost silent in its efficiency.
Hanabi simply watched.
He was not assigned any role. As the origin of the crop, his work had already ended, and yet that absence of responsibility felt strangely heavier than participation.
Except for the nuns assisting in the kitchen, Mother Lilith and Hanabi remained slightly apart, observing the process unfold.
Hanabi stood still, mentally drained, as though his thoughts had scattered too far to properly collect again.
"Here," Mother Lilith said, offering him a drink.
He hesitated briefly before drinking.
It was sweet.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Honey," she replied.
Only then did he realize he was sitting beside her.
"What do you think? Do they taste the same?" she asked.
"Yes… but not really," he answered after a pause that felt longer than it should have.
"That's holy wine," she added.
Hanabi blinked.
"A drink reserved only for priests," she clarified.
He had already finished it.
"That bottle is worth a diamond," she said casually.
"One diamond?!" Hanabi nearly stood before stopping himself mid-motion, the realization hitting heavier than expected.
"If the church knew, it would cause problems," she added without urgency.
Hanabi slowly exhaled, forcing his thoughts back into structure.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Mother Lilith gently patted his head.
"I mean… don't tell anyone."
Four barrels were already full. Bundles were carefully wrapped, skins sealed, and her pouch had long since reached capacity.
The sun was lowering now, stretching the shadows across the field as the day finally settled into completion.
Hanabi looked over what remained. Even after everything, a large portion of the field was still untouched, standing quietly as if waiting for another cycle of labor to begin.
And tomorrow… it would grow again.
He was not sure if they would ever truly finish it.
But for now, at least, the orphanage's burden at least the one they could see had been temporarily lifted.