Starink_2005ª

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Chapter 1: Prologue

(YEAR 1970 – NEW ORLEANS)

On a gray morning, thick mist drifted across the surrounding swamps, leaving behind a chilling dampness that seemed to seep straight into one’s bones. In the middle of that desolate expanse stood a structure of solid stone, ancient and severe, adorned with religious stained-glass windows that faintly shimmered beneath the dim light of dawn. Seen from afar, anyone would have thought it was a rudimentary church lost in the middle of nowhere. And, in a way, it was.

However, that building was not meant for travelers’ prayers or Sunday sermons. It was an orphanage. A secluded place located on the outskirts of New Orleans, Louisiana, where cold, silence, and faith seemed to coexist beneath the same stone roof.

Named Garden Destiny, the institution imposed a life of absolute rigor. The children there were subjected to strict rules they had to obey without question, while complete devotion to the religious doctrines governing every aspect of their lives was demanded from them. Those who disobeyed were punished by kneeling on small stones while reciting the Hail Mary twenty times.

Stella was the name of the Mother Superior. Her character inspired both fear and respect, not only among the other nuns but among the children as well. Her bearing was firm; every step she took through those corridors reflected her relentless pursuit of perfection. Though the orphanage was hidden far from the city, appearances and discipline meant everything to Stella.

Yet among those walls there was always one child willing to break the established order. He slipped away in the blink of an eye whenever no one was looking and returned when least expected. He was, without a doubt, far too free a soul to be molded by the severity of religion; he carried his own beliefs and his own ambitions.

The greatest of them was escaping that confinement and becoming the greatest radio announcer, imitating those lively voices he used to listen to while curled up beside his mother. To keep that dream alive, the boy protected a dangerous secret: an old transistor radio he had somehow obtained and carefully hid from the nuns’ strict inspections.

He had not been there long, and no child dared approach or speak to him. Regardless of the rigidity of the environment, he always wore a smile, a constant expression that, far from conveying joy, unsettled everyone around him.

Many called him the “Smiling Demon.” He was only six years old and already carried such a nickname; yet the mockery did not affect him. Truth be told, in some strange way, he felt flattered. To Mother Stella, however, that unwavering smile was not amusing but a silent challenge to her authority; an insolent expression that no punishment had managed to erase.

(...)

“Hahaha... Look, there’s the freak...” one of the boys mocked while passing through the yard, pointing at him.

The little boy paid them no attention. He was completely immersed in his own world, playing with a simple wooden stick that, in his imagination, transformed into the most sophisticated microphone in existence. As he walked across the dirt, he practiced unusual yet strangely elegant gestures, adopting the posture of a true presenter addressing his audience. To him, those movements reflected the refinement a great radio host should possess; to the rest of the orphanage, it was merely another sign of his madness.

Calm down, Alastor... They’re just children who don’t know what they’re saying... You’re better than them, he repeated silently to himself.

Despite the insult, his smile did not falter even slightly. He knew perfectly well that reacting meant attracting the sisters’ attention, and the last thing he wanted was ending up punished because of others. After all, the rejection of the other orphans and the constant scrutiny had become part of his daily life from the very moment he arrived at Garden Destiny.

When the children realized their taunts were not affecting him, they quickly lost interest; cruelty ceased being entertaining when it provoked no reaction. Dragging their feet, they wandered off and left him alone in that corner of the dirt courtyard, surrounded by old moss-covered oaks whose branches swayed lazily beneath a wind carrying the scent of rain—the unmistakable warning of an approaching storm.

While the rest of the orphans sought shelter inside, Alastor remained where he was. He was not the only one refusing to go in.

Perched atop one of the trees, a blond-haired boy was busy sawing through a thick branch using a table knife he had stolen from the dining hall.

“Come on... cut already... cut!” the daring child muttered insistently, speeding up the movement of the blade, unaware of the fixed, unblinking gaze the brown-haired boy had locked onto him.

Alastor approached with silent, feline steps over the damp soil, stopping directly beneath the branch where the other child balanced awkwardly. Without losing that wide smile, he lifted his head and spoke in a clear, sing-song voice, perfectly imitating the modulation of the radio announcers he admired so much.

“Good afternoon, dear friend. Not to discourage you, but I highly doubt a flat metal utensil is a worthy opponent for oak wood.”

The sudden sound of his voice broke the whisper of the wind.

The blond boy jolted violently from the scare, losing his balance for a second. The table knife slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a sharp metallic clink, while he clung desperately to the trunk, eyes wide and heart pounding as he discovered the Smiling Demon staring up at him.

“Great, just what I needed,” the blond muttered from above.

Seeing his only tool lying on the ground, he shot a furious glare at the culprit.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted, cheeks burning with anger and breath uneven. “You almost got me killed, you damn weirdo!”

Despite the shouting and insult, Alastor’s expression remained unchanged; if anything, his smile widened slightly.

With complete calm, he bent down and picked up the table knife resting in the wet dirt, wiped the blade delicately with his thumb, and looked up again, holding the utensil as though it were a valuable trophy.

The boy in the tree swallowed hard, trying to maintain his defiant posture, but the brown-haired child’s absolute calmness was beginning to get under his skin.

“I have a name, for your information,” Alastor declared with that infuriating tranquility that defined him, though his words carried a subtle edge of threat. “And rude people like you, who steal dining utensils, are rarely rewarded.”

His voice was as melodic as that of a refined radio host, dangerously contrasting with the hidden warning beneath it.

“Fine, fine!” the younger boy grumbled, visibly irritated but lowering his voice as the first raindrops began splashing against the dirt.

Alastor did not look away even once; his unwavering stare acted like an invisible rope tightening around the blond boy’s pride.

“Sorry... for calling you... weirdo,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“And...?” Alastor dragged out the word while staring at him. There was no doubt he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“I’ll... do whatever you ask... for one day,” the blond finally surrendered, puffing out his cheeks in frustration.

“Deal!” Alastor exclaimed.

Without wasting a second, he leapt forward and, with two swift, precise cuts, struck the weakened base of the branch. It snapped completely and came crashing down, dragging the blond child with it.

“Ow! My butt!” the blond complained, rubbing the sore spot.

Before he could continue, Alastor grabbed him firmly by the arm and helped him up with surprising agility.

They hurried toward the back entrance, slipping inside moments before the storm fully broke. They entered unnoticed—but failed to realize one critical detail:

Their mud-covered shoes were leaving a trail of dark footprints across the spotless hallway floor.

As they rushed toward the dormitories to change clothes and wash away the evidence, a thunderous voice shattered the silence from the opposite end of the corridor.

Mother Stella.

She had found the mess.

The cleanliness she defended so fiercely had been violated.

The two boys froze.

Panic nearly overwhelmed the blond child, but Alastor reacted instantly. His smile remained.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the blond by the collar and shoved him into a narrow cleaning closet at his side. Slipping in after him, he carefully closed the wooden door, leaving only a tiny crack to watch through.

Seconds later, Mother Stella’s imposing figure passed by, fury etched into her face as she followed the muddy trail step by step.

Inside the cramped closet, the air felt suffocating.

The blond boy was pale, on the verge of tears.

Then Alastor made a decision.

His smile widened.

He gently pushed the blond deeper into the shadows and, before he could protest, opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

“Mother Stella!” he called in his usual cheerful, polite tone. “I deeply apologize for the mess in the corridor. I slipped in the courtyard and foolishly forgot to clean my shoes before coming inside. I take full responsibility.”

The nun turned slowly.

Her eyes were cold and furious.

She advanced toward him.

“Pride is the worst of sins, Alastor,” she hissed, saying his name like a curse while gripping his shoulder tightly. “The stones in the courtyard are a merciful gift for repentant souls. But your face tells me there is no repentance in your heart. A insolent demon is not cured by praying in the rain.”

With a firm yank, she dragged him down the hallway.

“You will spend the next twenty-four hours in the coal cellar. In darkness,” she declared, her voice echoing through the stone walls. “We shall see whether cold and absolute blackness can return humility to your lips.”

Hidden among shadows and brooms, the blond child listened as their footsteps faded.

Alastor did not scream.

He did not cry.

He uttered not a single complaint.

He walked toward the darkness in complete silence, protecting both their secret and keeping that smile intact until the very end, while outside, the first thunderclap of the storm shook the stone foundations of Garden Destiny.

Leaving the hiding place behind, the blond boy peeked timidly through the crack in the door, staring at the empty corridor where the boy he had only met that day had been dragged away by that severe woman.

In the silence, broken only by the drumming rain, part of him felt the cold, sharp weight of guilt.

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Chapter 9: Separation

The constant dripping of a broken pipe somewhere in the underground was the only clock ticking away the time in the coal cellar. By Sunday night, the black dust had made its way under their fingernails, onto their cheeks, and into the fibers of their once-impeccable clothes. The physical exhaustion was evident; Lucifer felt his fingers numb from the effort of scraping the limestone for endless hours, and Alastor's throat was dry from humming melodies to drown out the noise of the metal.

However, the work was done. The stone base holding the three iron bars had turned into a pile of grayish grit and loose dust at the foot of the coal sack. One good push from Lucifer in the early morning would be enough to tear them out completely.

Exhausted, the two children sat on the dirt floor, resting their backs against the jute sacks. The dim light of the waning moon filtered through the dirty glass of the high window, drawing silver lines across the soot-covered floor.

Lucifer tucked the old knife into his sleeve with a slow movement, rubbing his hands together to regain warmth. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Alastor, who was contemplating the crack of light with the same unyielding smile, though his chestnut eyes betrayed a deep expectation.

—We're almost there, weirdo —Lucifer whispered, breaking the silence—. This time tomorrow, we won't be hearing Stella's screams anymore.

—A wonderful prospect, my dear producer —Alastor replied, adjusting the collar of his shirt, which now sported an ash-gray tone—. This cellar's tuning has exhausted its repertoire. New Orleans awaits us with a better contract and a much wider stage. What is the first thing our distinguished technical chief will do when we cross the boundaries of the bayou?

Lucifer remained thoughtful, staring at his stained shoes. For the first time in his seven years of life, the future was not a straight, gray line within the stone walls of Garden Destiny. It was a blank canvas, as vast and mysterious as the swamp itself.

—I don't know... —the blonde admitted in a whisper, shrugging—. I guess I'll look for a place where there are real trees, not just the ones in the courtyard. A place where I can carve all day without having to hide my knife in my pajamas. What about you? Besides your damn radio station, what are you going to do?

Alastor tilted his head, and his smile became a bit more nostalgic, more human.

—Eat beignets —the chestnut-haired boy said with total simplicity, swinging his feet—. And look for a real radio. One of those big wooden boxes with golden knobs that glow in the dark. We will broadcast from the heart of the city, Lucifer. We will tell everyone that we remain on the air.

Lucifer smiled lopsidedly, feeling a spark of emotion in his chest that dissipated the cold of the cellar. He stretched out his right hand, palm up, showing his fingers darkened by the coal.

—It's a deal, weirdo. We find that radio, we buy those beignets... and we don't let anyone turn off the signal.

Alastor looked at the blonde's hand and, without breaking his smile, shook it firmly, sealing the pact under the moonlight.

At four o'clock in the morning, when the fog from the swamp was so thick that it erased the limits of the yard, the moment arrived.

The silence in the orphanage was sepulchral. Lucifer climbed onto the coal sack, braced both hands against the central bar, and, using all his body weight, pushed outward. With a sharp, dull crunch of broken stone, the structure gave way. The three bars fell heavily onto the outdoor grass, muffled by the bushes.

The freezing early morning air rushed suddenly into the cellar. Lucifer helped Alastor climb up first. The chestnut-haired boy, with the wooden microphone firmly secured in the inside pocket of his coat, slipped through the narrow rectangle like an eel, falling to his knees on the damp earth of the yard. Lucifer followed him a second later, moving with the agility given by his years of mischief.

Crouching among the bushes, hearts galloping a thousand miles an hour, they looked back. The stone mass of Garden Destiny slept in the darkness, unaware that two of its threads had broken loose.

—Let's move —Lucifer whispered, taking Alastor firmly by the wrist.

