The night of the fire at St. Margaret's Orphanage.
Late at night. A three-story brick and wood structure building. There was the sound of footsteps at the end of the corridor, the sound of a nun's shoes hitting the wooden floor. Doors were pushed open and closed again. Every time a door is opened, six to eight children can be seen crowded inside, sleeping on narrow iron beds.
Mary Ellis opened the door, holding an oil lamp in her hand. She stood in the doorway, counting the children. Thirty-nine. There should be two more.
She turned and went downstairs into the cellar.
There is a locked door at the end of the cellar. The key hung around her neck. Behind the door was a small, dark room that smelled of excrement. There are two figures huddled in the corner - one is seven years old and the other is five years old. Siblings.
"Bad children will be punished," Mary said softly. "After the punishment, you will be clean."
She placed the lamp on the ground. The shadow of the flames danced on the wall, stretching her shadow very long, like a faceless monster.
An hour later. Oil lamps were knocked over and flames spread from the cellar. Mary stood in the burning corridor and did not escape. She spread her hands as if embracing the fire. In the smoke, her face was melting, but her mouth was moving.
She is singing. A lullaby.
In the room upstairs, forty-one children were locked inside.
Buildings collapse. The fire lit up the night sky ten miles away. The next morning, only one unidentifiable body and the charred bones of forty-one children were left in the rubble.
