The first rays of dawn had just touched the rooftops of Soul Valley Town when the ancient bell tolled on schedule.

Last night’s snow still clung to the earth, wrapping the world in pristine white. The gates of Saint Peter Orphanage, nestled in the town’s northwest corner, swung open. Children of varying ages filed out, each clutching a stiff bundle of matches.

Every orphan at Saint Peter’s was required to sell matches daily—a rule set personally by the headmaster.

As always, Lia was the last to step through the door. Her steps were listless, stray snowflakes dusting her dark-gold hair. In the morning light, her cheeks held a porcelain-like smoothness.

The headmaster, dressed head-to-toe in black like a crow, watched her with a faint, mocking smile from behind. "Try not to come back empty-handed today, hmm?"

Lia pretended not to hear, lifting her feet with deliberate slowness. Inside, she seethed at his hypocrisy and greed.

She wasn’t a child anymore. She no longer believed his hollow preaching about "earning your keep." If work truly meant fair pay, why force them to sell matches?

What could matches possibly earn?

She knew his real game: a cheap spectacle for the whole town. Let everyone see these homeless children shivering through winter, hawking the only thing the orphanage "provided."

Zero cost. Zero labor. And endless sob stories about Saint Peter’s "struggling to survive," begging for donations to stay open.

Gullible townsfolk would organize relief drives. The headmaster, wearing a saccharine smile, would graciously accept clinking copper and silver coins—coins that vanished into his pockets. Lia had glimpsed his room overflowing with fine wines and delicacies more than once.

No one would believe orphans anyway. Accuse the headmaster, and you’d be branded "ungrateful."

Lia stared at her scuffed shoes, lost. Where should she even go?

Last night’s stranger flashed in her mind. Her heart churned.

No one had ever seen her at her worst and still reached out—rushing into flames just to pull her free. The moment his hand gripped hers, she’d felt a safety, a trust she hadn’t known in fourteen years.

Who was he? What had he whispered at the end?

Head down, she quickened her pace, kicking stray pebbles into the road.

"Hey, miss. Rough morning?"

Lia snapped her head up, eyes sharp as she scanned the source of the voice.

Perched on a low wall, grinning, was the boy she’d met once before. He waved. "We meet again. I’m Yihan."

Lia repeated the name silently, etching it deep into her memory.

Yihan strolled toward her, hands in his pockets. She forced her expression softer. At the orphanage, weakness invited cruelty. She’d learned to armor herself with scowls and sharp words—a shield against trouble. Her face had grown stiff from it. But before him… she wanted to look prettier.

Yihan didn’t notice her turmoil. He just wanted some dream-world fun.

Spotting the soot-streaked match bundle in her hands, he asked, "Selling matches again today?"

"Mm." She nodded.

"How much?"

"Five for a copper coin." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Yihan examined the thick, crude sticks—more like miniature torches than matches. No wonder they cost five a coin. But she’d wandered for hours without a single sale. Winter meant high demand for fire. Something was off.

He studied her, chin in hand. Lia shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, fingers twisting the match bundle.

"How do you usually sell them?" he asked.

"I… just ask people. ‘Need matches? Five for a copper.’" She frowned. Others did the same.

Yihan sighed. "You can’t just shove them at strangers like flyers. Gotta find people who actually need them."

He remembered his own rookie sales days—endless rejections, doors slammed in his face. No one had taught him better. Just like no one taught her.

But first—something else needed fixing.

When Yihan’s eyes swept over her a third time, Lia hugged her bundle to her chest, cheeks flushing. "Stop staring."

He shrugged. "Sorry. I was just wondering… is that the only outfit you have?"

Lia’s gaze dropped. All the orphans wore cast-offs. The headmaster called it "recycling." Donations flowed in; not a coin was spent on new clothes.

Ragged children selling matches—a perfect sob story to squeeze more coins from pitying townsfolk. The orphans stayed cold and unwashed while the headmaster’s room filled with luxuries.

Yihan didn’t know this. He just saw a girl whose appearance screamed "avoid me." Stained clothes, tangled hair half-hiding her face. Who’d buy matches from someone who looked like they’d crawled out of a gutter?

He knew image mattered in sales. And honestly? He wanted the dream-version of Lia to be fresh and clean. At least her hair should be washed.

Before she knew it, his smooth talk had swept her to the town bathhouse. Steam curled from its doorway. Townsfolk bustled past. Lia hovered nervously, feet itching to flee.

"You… want to bathe?" She peered longingly inside. The orphanage had a bathhouse too—but the headmaster never spared firewood for hot water. Winter meant icy showers, or none at all. By spring, everyone reeked. It was their unspoken shame.

Yihan grabbed her wrist, steering her firmly toward the entrance. "Not me. You." His voice left no room for argument.