They ran. They crossed the backyard at full speed, jumped the low wooden fence at the point where the oaks extended their branches, and deep-dived into the dirt paths bordering the bayou. They did not look back even once.

By the time the sun began to tint the sky a pale pink, the two children were already in the outlying districts of New Orleans. The landscape changed from trees covered in Spanish moss to cobblestone streets, narrow alleys, and the distant echo of streetcars starting their routes. They were free. They were dirty with soot, tired, and with empty stomachs, but for the first time in their lives, they were the masters of their own steps.

For three full days, the pact worked. They took refuge in an abandoned alley behind a fish market near the docks of the Mississippi River. Lucifer used his wits to get some sweet bread or fruit that fell from the delivery trucks, while Alastor kept spirits high with his imaginary broadcasts, narrating the "lives of the two most wanted fugitives on national radio." At night, they shared the burlap blankets they had found, protecting each other from the city's damp cold.

But freedom on the streets of New Orleans was a dangerous game for two little boys. On Wednesday afternoon, fate collected the bill.

While they were walking near the central market, looking for something to eat, a man's sharp scream broke the tuning.

—It's them! The ones from Mother Stella's notice! Catch the boys!

Two local police officers, accompanied by a fat man in the orphanage's maintenance uniform, appeared at the end of the street. Alastor froze, his pupils dilated with panic, clutching the wooden microphone against his chest.

Lucifer reacted in a millisecond. He looked at the guards, then at the labyrinthine alley opening to his left. He knew Alastor wouldn't run fast enough if they pursued them both.

—Alastor, run to the loading dock! Hide in the wooden crates, the ones with the mahogany logo! —Lucifer shouted, his voice breaking with adrenaline as he delivered a sharp push to the chestnut-haired boy's back—. I'll distract them! I'll see you there, weirdo! Don't stop running!

—Lucifer, no! —Alastor exclaimed, but the momentum forced him to move.

Lucifer didn't wait for an answer. He spun around, picked up a stone from the ground, and threw it hard against the lamp of a nearby carriage, causing a shattered explosion of glass that diverted the police officers' attention.

—Hey, idiots! Over here! —the little blonde boy roared, running in the opposite direction, drawing the guards' attention with pure shouting.

Alastor, legs trembling, ran toward the indicated alley. He ducked under a tarpaulin next to the loading crates on the dock, holding his breath while tears mixed with the soot on his face. He heard the shouts, the echo of heavy boots on the pavement, and finally, the sound of a struggle, followed by silence.

An hour passed. Then two. Then the whole night.

Alastor did not move from his hiding spot all through Wednesday night, nor all through Thursday. He spent two full days hidden under the tarpaulin of the loading dock, trembling with cold and holding his breath every time a seagull squawked or a dockworker dragged a crate. He fed himself barely on a piece of stale bread he had in his pocket, keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance of the dock. He expected to see the blonde hair and the resolute look of his chief of production at any moment.

“He's going to come,” Alastor repeated to himself, forcing his internal tuning. “He promised we would have each other. He's just looking for a way to throw off the guards.”

But by Friday morning, hunger and cold forced him out. With a numb body, clothes gray from the cellar soot, and his soul hanging by a thread, Alastor dragged his feet back to the central market, camouflaging himself among the bustle of New Orleans shoppers.

It was there, next to a coffee stall, where he spotted a crumpled copy of the day's local newspaper on a wooden table. On the social chronicles and charity page, a black-and-white photograph caught his attention immediately.

It was Lucifer.

He wore a tailored, impeccable suit without a single spot of coal. His blonde hair was perfectly combed back. Beside him, an elegant man with eyeglasses and a woman dressed in fine lace held him by the shoulders with a proud smile. The headline of Garden Destiny's press note dictated in large, solemn letters:

«THE MIRACLE OF ARCHITECTURE FINDS A HOME»

«We are pleased to announce the official adoption of young Lucifer by the Morningstars, the nationally renowned family of architects. After being located in the market district, the minor's innate talent for three-dimensional design and carving immediately captured the interest of the prestigious firm. Young Morningstar will begin his new life and private education this very week under the care of his new guardians».

Alastor stood static in front of the paper, his pupils reduced to two black pinpricks. His chestnut eyes scanned the letters once, twice, three times.

The Morningstars. Renowned architects. Clean suit. New life.

His childish mind, malnourished, wounded, and abandoned in the harshness of the street, processed the information the only way his pride allowed him to in order not to fall apart. He remembered how easily Lucifer had surrendered to the guards at the market. He remembered the promise in the coal cellar.

“He used me,” Alastor thought, and a cold, static, and deeply dark vibration began to propagate through his veins. “He planned everything. He used me to get out of the orphanage because he knew two children together were hard to adopt. He waited to find the richest bidders in the city... famous architects. He traded our deal for a fine suit and an elegant last name.”

The small, warm, honest smile Alastor had learned to sketch solely for Lucifer shattered into a thousand pieces inside his chest. In its place, his lips curled and stretched in a forced, fixed, and macabre way, transforming into a rigid and sharp grimace, filled with pure and absolute poison.

He squeezed the wooden microphone in his pocket until the wood creaked and his knuckles turned white.

—Congratulations on your new sponsorship, chief of production —Alastor whispered toward the newspaper, his voice losing all childish warmth and adopting for the first time a sharp, hissing tone laden with static—. Enjoy your blueprints and your golden castles. The transmission... continues without you.

Nobody looked for him. For Mother Stella, the deal with the Morningstars had been more than enough; in the end, she got exactly what she wanted. Losing a troublesome, strange, and defiant child like Alastor was not a tragedy for the orphanage, but one less weight on her shoulders and one less mouth to feed. The system simply closed his file and looked the other way.

The weirdo turned around and deep-dived into the New Orleans crowd.

As he dragged his feet along the sidewalk, the echo of an antique gramophone coming from a record store began to float in the air, breaking through the noise of the streetcars. It was a sweet melody, a song that spoke of broken promises and distant reunions.

«We'll meet again... Don't know where, don't know when...»

Alastor paused for a second, listening to the static of the scratched record. The lyrics seeped into his thoughts like a subtle poison. We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. Yes, they would meet again. He would see to that. But it wouldn't be on the "sunny day" the singer promised. It would be under his own terms. Under his own frequency.

«But I know we'll meet again some sunny day...»

With the music echoing behind him like the soundtrack to his own misfortune, Alastor continued his path toward the darkest alleys of the city. He was completely alone, abandoned by his only friend and forgotten by the world, but the pain had transformed into an eternal and elegant resentment. The frequency of trust had turned off forever, marking the beginning of the dark path where, a few years later, the widely named "Radio Demon" would emerge.

Author's note:

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Chapter 8: Adopters

On Saturday morning, the atmosphere at Garden Destiny changed drastically. The smell of dampness and old soup was replaced by the scent of floor wax and cheap soap. The nuns had forced all the children to scrub the wood and polish the metal until the hallways shone. Everyone wore their best clothes: starched white shirts that itched at the neck and dark pants without a single stain.

In the main hall, a group of adults dressed in elegant suits and expensive hats walked among the rows of orphans, observing them like someone examining merchandise in a New Orleans market.

Set apart in a corner, Lucifer and Alastor observed the scene. Alastor kept his courtesy smile intact, but his fingers tapped nervously against his pants. Lucifer, with his arms crossed and a glaring look, watched anyone who came too close.

—Look at them —Lucifer whispered grumpily, barely moving his lips—. They come looking for new toys.

—It is the great adoption festival, my dear friend —Alastor replied in the same low tone—. A golden opportunity to leave this place, according to Mother Stella’s brochure.

Lucifer turned to look at him, his blue eyes fixed on the chestnut-haired boy, shining with a fierce determination.

—Listen to me well, Al. We made a deal. I don’t care who comes, how much money they have, or how good their house looks. Either they adopt both of us, or neither of us leaves here. Understood?

Alastor widened his smile, and for a microsecond, his chestnut eyes showed a flash of pure complicity.

—We tune into the same frequency, chief of production. A team is not divided by a couple of contracts.

The conversation was cut short suddenly when the heavy wooden door of Mother Stella’s office opened. The Superior came out, guiding a couple that stood out above the rest. The man was tall, with rigid shoulders, a thick mustache, and a perfectly ironed gray suit that screamed elegance; the woman wore a dark fur coat and had an expression so severe that it seemed everything around her caused her displeasure. They were the Millers, a wealthy couple who owned a huge plantation and lumber workshops on the outskirts of the city. They weren’t looking for a child to pamper; they were looking for a strong, disciplined, and skillful boy who could learn the trade and help on the properties.

Mother Stella’s gaze swept the room until it landed on Lucifer. A calculating smile appeared on the nun’s face.

—Mr. and Mrs. Miller, this way, please —Mother Stella said, guiding them straight toward the corner—. This is Lucifer. He has been with us since he was a baby. He is an extraordinarily serious, disciplined boy, and, above all, he has a magnificent talent for manual labor. Look at this.

The nun, without asking permission, reached into the nearby shelf and took one of the wooden figures Lucifer had carved: a small bayou fox with astonishingly precise details. Mr. Miller took the figure into his rough hands, examining it with a clinical eye.

—Well... —the man articulated with a thick, deep voice—. Excellent fine motor skills. And I see he has a good structure for heavy labor. Boy, are you capable of following orders without question?

Lucifer felt his stomach turn. He looked at the man, then at Mother Stella who was glaring at him to answer correctly, and finally out of the corner of his eye at Alastor. If he said yes, he was finished.

But Alastor did not sit idly by. It was time to turn on the microphones of the sabotage station.

Stepping forward elegantly, Alastor subtly interposed himself between Mr. Miller and Lucifer, capturing everyone’s attention with an exaggerated bow and his most radiant smile.

—But what a magnificent honor to have such illustrious celebrities in our humble precinct! —Alastor exclaimed, using his radio announcer tone at full volume, causing several people in the room to turn and look at them—. Allow me to introduce myself! I am Alastor, the personal assistant, spiritual brother, and official voice of my dear Lucifer. What an excellent clinical eye you have, gentleman! My partner is a splendid worker... when he is not under the effect of his terrible attacks.

Mr. Miller frowned, bewildered, while Mrs. Miller took a step back, horrified. Mother Stella turned pale with fury.

—Attacks? —the woman in the fur coat asked—. What is this child talking about, Mother?

—Oh, do not worry, distinguished lady! —Alastor continued, waving his hands theatrically and speaking at a breakneck speed—. The town doctors say it is a very peculiar condition. You see, Lucifer is a fairy craftsman, but every three or four days, around midnight, he starts sleepwalking through the hallways while biting the walls and furniture. Once he destroyed an entire mahogany chest of drawers with pure bites! The nuns have to tie him to his bunk so he doesn't eat the inventory. But apart from that small appetite for destructive wood, he is an exemplary boy! Right, Mother Stella?

Lucifer had to bite the inside of his cheek with all his strength not to let out a loud laugh right then and there.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller exchanged a look of absolute bewilderment and distaste. Mother Stella, for her part, went from bewilderment to a fury so blind that the veins in her neck stood out under her habit.

—Alastor! Shut up this very instant, you piece of...! —the Superior began to hiss, losing all her composure in front of the benefactors.

But Lucifer was not going to let his friend’s brilliant script go to waste. If they wanted a show, he would give it to them in the front row.

Taking advantage of the fact that the nun’s attention was on the chestnut-haired boy, Lucifer rolled his eyes, leaving only the whites visible, and let out a hoarse, inhuman groan that made Mrs. Miller jump in fright. Right after, the little blonde boy began to shake his shoulders spasmodically and, with surprising speed, lunged at the armrest of the expensive wooden armchair in the reception area.

Clack!

Lucifer dug his teeth directly into the corner of the carved wood, making a sharp sound with his jaw and pretending he was trying to tear off a piece with savage ferocity.

—By the nails of Christ! —Mrs. Miller shrieked, clutching her chest with both hands as if she were witnessing a demonic possession—. The child is cursed! He has rabies!

—Very well, exactly, Rabies!, distinguished lords! —Alastor announced with total naturalness, taking a few steps back elegantly while pretending to protect the couple—. Quick, run before they infect you!

Mr. Miller, whose severity evaporated to give way to a ridiculous fear, took his wife firmly by the arm.

—Enough! This is an outrage! —the man roared, looking at Mother Stella with deep indignation—. We were assured you had orphans fit for work, not... not demented beavers! Let's go, Margaret!

Without looking back, the wealthy couple turned around in a hurry, dodging the other orphans and leaving the main hall as if the devil himself were chasing them. Several of the adopters nearby who had witnessed Lucifer’s show began to murmur in horror, subtly moving away from the two children's corner.

As soon as the main door of the orphanage closed behind the Millers, Lucifer let go of the armchair, spat out a couple of invisible splinters from his mouth, and returned to his usual serious expression, though with a spark of tremendous satisfaction in his eyes. Alastor, beside him, maintained a smile so wide it almost split his face.

But the victory lasted them barely a second.

—YOU TWO! —Mother Stella’s shout echoed like thunder in the hall, completely silencing all the murmurs in the room.

The nun advanced toward them like a tower of black stone about to collapse. Her bloodshot eyes looked at the children with pure hatred. Before they could react, she grabbed Lucifer by the collar of his white shirt and Alastor by the arm, dragging them with monumental strength out of the hall, away from the sight of the other adults.

She shoved them without any consideration into the cold, dark administrative office, slamming the door shut behind her. The echo of the slam rumbled against the stone walls.

—You ungrateful little devils! You lying monsters! —Mother Stella roared, hitting her desk with a clenched fist—. Do you have any idea what you have just done? The Millers were the richest family in the region! They were going to give a generous donation to this holy place for taking this monstrosity! —she pointed a trembling finger at Lucifer.

Lucifer, despite his heart beating a thousand miles an hour from fear, stood firmly in front of Alastor, subtly covering him with his body.

—They didn't want us as a family, Mother —Lucifer said with a voice surprisingly firm for his seven years, holding the Superior’s gaze.

—And what do you know?! You don't even know what a family or affection is —she said without any gentleness in her words, looking at him with contempt.

—No, but now I have him... I already told Alastor. We are not going to separate. Either they adopt both of us, or neither of us leaves here.

Mother Stella let out a bitter laugh, devoid of any hint of amusement. She leaned forward, resting her bony hands on the desk, invading the children’s space with a threatening shadow.

—Adopt both of you? Do you think this is a game, you pair of wretches? Nobody is going to want to take a pair of useless, troublesome orphans together. Nobody! In this world you are alone, and if I have to sell you separately to the first bidder who crosses that door, I will do it. You are going to regret making me lose that money!

The nun straightened her body, with a cruel, cold smile that froze their blood.

—The courtyard is over, the workshops are over, and full food rations are over for you. You are going to stay locked in the punishment cellar until the adoption weekend is over. And when you come out, I will personally see to it that you never cross another word. Out of my sight!

(...)

Mother Stella’s final slam echoed in the depths of the building, followed by the cold, metallic sound of the iron bolt sliding into place. The two children were left plunged in a heavy twilight, broken only by the scarce light that weakly came down through the cracks of the wooden steps.

The smell hit them immediately: the dense, stale air laden with the black dust that stuck to the throat. They were back in the coal cellar.

Alastor remained completely motionless on the last step. His chestnut eyes dilated in the dark and his hands clenched inside his pockets. His smile was still there, but it was a rigid grimace, almost frozen by the weight of the memory of the last time they had left him alone in that black pit. The cold from the floor seemed to suck the air out of him.

Lucifer noticed it immediately. The blonde took a step forward, ignoring how the soot on the floor was already staining his clean Saturday shoes, and placed himself right next to the chestnut-haired boy, giving him a firm nudge with his shoulder.

—You're not alone this time, weirdo —Lucifer whispered with a resolute voice, breaking the fúnebre echo of the cellar—. This time there are two of us. She thinks she has us locked up, but she doesn't know who she messed with.

Alastor blinked, returning to reality. He looked at Lucifer and his rigidity loosened a bit, allowing his breathing to normalize.

—You are absolutely right, Luci —Alastor murmured, modulating his radio voice to a minimum—. Though I am afraid our Sunday white shirts are going to lose all their aesthetics with so much coal.

Lucifer let out a short huff and began to walk among the huge, heavy jute sacks overflowing with black coal that were piled against the walls. The blonde shuffled his feet carefully, looking for some form of distraction, when upon forcefully moving an old plank that served to contain the loose pieces of coal at the end of the hallway, a current of fresh, pure air hit his face directly. The air brought the unmistakable scent of wet earth and oak leaves from the bayou, clearing away the smell of confinement for a second.

Lucifer stood on tiptoe on top of one of the compact coal sacks. There, hidden behind the mess, the black residues, and almost at the edge of the cellar ceiling, was a small rectangular window.

—Hey, weirdo... come see this —Lucifer whispered urgently.

Alastor approached immediately, taking care not to trip over the loose pieces of coal. Both children looked up. The window looked out right at ground level of the orphanage's backyard, hidden behind some dense, rebellious bushes that nobody bothered to prune. Through the broken glass covered with a fine layer of soot, the imposing silhouette of the great oaks could be seen silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

The only problem was the three rusty iron bars blocking the space.

Lucifer stretched out his arm, reaching the textured metal with his hands. He pulled on one of the bars with all his strength, bracing his feet against the stone wall, but the iron, though old, remained firm.

—It's too hard —the blonde grumbled, lowering his arms, frustrated—. We don't fit through here.

Alastor leaned in a bit, examining the point where the iron joined the stone frame of the wall. The rainwater that fell from the roofs and seeped into the coal cellar had done its job for years, weakening the support. With his index finger, the chestnut-haired boy scratched the base of one of the bars; the limestone and old cement, eaten away by the moisture of the swamp, crumbled like black sand at the slightest touch.

Alastor’s smile widened, recovering all its magnetic spark.

—The infrastructure of this establishment leaves much to be desired, my dear producer —the younger boy whispered with enthusiasm—. The iron is strong, but the stone holding it is completely rotten. With the right tool...

Lucifer caught the idea immediately. His blue eyes shone with a renewed intensity. He reached his right hand inside the sleeve of his giant pajamas —which he wore underneath the starched clothes— and pulled out his most prized possession: the old carving knife with the metal pin he used to open padlocks.

—My knife —Lucifer said, showing the worn blade—. If we scrape the stone around the base every night, by Monday morning we'll be able to knock the bars out with a single blow.

—Exactly —Alastor nodded, giving two complicit taps on the blonde's shoulder, leaving a small mark of soot on the white fabric—. Stella thinks she has us cornered, but we are about to broadcast from the outside. If on Monday she tries to separate us... we will leave before the sun rises. We will go to the bayou.

Lucifer looked at the window and then at Alastor. The fear that had squeezed his chest in Mother Stella’s office dissolved completely, replaced by an electrifying adrenaline. They were no longer two helpless children waiting for fate to destroy them in the coal cellar. They had a plan. They had a way out.

The blonde climbed firmly onto the coal sack, dug the tip of his knife into the damp stone around the first bar, and began to scrape carefully, making a thread of white and black dust fall to the floor. Alastor stayed below, watching the stairs and humming a jazz melody in a low voice to camouflage the subtle sound of metal against stone.

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Chapter 7: Jealousy

With the passing of the weeks, the leaves of the great oaks surrounding Garden Destiny began to change color, falling upon the damp earth of the bayou. Below, in the cold hallways of the orphanage, life remained gray, monotonous, and strict under the yoke of Mother Stella. But upstairs, behind the heavy iron door of the bell tower, time seemed to run at a completely different frequency.

The old rooftop transformed, almost without them realizing it, into their special place. It was no longer just a temporary hiding spot to protect the wooden microphone; it was the only corner of the world where they were allowed to be exactly who they were.

Going up there after chores became a silent pact. Lucifer always led the way, making sure the hallways were clear and using his trusty metal pin to open the padlock with a movement that had already become mechanical. Alastor followed a couple of steps behind, his hand resting firmly in his pocket to guard his treasure.

At first, their afternoons on the rooftop were somewhat chaotic. Alastor would broadcast his long, imaginary radio shows and Lucifer would limit himself to complaining about the noise while he carved. However, little by little, their worlds began to intertwine.

One afternoon, while the wind blew hard, bringing the scent of wet earth from the swamp, Alastor stopped mid-sentence, searching for the right words to describe a fictitious jazz concert in New Orleans. Lucifer, who was sitting on the floor focused on shaping a small wooden figure, looked up out of the corner of his eye as he noticed the gap in the broadcast.

—You went static, weirdo —the blonde commented, tapping the beam lightly with the handle of his knife—. You lost the signal.

Alastor did not erase his smile, but he sighed theatrically, resting his chin on his hands right next to his wooden microphone.

—A minor technical glitch, my dear friend. The orchestra in my head has decided to take a break, and my sound effects have run out of energy. Making the sound of the trumpets and the applause at the same time is a truly titanic task for a single man.

Lucifer let out a huff, but his blue eyes shone with that mischievous spark that only appeared when they went up to the bell tower. He tucked the knife into his sleeve, jumped to his feet, and approached the stone arch, standing a few paces from Alastor.

—You're exaggerating —Lucifer said, crossing his arms—. Come on, play your music again. I'll do the applause and the sound of the rain if needed. But do it right, I don't want your audience complaining about the production.

Alastor blinked, pleasantly surprised. His chestnut pupils dilated with excitement and his smile became twice as wide. He gave the customary two taps to the wood of his microphone and resumed his radio tone with renewed enthusiasm:

—We are back on the air, afternoon listeners! And thanks to a miracle of engineering, our head of production joins the permanent cast today. Turn up the volume, because the drums of the city are about to begin!

Lucifer, caught up in the chestnut-haired boy's energy, began to rhythmically clap his hands against his thighs, mimicking the beat of percussion, while Alastor let loose his singsong rhymes toward the horizon.

The sun began its slow descent on the horizon, tinting the sky over the bayou with an intense range of purples and oranges. The shadows of the oaks stretched across the orphanage courtyard, but up there, the twilight light wrapped them in an almost magical warmth.

Exhausted but with his eyes shining with pure satisfaction, Alastor brought the broadcast to an end with his usual "Loud and clear," letting the silence of nature reign over the bell tower once more. Both children sank down to sit against one of the main beams, their backs resting against the old wood and their legs stretched out.

Lucifer slid his hand into the slack of his giant sleeve and, with a self-satisfied smile, pulled out a crumpled cloth handkerchief. Unfolding it, he revealed a slightly squashed piece of sweet bread he had managed to sneak from the kitchen during his cleaning shift.

—Here, weirdo —Lucifer said, splitting the bread cleanly in half with his wood-dust-stained hands and extending the larger portion to him—. You must be hungry after shouting at the wind so much.

Alastor blinked, looking at the bread and then at the blonde. His smile softened, losing that defensive rigidity he used with the rest of the world.

—I deeply appreciate the generous banquet, my esteemed producer —he murmured softly, accepting the piece.

They took a couple of bites in silence, enjoying the sweet taste and the fresh air blowing from the swamp. It was in that moment of tranquility, as he watched the last rays of sunlight filter through the branches of the oaks in the distance, that Alastor felt the radio mask weigh a little less on him. He looked at the wooden microphone resting beside him and, for the first time, spoke without pitching his voice, sounding like the little boy he actually was.

—The oaks remind me of my mother —Alastor blurted out suddenly, his gaze fixed on the bayou horizon.

Lucifer stopped the movement of his mouth, turning to look at him out of the corner of his eye. In the orphanage, each child's past was a taboo subject, a scar nobody wanted to touch. The blonde adjusted his sleeves, listening intently but without pressing.

—She... used to sing at night when the fog from the swamp got very thick —the chestnut-haired boy continued, swaying his feet slightly—. Her voice was so sweet it drowned out the noise of the crickets. Sometimes, when we had a little flour left, she would make beignets and we would sit near the window to listen to the songs that could be tuned into on the neighbors' radio. They were cheerful melodies. That's why I like the radio so much, Lucifer... I feel like if I speak loudly enough through the frequencies, maybe she can hear me wherever she is.

Lucifer remained silent for a long time, processing the confession. He felt a strange tightness in his chest, a deep empathy he had never experienced for anyone in Garden Destiny before. He did not remember his parents; for him, the world had always been this building of cold stone, but seeing the clean nostalgia in Alastor's eyes made him understand why the younger boy clung so hard to his fantasies.

The blonde swallowed the last piece of bread, stretched out his arm, and gave Alastor a firm but affectionate nudge with his fist on the shoulder.

—Hey —Lucifer said, drawing his attention. When Alastor looked at him, the blonde held his gaze with absolute seriousness in his blue eyes—. She will hear you. With how loud you shout up here, your signal is going to reach the other side of the world, weirdo. Besides, that's what I'm here for. I'll make sure nobody breaks your microphone or turns off your damn station. I promise you.

Alastor widened his smile, but this time it was a completely different expression. It wasn't the grimace of courtesy for the nuns, nor the arrogance in front of Anthony; it was a radiant, touched smile full of immense gratitude. A smile that lit up his face completely.

He pressed the wooden microphone against his chest and nodded.

—I know she will, my dear friend. With the best technical equipment by my side, the transmission is assured.

As night finally fell and the stars began to twinkle over the bayou, the dense darkness also took over the main office on the ground floor of the orphanage.

Through the crack of the ajar door of the administrative wing, the dim glow of a desk lamp illuminated Mother Stella's bony hands. The cold clicking of the rotary dial of a black bakelite landline phone broke the silence of the empty hallway. The Superior waited a few seconds, the receiver pressed to her ear and a rigid expression that boded no good.

—Hello? Yes, I am calling from Garden Destiny —Mother Stella articulated with a falsely sweet voice, drawing out her words with a sharp courtesy—. I am so glad you returned the call. Yes... the profiles we sent last week are completely updated. The children have been under strict discipline and are more than ready to receive a visit.

The nun listened to the response on the other end of the line, nodding with a calculating smile that darkened her features even further.

—Of course. Next weekend is perfect. The state supervisors have already given the green light, so potential adopters can come for the interviews without any inconvenience —the Superior continued, tapping her fingers on the wooden desk—. We will make sure to have the most fit and impeccable candidates for the selection. They won't want to miss the opportunity to take home an exemplary child. Have a blessed night.

With a sharp click, Mother Stella hung up the landline. Her eyes, fixed on nothingness, gleamed with the cold satisfaction of someone about to close a business deal.

(...)

Completely oblivious to the latent danger brewing on the ground floor, the two boys descended the spiral stairs in the dark, taking care not to make noise on the worn-out steps. They parted in the main hallway with a quick nod of the head and slipped into their respective rows of beds in the boys' wing, just before the nuns went on their final surveillance round.

Taps echoed through the building and the lights went out, plunging the huge dormitory into a bluish twilight, broken only by the moonlight filtering through the high windows. An hour passed. The light snoring of the other orphans and the rhythmic breathing of Anthony and his gang confirmed that everyone was fast asleep. The nuns had already retired to their cloisters. The silence was absolute.

However, in his bunk, Lucifer couldn't sleep a wink. He was lying on his side, staring at the stone wall, wrapped in the orphanage's coarse sheets. Alastor's words in the bell tower kept swirling in his head like an annoying echo. *“She used to sing at night... she would make beignets...”*

For the first time in a long time, Lucifer felt a bitter tightness in his throat. It was jealousy. A childish, stinging, and sad jealousy that he tried to brush away without success. Alastor had a treasure that nobody could take from him: a real memory, the warmth of a mother, a name to call out to the wind. In contrast, Lucifer had nothing. His mind was a blank canvas before Garden Destiny; there were no lullabies in his past, no smiling faces, no beignets on foggy nights. He was completely alone because he had been there since he was a baby.

Incapable of continuing to bear the weight of his own thoughts, the little blonde boy uncovered himself carefully. His bare feet touched the cold floor without making the slightest sound. He tiptoed between the rows of beds, dodging discarded uniforms, until he reached Alastor's bunk.

The chestnut-haired boy was on his back, hands crossed over his chest and eyes closed, maintaining an unusually serene expression while he slept. Sensing the silhouette stopping beside his mattress, Alastor opened his eyes immediately, blinking a couple of times before focusing his chestnut pupils on the blonde.

—Lucifer? —Alastor whispered, modulating his voice to a minimum, though his automatic smile feigned an appearance at the corners of his lips—. What is the matter? Did something happen?

Lucifer did not answer right away. He stood there, hugging himself against the night cold, with the sleeves of his giant pajamas covering his hands. His face, illuminated by the moon, looked much smaller and more unprotected than usual.

—Hey... Al... —Lucifer whispered, shuffling his feet a step closer to the bed. He averted his blue eyes toward the floor, playing with the edge of his pajamas—. What you said today... about your mom.

Alastor sat up slowly, leaning his back against the wooden headboard of the bed. His gaze became attentive, losing any trace of mockery.

—What about it, my dear friend?

—It's just... —Lucifer squeezed his lips together, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the need to get it off his chest was stronger—. It made me angry. I feel... jealous of you, Alastor.

The chestnut-haired boy blinked, struck by the older boy's sudden honesty.

—You have a memory —Lucifer continued in a thread of a voice, looking up to meet his eyes with a vulnerability he would never have shown in daylight—. You know what a home tastes like. You know who loved you before you ended up in this dump. I don't have anyone. I don't remember anything from before I got here. Sometimes I think that... that if I die tomorrow or if something happens to me, nobody in the world is going to care, because I don't exist for anyone outside these walls, I'm nobody...

The silence that followed was dense, but not uncomfortable. Alastor stared at him, astonished by the crack that had just opened in the armor of the tough boy who always defended him. For an instant, Alastor's six-year-old mind processed Lucifer's words; he understood that while he suffered for what he had lost, Lucifer suffered for what he had never had.

With a deliberate movement, Alastor moved to the side in the narrow wooden bed, leaving an open space and patting the mattress gently.

—Come here —the chestnut-haired boy invited in an extremely peaceful whisper, devoid of any radio tone.

Lucifer hesitated for a second, but the cold of the floor and the need for comfort overcame him. He climbed into the bed and sat beside Alastor, tucking in his legs and hugging his knees.

Alastor reached toward the small nightstand and gently took the wooden microphone Lucifer had carved for him. He placed it between the two of them, like a bridge of complicity over the sheets.

—You are absolutely right, my esteemed Lucifer. I have my memories, and they are my greatest treasure —Alastor began, speaking with a strange maturity for his age as he looked at the grain of the wood—. But you are mistaken about something. You say you don't have anyone and that you don't exist for anyone.

Alastor turned his head and smiled at Lucifer; a small, warm, and completely honest smile.

—Now you have me... rather, we have each other. If something were to happen to you, who would take care of the engineering of my station? Who would keep my microphone safe? My program would go silent, my dear friend. So do not go saying you have no one ever again.

Lucifer listened to Alastor's words and felt how that cold knot he carried in his throat began to completely dissolve, replaced by an immense warmth that filled his chest. He looked at the wooden microphone he himself had carved and then at the weirdo beside him. A small but genuine and relieved smile appeared on the blonde's lips.

—You're a chatty idiot, weirdo —Lucifer grumbled in a whisper that intended to be rough, but came out shaky with emotion. He quickly wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his pajamas before a tear could betray him.

—It is part of my professional charm —Alastor retorted with a muffled chuckle.

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Chapter 6: Illegals

The days in the infirmary passed with a strict, silent routine. The other nuns came to check on Alastor from time to time, making sure to bring him food nearly three times a day to regain his weight. However, there was something that had them on edge and which they hadn't anticipated: the purplish mark on Alastor's arm, the cruel reminder of Mother Stella's grip before locking him in the cellar. To prevent state inspectors —who used to drop by as a surprise and without warning— from seeing such abuse, the sisters applied cold ointments around the clock, rubbing the boy's skin with desperation so the bruise would erase the crime as quickly as possible.

Alastor let them do it, always keeping his smile intact, though on the inside he registered every display of false piety. By the time he was finally discharged, the bruise had almost disappeared, but his contempt for the orphanage's order remained untouched.

He returned to the boys' wing with a clean uniform and a secret in his pocket: the wooden microphone Lucifer had carved for him. To Alastor, that piece of a branch was no longer a toy; it was the core of his sanity.

The problem with Garden Destiny was that privacy did not exist. During lunch in the dining hall, the atmosphere was strangely tense. Lucifer watched out of the corner of his eye from his table, pretending to eat, while he watched Alastor sit a couple of rows ahead, warily pressing the fabric of his pants every time someone passed nearby.

After finishing lunch, in the hallway leading to the sewing workshops, Anthony blocked Alastor's path, cornering him against the metal lockers.

—Look who returned from the dead —Anthony sneered, crossing his arms—. You saved yourself by a hair, weirdo. But I see you're carrying something there. What are you hiding in your pocket? Let me see.

Alastor did not back down, but his smile became dangerously tense.

—Dear Anthony, I am afraid the contents of my pockets are of a private nature and exclusive to me —he replied with his singsong tone, though a slight flash of warning crossed his chestnut eyes.

—Nothing is private here —Anthony spat, roughly stretching out his hand—. Give it to me, you damn psycho!

Before Anthony's fingers could even graze the fabric, a small but incredibly firm hand gripped him by the wrist, stopping him mid-air. Lucifer was there, glaring at him with blue eyes that distilled pure fury, wearing the giant sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

—I told you last time to leave him alone, Anthony —Lucifer hissed, squeezing the older boy's wrist until his knuckles turned white—. Or are your ears no longer working? If you touch him again, I swear to God that Mother Stella is going to find out where you get the cigarettes you hide behind the shed.

Anthony opened his eyes wide, turning pale. Though it was hard to believe, he and the other members of his gang had a two-year advantage over Lucifer; however, the blonde possessed such a fierce determination that he never let himself be bent by the size or age of his opponents.

Letting out an annoyed huff, the bully wrenched himself free from the grip with a sharp tug.

—You're a pair of weirdos. Keep your little gutter secrets —Anthony muttered, turning around to walk away in a hurry along with his lackeys.

Lucifer let out a long sigh and turned toward Alastor, glaring at him in a hurried whisper:

—You're an idiot, weirdo. You're terrible at hiding things. If you keep keeping that there, the nuns are going to take it from you before the next curfew. We need a place to hide it. A place where nobody goes.

Alastor widened his smile, brushing invisible dust off his uniform with elegance.

—I appreciate your help, but I didn't need it either —he said with a certain pride. He knew perfectly well how to defend himself alone; he didn't care at all for the idea of requiring a bodyguard.

Lucifer opened his eyes wide, blinking in indignation at the comment. Was the weirdo seriously reproaching him for the favor after his most prized possession was almost stolen?

—Oh, really? Well, next time I'll let Anthony turn you upside down and shake you until the snot comes out! —Lucifer grumbled in a furious whisper, crossing his arms and huffing with spite—. You're an ingrate.

Alastor maintained his smile, but his chestnut eyes dropped for a brief second toward the hallway floor, and his gallant posture decayed by a millimeter. He reached into his giant pocket and grazed the outline of the rough wood. Although his childish pride prevented him from admitting it out loud, in the depths of his six-year-old mind he couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia and bitterness. He remembered perfectly the cold texture of the iron, the real weight, and the rusty grille of that old pedestal microphone he had discovered among the coal before Mother Stella dragged him off to punishment. Having had to leave his true treasure behind in the blackness of that cellar, knowing that the nuns had probably already thrown it in the trash, left a bitter void in his chest.

Lucifer, who despite his tantrum didn't take his eyes off him, noticed the sudden change in the younger boy's countenance. He frowned, losing part of his anger.

—Hey... why are you making that beaten-dog face now? —the blonde asked, giving him a slight nudge with his shoulder.

Alastor looked up immediately, recovering his singsong tone at lightning speed to camouflage his dejection.

—Oh, it is nothing that should matter, my esteemed Lucifer! Just a minor technical glitch. You see... in the coal room there was a real microphone. An iron one. It causes me a certain sorrow to have had to leave it there, abandoned in the underground.

Lucifer stared at him, astonished by the younger boy's audacity to grow attached to a piece of junk, but then he averted his gaze toward one of the hallway windows, scratching the back of his neck while a faint pink color tinted his cheeks.

—You're ridiculous. That piece of iron was probably rusty, dirty, and full of rat bacteria —Lucifer muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his giant pants—. Besides... the one I made you is made of good quality wood. It's not going to rust. And I carved it... it's just for you. Nobody else in this damn place has a personalized microphone, you know? So stop crying over an old pipe.

Alastor blinked, struck. He pressed his fingers against the wood in his pocket again, and suddenly, the sadness for the object lost in the cellar completely dissipated, replaced by an immense warmth that spread through his chest. Lucifer was right. The metal one belonged to an old broken radio that belonged to the orphanage; this one, on the other hand, was a unique object, a silent pact of complicity between the two of them.

Alastor's smile changed, becoming for an instant small, bright, and completely sincere.

—You are absolutely right, my dear friend —the chestnut-haired boy assured, taking a step forward with renewed energy and forgetting the matter of Anthony—. Wood has better acoustics for clandestine frequencies! Now, guide me to that secret location before the authorities confiscate my treasure.

Lucifer sketched a half-smile, relieved to see that the weirdo was back to being his usual cheerful nuisance.

—Walk behind me and don't make a sound —the blonde indicated, gesturing for him to follow toward the oldest wing of the building.

They went up a set of service stairs that the nuns rarely used, dodging the creaking of the worn-out steps, until they reached a heavy iron door with a rusty padlock. Lucifer, showing a dexterity that indicated it was not the first time he had done this, pulled a small metal hairpin from his sleeve, inserted it into the lock, and, with a skillful twist of his wrist, popped the latch with a silent click.

As he pushed the door open, a gust of fresh wind hit them square in the face. In front of them, hidden behind the intersection of heavy wooden beams and covered by a thin layer of dust and abandoned pigeon nests, rose the old bell tower of the orphanage. From the stone arches, an impressive view of the city rooftops and the open sky stretched out.

Alastor opened his eyes wide, marveled. The place was perfect.

—Welcome to the rooftop —Lucifer said, dusting off his hands with pride—. Nobody comes up here because Mother Stella says the stairs are dangerous. Nobody is going to hear you talking to yourself, and you can hide your microphone wherever you want.

Alastor approached the edge of the arch, pulled the wooden microphone from his pocket, and held it up toward the horizon. He contemplated the landscape of the bayou in the distance along with those imposing oaks, as if it were his future empire.

—It's splendid! —he exclaimed in an enthusiastic whisper, settling the wooden pedestal on one of the high beams—. From here, the signal will reach every corner.

Alastor stood in front of the stone arch, straightening his small silhouette with an impressive solemnity for a six-year-old child. He adjusted the wooden microphone on the high beam, closed his eyes for a second to tune into the music in his head, and upon opening them, his chestnut pupils shone with an overflowing emotion as he contemplated the vastness outside.

He gave two soft taps to the wooden grille, mimicking the sound of real equipment, and cleared his throat before breaking the silence of the rooftop with his most singsong and professional tone:

—A very good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, faithful listeners of the great metropolis! —Alastor exclaimed, modulating his hoarse voice so that it resonated among the beams—. Broadcasting live and in full color from our new and exclusive high-end studio in the heights. Today's tuning is simply spectacular! Let the rhythm of the afternoon sweep away your hardships, because this station is here to stay...

Lucifer observed him in silence from a corner of the bell tower, leaning his back against the stone wall warmed by the sun. At first, he wrinkled his nose a bit, thinking about how ridiculous he looked talking to nothingness, but seeing the pure happiness and the spark of life that the chestnut-haired boy had recovered after being so sick, a soft, sly smile appeared on his own lips.

To regulate the last trace of stress left in his body, the little blonde boy slid his hand into the slack of his giant sleeves. From there, he pulled out a new piece of wood he had rescued from the yard that very morning and his worn-out, blunt knife.

He sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and began to scrape away the bark with slow, rhythmic movements. The wood shavings began to fall around him like flakes of dry snow, floating in the beams of light that crossed the bell tower. This time he was in no hurry; there were no nuns watching, no orphans bothering, no threats of punishment. There was only the sound of the wind on the rooftop, the scraping of his knife, and Alastor's peculiar voice narrating invented news and announcing songs that only he could hear.

Without realizing it, Lucifer discovered that the weirdo's strange radio was the best grounding wire he had had in seven years.

—...And to close our first midday broadcast, a special thanks to our e-executive producer and design department —Alastor continued, turning a bit on his heels to look at the blonde with a bright, lopsided smile—. Who ensures that the engineering of this frequency is flawless. A big round of applause for him!

Lucifer looked up from his carving, snorting with amusement, though his cheeks flushed a faint crimson once more.

—Just shut up and get on with your show, weirdo —he grumbled with a fake tone of annoyance, blowing the dust off his new sculpture—. The audience is going to get bored of your commercials.

Alastor let out a chuckle, a soft and genuine sound that rarely came out of his mouth, and faced the horizon again with the wooden microphone firm between his fingers.

Up there, protected by the height and the nuns' forgetfulness, Garden Destiny seemed to stay far below. For a few hours, they were no longer two orphans trapped in a hell of fanaticism and giant uniforms; they were a broadcaster and his creator, masters of their own clandestine frequency.

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Chapter 5: Visit

​The rest of the day was a torture of slowness. Lucifer dragged his feet through the hallways of Garden Destiny, sweeping the floors with a pent-up fury that threatened to break the broomstick. The image of Alastor staggering, burning with fever but clinging to that disturbing smile, would not leave his head. He knew the nuns would have given him the bare minimum to keep him from dying before Mother Stella's check-up, but in that place, true compassion did not exist. If Alastor was going to make it out of this, it wouldn't be because of the Superior's prayers.

​To keep from losing his mind and to regulate the whirlwind of stress that made him bite the inside of his cheeks, Lucifer spent every free minute sheltered in the slack of his giant sleeves, desperately carving the thick branch.

​Utilizing the sharp edge of a stone from the courtyard and the worn-out knife, his fingers worked with an almost magical precision, guided by a pure gift. He was not making an animal or a common toy. Remembering the strange way Alastor spoke —like those broadcasters sometimes heard on the few old radios in the city—, Lucifer began to shape the upper part into an oval grille, perfectly rounded, resting on a slender neck that tapered down to a solid base.

​It was a pedestal microphone. Rustic, made of raw wood, and polished by rubbing it against his own clothes, but unmistakable. He blew away the last wood shavings just as the night curfew bell rang.

​It's time, he thought, slipping the piece into his pocket.

​At midnight, the orphanage transformed into a tomb of stone and freezing drafts. Lucifer waited until the snoring of Anthony and the other boys flooded the dormitory before slipping out of his bunk. His bare feet knew by heart which floorboards creaked and which did not; seven years of confinement had granted him the perfect map of the building's weaknesses.

​He evaded Sister Cleo's patrol in the central hallway by blending behind the heavy curtains of the library, and in a couple of minutes, he gently pushed open the ajar door of the infirmary.

​The place reeked of rubbing alcohol and bitter herbs. On the cot at the back, a small silhouette shook slightly beneath three blankets of coarse wool.

​Lucifer approached with quick but soundless steps, holding his breath. Alastor was drenched in cold sweat; his chestnut cheeks looked flushed from the fever and his lips were chapped, but the corners of his mouth remained strangely curved upward, rigid, as if he were fighting a mental battle not to break his mask even in unconsciousness.

​—Weirdo... —Lucifer whispered, kneeling beside the bed. He placed a hand on his forehead and recoiled from the impact: he still felt like a bonfire—. I told you not to die. The nuns are idiots, they won't take good care of you.

​Alastor let out a hoarse groan, tossing his head from side to side. In his delirium, the golden lights of his imaginary stage flickered and the music began to fade, threatening to return him to the cold reality of pain. His fingers closed in the air, desperately searching for the pedestal of his microphone that was slipping away into the shadows.

​Seeing the helpless gesture of the chestnut-haired boy's hand, Lucifer frowned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden microphone he had finished polishing that very afternoon. Carefully, he slid the carved handle between Alastor's small, trembling fingers.

​—Here —the blonde murmured—. I don't know why you talk like that, but I guess you need this.

​The moment Alastor's numbed fingers closed around the solid, perfectly carved wood, something shifted in his face. His breathing, previously ragged and violent, began to stabilize. In his mind, the pedestal microphone materialized once more, giving him the support he needed to keep from falling into the abyss of the fever. His smile, though weak, recovered a spark of its usual arrogance.

​—...Broadcasting... live... —Alastor stammered in a barely audible thread of a voice, clutching the wooden toy against his chest as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.

​Lucifer let out a sigh of relief he didn't even know he was holding and sat on the cold floor, leaning his back against the cot. He was not going to return to the dormitory that night. If the weirdo was going to keep broadcasting his strange radio, he would stay right there to make sure no one turned off the signal.

​The first rays of an unusually clear morning began to filter through the high windows of the infirmary, tinting the dismal room with a golden hue.

​Alastor let out a long, slow breath, opening his eyes gradually. The heaviness in his eyelids was immense, but the painful fog of the fever had finally begun to recede, leaving him with a hollow feeling in his stomach and a throat as dry as the desert. He tried to stretch his arms, but felt something solid and heavy firmly grasped between his fingers.

​He frowned slightly, lowering his gaze toward his own chest.

​There, clutched against his orphanage nightgown, was the wooden microphone. Alastor lifted it a bit, inspecting it with his chestnut eyes wide open. He noticed the textured relief of the oval grille, the perfectly stylized neck, and the smooth finish that could only be achieved by polishing the wood for hours with devotion. It was not a store-bought toy; someone had sculpted it by hand, piece by piece, thinking exclusively of him and his strange obsession with the radio.

​A slight creak coming from the floor interrupted his thoughts.

​Alastor peeked his head over the edge of the mattress and froze. Sitting on the cold floor, with his legs tucked in and his head resting awkwardly against the iron frame of the bed, was Lucifer. The little blonde boy was fast asleep, his face unusually relaxed and his eyelashes barely trembling from exhaustion. The gigantic sleeves of his stolen uniform served as an impromptu blanket against the floor, and his fingers were stained with soot and wood dust.

​Alastor contemplated the blonde in silence for a few moments. In his six years of life, and especially since he had arrived at Garden Destiny, he had learned that nobody gave anything for free; the world was a hostile stage where you had to protect yourself alone. But there was Lucifer, a year older than him, risking the worst of punishments for the second consecutive night just to watch over his sleep and give him a wooden anchor against his delusions.

​A different smile drew upon Alastor's face. It wasn't the rigid, defensive grimace he showed the nuns, but a small, genuine, and somewhat touched one. He pressed the wooden microphone against his side, stretched out an arm, and, with a couple of gentle taps on Lucifer's shoulder, broke the silence with his hoarse but singsong voice recovering its spark:

​—Good morning, morning audience! —Alastor whispered, causing Lucifer to startle and snap his eyes open—. Reporting live... the patient has survived the storm, and it seems my star producer fell asleep on the set.

​Lucifer bolted upright, opening his large blue eyes wide as he tried to process where he was. Seeing Alastor's pale but now conscious face looking at him from the bed, the blonde felt a leap in his stomach. Quickly, he jumped to his feet, feeling his cheeks flush a bright red from the pure embarrassment of being caught in such a vulnerable posture.

​He adjusted the massive sleeves of his shirt with a sharp tug, trying to recover his facade of a mature, self-sufficient boy.

​—I-I didn't fall asleep anywhere, weirdo! —he muttered in a hurried whisper, averting his gaze toward the wall so Alastor wouldn't notice how red he was—. I was... I was just checking that the nuns hadn't let you die, that's all. I was passing by chance and sat down for a second to rest my legs. The floor of this orphanage is extremely uncomfortable, in case you didn't know.

​Alastor widened his smile, clearly amused by his companion's clumsy excuses. He raised the wooden microphone, spinning it elegantly between his fingers before aiming it in the blonde's direction.

​—Oh, really? And I suppose this f-fabulous, high-tech artifact also appeared by pure chance at my broadcasting station? —the chestnut-haired boy inquired teasingly, though his eyes shone with a sincere gratitude he didn't bother to hide.

​Lucifer glanced sideways at the carved microphone and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling even more exposed. The heat in his cheeks wasn't dying down.

​—Well... you were talking pure nonsense last night about lights and microphones, and I was already sick of your babbling —Lucifer grumbled, crossing his arms inside the giant fabric of his stolen uniform, though his tone lost its edge, becoming a bit softer—. Since I don't have real tools, it took me a hell of an effort to round the top with a stone from the yard... So you better not lose it and stop delirious. You gave me quite a scare, Alastor.

​The chestnut-haired boy lowered the wooden microphone and hugged it against his chest, nodding his head.

​—The audience promises to guard this sponsorship with their very life, g-godfather —Alastor assured softly, losing his radio tone for a brief second to sound like the six-year-old boy he actually was.

​Before Lucifer could say anything to break the sentimental atmosphere, the echo of hurried footsteps and the rustle of habits was heard at the far end of the outer hallway. The infirmary nuns were about to wake up.

​—I have to go! —Lucifer whispered, turning pale in a blink. He ducked, crawled with his characteristic agility, and slid toward the side window of the infirmary that faced the internal courtyard—. Don't tell anyone I was here!

​—Signing off! —Alastor replied in an amused whisper.

​Lucifer jumped through the window frame, disappearing into the shadows of the courtyard just before the infirmary door opened. Alastor leaned back against the rough pillow, feeling that, for the first time since he had arrived at Garden Destiny, the morning cold no longer bit so deep.

​In a pure reflex of survival, Alastor hid the wooden microphone beneath his coarse sheet, pressing it to his side as his face transformed back into that imperturbable mask of perfect courtesy.

​Sister Cleo entered the room carrying a metal tray with a bowl of steaming broth and a clean cloth. Behind her, the younger nun walked, dragging her feet, still looking sleepy. Seeing the little chestnut-haired boy awake with his eyes open, the old woman stopped, surprised.

​—Well... look who has decided to return to the world of the living —Sister Cleo commented, approaching the bed to place her hand on his forehead. She let out a sigh of relief—. Praise be to God, the fever has dropped significantly. You looked like a burning coal last night, boy.

​—A very good morning, esteemed sisters! —Alastor greeted. Although his voice still sounded raspy and the effort caused a slight twinge in his chest, he forced his singsong tone and widened his smile to the maximum—. I assure you the tuning this morning is splendid. I feel perfectly ready to rejoin the blessed tasks of the establishment.

​The young nun frowned, looking at him with a mixture of pity and strangeness.

​—He still talks weird, sister... Are you sure the fever didn't leave any aftereffects in his head? —the novice whispered, earning a gentle smack with the cloth from Cleo.

​—Leave him alone, child. He has enough with having survived the Mother Superior's whim —the old woman muttered under her breath, making sure no one in the hallway could hear. She set the tray on the nightstand—. Eat this broth, Alastor. And don't you dare get out of this bed until I order it. If Stella sees you weak, she will invent that you have the devil inside you and make you pray on your knees over corn kernels.

​—I am infinitely grateful for the kind room service —Alastor replied, keeping his gaze fixed on them as they backed toward the exit.

​As soon as the two nuns left the infirmary and closed the door, Alastor's wide smile relaxed a bit, becoming more peaceful. He slid his hand beneath the blanket and took the wooden microphone again, feeling the polished surface and the slight warmth it still retained. He placed it on his lap and, in a very low voice, so that only the walls of the room would be his witness, whispered into the toy:

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Chapter 4: Fever

The second night in the cellar seemed to drag an even more implacable cold along with it, and for Lucifer, the hours in the boys' dormitory felt eternal. He couldn't sleep a wink. He spent the entire night tossing and turning in his bunk, eaten away by guilt and a dull rage that burned in his chest. He knew perfectly well that, with the dampness of the cellar and the lack of food, Alastor would freeze down there while the Superior slept peacefully on her comfortable mattress.

​When the morning's first curfew bell pierced the silence of the orphanage, Lucifer jumped out of bed before anyone else. He dressed in a hurry, this time roughly adjusting the sleeves of his oversized uniform. He no longer cared about the taunts from Anthony or the other orphans; his mind was fixed on a single goal.

​The morning formation bell rang once more. The children lined up like pillars of salt beside their mattresses, holding their breath. At the end of the hallway, Mother Stella’s firm, solemn footsteps began to echo, announcing her daily arrival.

​When the heavy wooden door swung wide open, the Superior crossed the threshold with her usual icy expression, flanked by the two nuns from the laundry. Her hawk-like gaze swept across the row of children, and, finding no obvious imperfections in the sheets, she nodded coldly, prepared to turn on her heel to continue her route toward the girls' wing.

​She had forgotten. She really had completely forgotten about it.

​Lucifer felt his heart take a wild leap. If he let her leave now, Alastor would spend a second full day in absolute blackness. Swallowing hard to clear the knot of panic in his throat, the little blonde boy took a step forward, breaking the sacred line of formation.

​—M-Mother Stella! —Lucifer called out, raising his voice louder than was permitted in that holy establishment.

​The entire dormitory seemed to freeze solid. The two escorting nuns opened their eyes wide, terrified by the boy's audacity, while Mother Stella stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly, the Superior turned on her heels. Her pupils locked onto the little blonde boy with a dangerous fixity, narrowing at the insolence of having interrupted the protocol.

​—Who gave you authorization to break formation and speak, boy? —the nun inquired, her voice so low and sharp it caused the other orphans to lower their heads, fearing the punishment might fall upon all of them.

​Lucifer trembled beneath the woman's imposing shadow, but he forced his hands to interlace in front of him in feigned submission, hiding the shaking of his fingers inside the giant sleeves.

​—I-I'm sorry, Your Excellency... I did not mean to be impertinent —he stammered, forcing an expression of deep distress and innocence—. It's just that... last night I couldn't sleep out of guilt. I know little Alastor sinned out of pride, but I have been praying all night for his soul, just as you taught us. And since the twenty-four hours of his holy isolation have already passed... I feared the evil one might take advantage of his weakness if he spent a single minute more in the blackness of the coal.

​Mother Stella remained motionless. For a millisecond, a flash of bewilderment crossed her frigid eyes as she processed the boy's words. She glanced at the large wall clock in the hallway and then returned her gaze to Lucifer. Without a doubt, she had messed up.

​Mother Stella kept her gaze fixed on Lucifer for a few eternal seconds that made the blonde's blood run cold. However, the Superior could not admit to the orphans that she had forgotten about the punishment. With a grimace of disdain, she interlaced her hands beneath her habit and recovered her severe posture, pretending everything was under control.

​—The Lord is witness to your piety, boy, though the next time you break formation I will not be so lenient —she sentenced in a thundering voice, before turning toward her subordinates—. Sisters, go to the cellar immediately. Bring the orphan back to the ward. He has spent enough time in the blackness to meditate on his faults.

​—Yes, Mother Superior —the two nuns replied in unison, giving a hurried bow before rushing out toward the shed stairs.

​Mother Stella resumed her march with a firm step toward the girls' wing, bringing the inspection to an end. As soon as her imposing figure disappeared down the hallway, the discipline in the male dormitory relaxed a little, and the children began to prepare to go to the dining hall.

​Lucifer didn't think twice. Taking advantage of the commotion of the other orphans packing away their blankets, he pressed himself against the wall and slipped into the hallway with the agility of a cat. Using the shadows of the columns and the giant fabric of his stolen uniform to blend in, he discreetly followed the jingling of the nuns' keys as they descended into the depths of the shed.

​The air grew denser and damper with every step. Hidden behind the old wooden rack that piled up the cleaning tools, Lucifer peeked his head out, his heart hammering hard against his chest.

​The nuns arrived in front of the heavy wooden door. One of them inserted the iron key into the lock, making it turn with a metallic creak that echoed like a gunshot in the dismal cellar. As she pushed the door open, the dense darkness of the coal room was exposed to the dim light of the hallway.

​—Alastor, get out of there right now —one of the sisters ordered roughly, expecting the boy to obey instantly.

​But no one moved. The silence that came from the inside was sepulchral.

​Faced with the deathly silence coming from the room, the two nuns exchanged a look filled with sudden nervousness. One of them took a step forward, raising an oil lantern to break the dense shadows of the place.

​—Boy, don't play around. Get out of there right now —she insisted, with a voice that this time betrayed a hint of fear.

​The dim yellowish light swept across the soot-covered walls until it hit a silhouette at the back. There, leaning against the damp stone wall, Alastor began to move. The effort to stand up felt almost inhuman for such a small body of barely six years old; his legs, numbed by the extreme cold, shook violently, and his fingers clawed at the rocks so he wouldn't collapse.

​However, as the light of the lantern hit his face, the nuns took a step back, letting out a sharp gasp of fright.

​Alastor was looking at them with eyes wide from exhaustion and the delirium of a fever that was clearly burning him up inside, but on his lips a rigid, unbreakable, and disturbingly wide smile was drawn.

​—B-but if it is already over... then I must move along again —he managed to articulate with a thread of a voice that was barely a hoarse, broken whisper, slurring his words as the frigid air escaped his lips like vapor.

​He tried to take an elegant step forward, mimicking the walk of the adults he used to see on the streets, but the cold and the pain in his frozen joints worked against him. His knees failed and the little chestnut-haired boy stumbled forward, losing his balance.

​Hidden behind the wooden rack, Lucifer's heart stopped in his chest. He was on the verge of running out of his hiding place to catch him before he fell face-first onto the dirt floor, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms through his giant sleeves.

​Fortunately, one of the nuns reacted in time and caught Alastor by the arms before he collapsed. Upon touching him, the woman let out a muffled cry.

​—Good Lord, sister, he is burning with fever! —she exclaimed, horrified to notice that the boy's skin felt like a bonfire in the middle of winter—. Quick, help me carry him. If Mother Stella sees him in this state, she will blame us for negligence.

​Meanwhile, in the dimness of the back stairs, the two sisters hurried up, carrying Alastor's body between them. The little chestnut-haired boy weighed alarmingly little, and his skin emanated a scorching heat that managed to penetrate the fabric of their habits.

​—Walk faster, Sister Cleo —the younger one whispered, looking with panic toward the main hallway—. If the Mother Superior sees us crossing with him in this state, she will say it was our fault for not checking the cells in time.

​—That woman has no bowels —Sister Cleo muttered between her teeth, dragging her feet with difficulty but without stopping—. Leaving a six-year-old child two entire nights in that freezing pit... discipline is one thing, but cruelty is quite another. God forgive me, but Stella is losing her mind with her fanaticism.

​—Poor little thing... —the other murmured, settling the boy's head on her shoulder. Alastor didn't cry or complain, but his spasms from the chills were constant—. Look at his lips. And on top of that, he won't let go of that dreadful smile... it looks like a dead man's grimace. It gives me the creeps.

​—It's his shield, child. In this place, if you show that it hurts, they step on you harder —the old woman sighed, opening the infirmary door with a subtle kick—. Bring the wool blankets and the borage water. We have to break this fever before noon or he won't make it past the week.

​For Alastor, however, the nuns' voices were nothing more than a distant, distorted echo, like a poorly tuned radio catching static.

​In his mind, consumed by the delirium of the fever, the walls of the infirmary did not exist. There were no nuns, no cold, no pain in his bones. He was still in the center of his perfect stage, under the flash of a thousand golden lights that didn't burn, but instead wrapped him in a warm embrace. The old pedestal microphone remained firm in his numbed hands. Through the fog of his unconsciousness, Alastor could hear the thundering applause of an invisible audience shouting his name from the darkness, acclaiming his grand debut.

​A small, trembling exhalation escaped his dry lips as they laid him down on the cot. He was losing his strength, but as long as the music kept playing in his head and his smile remained intact, no one in that damn orphanage would be able to defeat him.

​Watching them carry Alastor's trembling body upstairs, Lucifer slowly backed away into the darkness of the hallway. His teeth were clenched and his stomach was knotted by a mixture of pent-up rage and helplessness. The "Smile Demon" had walked out of there holding his facade until the very last second, but he was gravely ill, and all because of the cruelty of that wretched place.

​The little blonde boy returned to the dining hall engulfed in a deathly silence, blending into the crowd of orphans who were finishing breakfast. He sat in his usual corner, but he didn't touch the food. To regulate the whirlwind of stress and anxiety that threatened to make him snap, he slid his right hand into the deep pocket of his giant pants and pulled out his most prized possession: the thick piece of branch he had picked up from the courtyard on the afternoon of the storm.

​Taking advantage of the fact that the massive sleeve of the stolen shirt completely covered his movements from the gaze of the few remaining nuns, Lucifer began to work on the wood.

​He had no gouges, no pocketknives, no professional tools; he only kept that old, blunt butter knife he had slipped from the dining hall and a rough stone he hid in secret. However, despite the lack of tools, the boy possessed an indisputable gift. His small but precise fingers moved with astonishing dexterity, scraping away the bark, smoothing out imperfections, and shaping the edges with infinite patience.

​Little by little, the rough lines of the branch began to disappear, revealing the crude but recognizable silhouette of a small figure. Carving was the only thing that managed to isolate him from the noise of the dining hall and the contemptuous glares. Every wood shaving that fell to the floor was a piece of frustration he managed to release.

​As he blew the dust off the surface of the branch, contemplating the progress of his work, Lucifer made a decision. Alastor had protected him from the cellar, and now that the chestnut-haired boy was locked in the infirmary burning with fever, he was not going to leave him alone. The nuns would only look after him to wash their hands of the matter before Mother Stella, but Lucifer would look after him for real. As soon as night fell and the orphanage was plunged into curfew, he would find a way to sneak over to his cot.

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Chapter 3: Cold

The next day, the little chestnut-haired boy began to awaken from his lethargy. Spending the entire night on the floor of that cellar had not been, in the slightest, a comfortable experience, but it was something he could tolerate without a single complaint. After all, his family had always been poor; the luxury of a clean, padded bed had been unknown to him until he arrived at the orphanage, but it just wasn't the same without her. Remembering the warmth of the old cot he used to share with his mother gave him the strength he needed to sit up, shaking the cold from his bones as the faint morning light filtered timidly through the small vents in the ceiling.

It was undoubtedly going to be a long day.

(...)

That same morning, the children woke up early to continue their strict routine: smoothing out the sheets of their twin beds until they were completely made and without a single wrinkle, and then quickly forming a line right beside the mattress frame.

Little by little, the echo of firm footsteps began to be heard from the other side of the hallway, approaching the boys' dormitory until stopping right in front of the door.

No one dared to utter a single word; everyone stood at attention, holding their breath as they waited for that imposing figure to cross the threshold to evaluate them, just as she did every single day.

The metal doorknob screeched, and the heavy wooden door swung wide open. Mother Stella crossed the threshold with the solemnity of a judge, followed closely by two nuns with frigid countenances who walked in her shadow, hands hidden beneath their habits.

The Superior did not speak immediately. She paced between the rows of beds, dragging her severe gaze across the pale faces of the orphans. Stopping in the center of the room, she interlaced her fingers in front of her and broke the silence with a voice that cut like ice.

—As you may have already noticed, one of your classmates is missing from the roll call this morning —she announced, making a calculated pause to let fear seep into the children—. Little Alastor has proven that pride dwells in his heart. And since insolence has no place beneath this holy roof, he will spend the next twenty-four hours in the deepest blackness of the coal cellar. I pray that the cold breaks his pride, and I hope this serves as a mirror to all of you. Disobedience is paid with isolation.

An invisible murmur of terror rippled through the line of children. Everyone lowered their heads—excep one.

Lucifer swallowed hard, feeling his heart leap into his chest upon hearing Alastor's fate. He tried to maintain his composure, but his nerves worked against him. As he tensed, the oversized, uncomfortable shirt he had stolen from the laundry room shifted, revealing the ridiculous size of the sleeves swallowing his hands and the excess fabric bunching suspiciously over his giant pants.

Mother Stella, whose clinical eye never missed the slightest imperfection, slowly turned her head. Her pupils locked directly onto the little blonde boy, narrowing with dangerous suspicion as she noticed his strange, disheveled uniform. She advanced with slow, rhythmic steps until she stopped right in front of him. The silence in the dormitory became so dense it could almost be cut. With the tips of her fingers, the Superior hooked the giant sleeve that devoured the boy's hand, lifting it with evident disgust. She avoided looking him directly in the eyes, let alone pronouncing his name; for a woman of her faith, naming the bearer of that grace was a sin that invited misfortune.

—What is the meaning of this getup? —she inquired in a dangerously low voice, referring to him simply as "boy"—. Do you perhaps think the sacred garments of this establishment are a toy for your entertainment?

The boy swallowed hard, feeling the nun's icy proximity, but forced his eyes to shine with a mixture of timidity and innocence. He shrugged his shoulders, making the frayed shirt look even more ridiculous on his small body.

—I-I'm sorry, Mother Stella... —he stammered with feigned submission, keeping his gaze lowered—. This was what I found on my bunk when I woke up. The sisters in charge of the laundry must have mixed up the uniforms last night... I didn't want to wear it, truly, but the clock was already about to strike the hour for formation. I knew that being late for your Excellency's inspection is a grave sign of disrespect, so I dressed in what was there so as not to delay my classmates.

The two nuns escorting the Superior immediately exchanged a look of nervousness and guilt; the management of the clothes was their responsibility, and the mere thought of appearing incompetent before Stella terrified them.

Mother Stella narrowed her eyes, pinning her hawk-like gaze on the orphan for a few eternal seconds, searching for any trace of a lie on his face. However, the little boy's logic was implacable: he had preferred to abide by the rule of punctuality rather than complain.

—Very well, let this be the last time —she said without another word, turning around to continue her way toward the other children's rooms. She closed the main door as the other nuns filed out with her, but not before giving them one final glare of warning.

As soon as the echo of Mother Stella's footsteps faded completely down the hall and the latch of the main door clicked into place, the pent-up tension in the dormitory broke all at once. However, there was no relief, only a wave of stifled snickers and malicious whispers.

—Look at the little prince! —one of the orphans spat arrogantly, breaking formation—. He looks like a deflated scarecrow. What's the matter, Lucifer? Seven years in here and you still haven't learned how to dress yourself?

The mockery quickly spread across the room. Several children pointed at the enormous sleeves swallowing his hands and the hem of his pants dragging badly against the floor. Lucifer had spent his entire life within those frigid walls, totaling seven long years in the orphanage; he knew the cruel dynamics of his peers all too well. At Garden Destiny, empathy was a luxury no one could afford; seeing another fall or make a fool of themselves was the only distraction they had to forget their own miseries.

—He's the ward's clown! —another mocked from the back, earning laughs from the rest—. Next time they're going to give him the Mother Superior's habit!

Lucifer clenched his fists hidden inside the incredibly long sleeves of the shirt. He felt his cheeks burning with pure rage, but he forced himself to fix his gaze on the wooden floor to avoid making things worse. He was more than used to the hostility of the place, but having a bunch of cowards who trembled before the nuns mock him turned his stomach.

Laugh all you want, idiots, Lucifer thought, swallowing his pride as he adjusted the excess fabric with a sharp tug. I know perfectly well how to navigate this place while you piss yourselves with fear in your beds.

Unlike the others, who only thought of saving their own skins, Lucifer's mind was elsewhere. While the insults rolled right off him, he stealthily raised his head and glanced toward the high window of the dormitory, where the rain from the storm was beginning to let up, giving way to a gray morning.

He thought of the coal cellar. He thought of Alastor, a boy a year younger than him, who had barely just arrived at this prison and was already trapped in absolute blackness for having protected him. The "weirdo" with the eternal smile was going to spend the whole day locked up because of him, and the fact that Lucifer now had to endure the usual taunts only reinforced one idea in his head: Alastor, at just six years old, had more guts than anyone else in this damn place.

The ringing of the bell announced breakfast time, forcing the children to march in single file toward the dismal dining hall. Breakfast at Garden Destiny consisted of the same thing every morning: a bowl of watery oatmeal and a slice of stale bread.

Lucifer sat at the furthest end of the long wooden table, ignoring the mocking glares some orphans still threw at him because of his giant uniform. He was alone, as he had been for most of his seven years of life in that place, but this time, the loneliness worked in his favor. While Sister Cleo watched the other side of the dining hall, Lucifer looked at his plate. He knew Alastor wouldn't receive a single crumb of food during his isolation.

With a swift, rehearsed movement, he broke his bread ration in half. Taking advantage of the massive slack in his stolen sleeves, he slid the piece of bread inside the fabric, securing it near his wrist. He would eat half for breakfast, but the chestnut-haired boy would have something to bite into.

As soon as breakfast ended and the children were led to their cleaning chores in the north wing, Lucifer saw his chance. With the agility of someone who knows every creak of the wood and every blind spot in the building, he separated from the group in the blink of an eye, slipping down the hallway that led to the depths of the shed.

The cellar felt even colder by day. The little blonde boy descended the stairs by feel, his heart galloping against his ribs. Reaching the heavy door, he quickly knelt before the bottom slit.

—Psst! Weirdo... —he whispered loudly toward the inside, pressing his lips to the wood—. Alastor, are you still alive in there?

He pulled the piece of bread from his sleeve and began to push it carefully through the worn-out gap at the base.

—I brought you half of my breakfast. Take it quick before they hear my footsteps upstairs.

From inside the cellar, the silence stretched on for a couple of seconds that felt like an eternity to Lucifer, until finally, the faint dragging of footsteps over the loose dirt could be heard.

—Now, what do my ears hear? If it isn't my dear and attentive garment g-godfather! —Alastor's voice tried to burst through the slit with his usual singsong radio-host spark, but the effort was evident. His tone came out noticeably hoarse, broken by a couple of dry coughs he tried to muffle by pressing his sleeve against his mouth—. Broadcasting live... f-from the most exclusive floor in the complex...

A small, trembling hand peeked through the gap, fumbling against the wood until it found the piece of stale bread. Alastor pulled it into the darkness quickly, clutching it with fingers numbed by the cold.

—My, a fine delicatessen from the sisters' kitchen —the chestnut-haired boy continued through the wood. Although he tried to sound playful and elegant, his teeth chattered uncontrollably due to the low temperature of the place, betraying that the cold had already begun to take its toll on his small body—. I assure you the audience... h-highly values the room service, Lucifer.

Hearing the tremor in his voice and the sound of the cough, the blonde frowned on the other side of the door, feeling a knot of worry tighten in his stomach. Alastor was a year younger than him, and though he spoke with the eloquence of an adult, physically he was at his limit.

—Stop talking like you're on a stage, weirdo, you're going to waste what little warm air you have left —Lucifer muttered in a hurried whisper, pressing his forehead against the cold wood—. Eat that and save the rest if you can. The nuns are out like hawks today. I have to go before they notice I'm not sweeping the north wing.

With that, he turned to leave before they noticed his absence, but before walking away, he said one last thing.

—Don't you dare die in there, Alastor —Lucifer whispered, pressing his mouth to the wood with a seriousness unbefitting of his seven years—. Today at five in the afternoon, your time is up. I'm going to be watching the clock and keeping tabs on every step Mother Stella takes for when she comes down to open the door for you. Don't worry, you're almost out.

From inside the cellar, the subtle sound of bread crunching could be heard as the little chestnut-haired boy took a hungry bite, followed by a faint, raspy murmur.

—I'll be waiting... for the end of the commercial break —Alastor managed to joke, refusing to lose his broadcaster facade even with his body shaking from the chill.

Lucifer nodded to himself in the gloom of the hallway. He stood up with agility, adjusted the massive sleeves of his stolen uniform, and hurried up the stairs to rejoin the morning chores before the nuns noticed his absence.

For the rest of the day, the little blonde boy transformed into a watchful shadow. Every time he passed near the large grandfather clock in the main hallway, he devoured the hands with his eyes. The hours ticked by slow and tortuous between lunch and mandatory prayers, until finally, the chimes echoed through the building: it was five in the afternoon.

Lucifer's heart leaped with relief. He stationed himself near the central hallway, waiting to see Mother Stella's imposing silhouette appear with the ring of keys in hand to free the boy. However, the minutes began to tick away. Five-ten, five-thirty, six o'clock... and the Superior simply walked back and forth, tending to the orphanage's bookkeeping, her face completely unbothered.

Mother Stella had forgotten all about it. To her, Alastor was just another number, an insignificant nuisance she had buried into oblivion in the depths of the building.

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Chapter 2: Function in the dark

"(In the previous chapter...)

'You will spend the next twenty-four hours in the coal cellar, in the dark,' she sentenced in a cold voice that echoed against the stone walls. 'We shall see if the cold and the absolute blackness manage to return humility to your lips.'

With a firm yank, she dragged him down the hallway, away from the broom closet.

The sound of the rain rumbled heavily against the tiled roof, becoming the only echo amid that silent march. The Mother Superior’s fingers dug into the little boy's arm with implacable strength; the pressure was so intense that a sharp pain began to spread through Alastor's limb, yet the smile on his face remained intact, defiant.

Without an ounce of pity, the woman guided him downstairs, descending slowly into the coldest depths of the building, until she stopped in front of the heavy wooden cellar door.

That was the most desolate corner of the orphanage, the place where old junk, coal, and firewood for the harsh winter days were stored.

Mother Stella inserted the heavy key into the lock. The metal screeched with a plaintive echo before the door swung wide open, revealing a pitch-black wolf's mouth, steeped in the dense, dusty scent of coal.

Without hesitation, the nun delivered a rough, violent push to Alastor's back, thrusting him forcefully into the cellar. The little boy stumbled in the darkness, banging his knees against the rough floor, but with almost feline agility, he managed to pick himself up immediately.

Before the heavy wooden door could begin to close and bury him in oblivion, Alastor turned unhurriedly toward the silhouette of the Superior. He brushed the invisible dust off his knees, straightened his back with elegance, and, locking his bright eyes on the woman, let out one last sentence in his flawless, singsong radio-host tone:

'I thank you immensely for the private rehearsal space, Mother Stella. I promise tomorrow's audience will be spellbound. Have an excellent and blessed afternoon.'

The nun's expression contorted into a grimace of pure disbelief and contained rage. The sharp thud of the door slamming shut cut through the air, followed by the metallic click of the key turning twice in the lock, sealing the beginning of his twenty-four hours of isolation.

When the door closed completely and the silence of the absolute blackness enveloped him, the little boy finally collapsed. He let his knees drop against the rough cellar floor, while the wide smile he had sustained like a shield vanished millimeter by millimeter, giving way to a bleak and painfully serious countenance.

In the gloom, Alastor lowered his head and fixed his gaze on his arm, where the skin looked completely reddened and swollen from the Superior's brutal grip. The physical pain was there, throbbing and real, but his pride was much stronger. He grit his teeth in the dark with a determination unbefitting of a six-year-old; he wasn't going to give that woman the satisfaction of seeing him broken. He wouldn't allow them to shatter him like the other orphans who inhabited that prison disguised as a home.

(...)

Meanwhile, on the upper floors of the orphanage, the silence in the hallway felt heavier than ever. Still hidden among the shadows and brooms of the cleaning closet, the little blonde boy hugged his knees, trembling not from the chill of his soaked clothes, but from the echo of the sentence he had just overheard.

Twenty-four hours in the coal cellar.

He stepped out of the hiding place at a slow pace, dragging his feet across the floor that now looked clean of mud, but in his mind was still marked by the disaster he himself had caused. No one had ever sacrificed themselves for him; at Garden Destiny, the implicit rule among the orphans had always been to save your own skin at the expense of others. Yet, that strange boy with the imperturbable smile—the same one everyone called a 'weirdo'—had chosen to sink into the darkness to protect his secret.

Guilt began to seep into his bones in a way far more painful than any nun's reprimand. He looked down at the butter knife he still held in his hands, and then turned his gaze toward the direction they had taken Alastor. He knew perfectly well he couldn't leave things like this; the 'Smile Demon' had saved his skin, and now he owed him one.

Below, in the depths of the cellar, time seemed to stand still. After a few minutes of silent reflection, the little chestnut-haired boy managed to calm down. Pressing his palms against the cold dirt floor, he slowly straightened up to stand. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the dust-laden air, and automatically his face reverted to its usual facade: that imperturbable, radiant smile that everyone in the orphanage had known since the day he arrived.

With a firm and calculating step, he began to grope around the perimeter of the place, stretching his hands out into the blackness with the intention of finding some light source.

Fortune seemed to smile upon him when his fingers bumped into the metal of an old, dusty lamp. With a bit of difficulty due to the size of his hands, he pulled out a small lighter he carried with him. Having spent so much time by his mother's side before coming to this horrible place had helped him learn the basics of survival; life, at his tender age, had already forced him to mature long before the rest of the children. After a couple of tries, the spark caught the wick, and a faint, warm golden light began to dissipate the cellar's shadows.

Alastor scanned his surroundings, using the dim light to inspect the place in detail. There were dozens of old, forgotten knick-knacks that didn't spark the slightest interest in him; however, something amid the dust captured his full attention: an old pedestal microphone, the kind churches used to use during important masses. Swiftly, the boy took it in his hands, gazing at it with such fascination that, for the first time all day, a genuine, heartfelt smile illuminated his face.

Seeking to prevent any accidents, he left the lamp on a safe surface, far from the firewood or any other flammable material. Next, he positioned himself right in the center of the cellar. He completely ignored the fact that his clothes were still soaked and that, in all certainty, the night cold would end up making him sick; at that moment, his mind was entirely poured into that metallic treasure. He would no longer have to use simple wooden sticks to pretend he was a broadcaster. Now he had something real.

Adjusting his damp shirt as if it were the finest tuxedo in Louisiana, Alastor took a step forward and gripped the microphone with masterful delicacy. He closed his eyes for a brief second, completely abstracting himself from the four stone walls that confined him, and upon opening them, his pupils burned with the fire of a true stage.

'A very good evening, ladies and gentlemen, sinners and saints alike!' he greeted the emptiness, modulating his voice with that singsong, magnetic sway that made the entire cellar seem to fill with an invisible audience. 'This is your star broadcaster talking to you, transmitting live from the heart of the storm. I know the cold seeps into your bones and the darkness seems endless, but fear not... because I have come to entertain you!'

With a subtle shift of his shoulders, he began to strike an imaginary rhythm on the dirt floor. Inspired by the jazz and swing notes that used to escape the radios of his childhood, Alastor raised the microphone, tilted his head mischievously, and began to sing with an astonishing pitch for his young age:

'Look over here, let me guide you through the black... Fly with me to the place where the pain won't come back. No matter the punishment, no matter the place, because tonight I own your attention and space! Let me entertain you, let me be your voice!'

His childish, yet strangely firm voice echoed in the dusty corners of the shed. The song was a cry for freedom camouflaged as a show; a declaration that no cell, no nun, and no punishment would ever have the power to stifle the music he carried inside. The chill of his soaked clothes seemed to vanish, replaced by the adrenaline of his own performance.

Alastor finished the last note with a polished gesture, bowing his torso forward in an impeccable reverence toward his invisible audience. His breathing was a bit heavy from the effort, and subtle puffs of cold vapor escaped his smiling lips, but the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins.

Silence reclaimed the cellar once more, broken only by the incessant patter of the rain outside. However, just as the little chestnut-haired boy was about to stand up straight, a dull, hesitant thud resonated at the base of the heavy wooden door.

Alastor froze in his tracks, keeping the microphone close to his face. His smile grew a bit sharper and his eyes narrowed with suspicion toward the entrance. No nun would knock in such a subtle manner.

'Who goes there?' he inquired in a whisper that, despite the surprise, tried to maintain the elegant tone of a late-night host. 'The show has ended for tonight, unless you're here to ask for an autograph.'

From the other side of the wood, after a brief and tense silence, came a muffled murmur, thick with nerves but unmistakably childish. It was the blonde boy from the tree.

'Shut your mouth, weirdo... and grab this quick before one of the nuns comes down.'

Through one of the worn-out gaps at the bottom of the old wooden door, a whole-grain cereal bar began to poke through first—a luxury the blonde had surely managed to swipe from the pantry rations. Next, with quite a bit of effort and pushing with his fingers, the boy outside shoved a bundle of cloth through: a completely dry change of clothes.

'You're soaked because of me and I don't want to carry your death on my conscience if you freeze to death in there,' the blonde muttered from the hallway, trying to hide his concern behind a gruff tone. 'Besides... you don't sing too bad.'

'I... I don't know what to say,' the little chestnut-haired boy admitted, his voice briefly losing its usual theatrical tone.

Alastor rushed to gather each of the items crossing the slit, clutching the dry clothes and the cereal bar against his chest as if he were holding the most valuable treasure in the world. In the absolute loneliness of his confinement, a strange warmth washed over his body; no one had been kind to him since the very moment he stepped foot in that orphanage. Everyone limited themselves to judging him, punishing him, or fleeing from his presence, but this blonde boy, whom he barely knew for a few hours, was risking his own safety just to make sure he was okay.

A small, soft smile, devoid of any mockery or facade, appeared on his lips as he looked down at the objects in his hands.

Alastor stepped a bit closer to the slit in the wood, closing the distance.

'My name is Alastor,' he whispered softly to the outside, completely dropping the radio-host persona. 'Thank you for the clothes... and for the food.'

There was a brief silence in the hallway, broken only by the other boy's relieved sigh upon knowing the items had reached good hands. The scuff of his shoes against the floor could be heard, an unmistakable sign that he was preparing to bolt before the nuns' flashlights illuminated the cellar stairs.

'I'm Lucifer,' the blonde replied on the other side, his tone hurried but firm. 'Put that on quick before you catch a cold, Alastor. See you tomorrow... if you survive in there.'

Without waiting for an answer, Lucifer's light, hurried footsteps quickly hurried away down the hall, fading upstairs until total silence reigned in the shed once more.

Alastor was left alone again, but the blackness of the cellar no finaly didn't feel so cold. With a renewed smile and a heart a little less lonely, he set the microphone aside and began to change out of his soaked clothes under the warm light of the old oil lamp."

Extra:

"The little Lucifer walked stealthily through the frigid hallways, pressing his back against the stone walls to avoid being seen. Before leaving the cleaning closet, he had spared no effort to wring out and dry his clothes as best as possible with some old rags; he wasn't completely dry, but enough so as not to leave a trail of water that would betray his position to the nuns.

As he moved like a shadow, his mind kept spinning around the chestnut-haired boy who had just saved his skin. He couldn't understand why someone he didn't even know would choose to take such a severe punishment in his place. Guilt weighed heavily on his chest, and he knew the cold of the coal cellar would soon take its toll on the other boy if he stayed there soaked.

It was then that he stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the gloom. A rather crazy, but brilliant idea flashed through his mind. If Alastor had risked his freedom for him, the least Lucifer could do was whip up a plan to return the favor.

His first target was the laundry room. Lucifer slipped through the half-open door, where hot steam and the smell of cheap soap filled the air. There were baskets brimming with identical uniforms. Without time to look for the exact size, he thrust his hands into a pile of clean laundry and pulled at the first thing he found. It turned out to be a pair of pants that clearly belonged to a boy twice his size and a slightly frayed shirt, but it was dry and warm, which was all that mattered. With the dexterity of a raccoon, he rolled the loot into a tight bundle and hid it under his own shirt, making himself look strangely fat around the stomach.

The real challenge, however, was the kitchen.

Lucifer peeked around the corner of the hallway. To his misfortune, Sister Cleo, an elderly nun with implacable hearing, stood with her back turned, chopping vegetables near the pantry where they kept the contraband cereal bars—the ones only used for important visitors.

The blonde swallowed hard. He knew he couldn't walk in without being spotted, so he opted for a desperate tactic. Crouching down to ground level, he spotted the orphanage's fat, lazy cat, which was dozing near the entrance. With a mischievous grin, Lucifer reached out, gave the animal's tail a quick tug, and ran to hide behind a flour barrel.

MEEEAAAWWW!

The feline let out a deafening hiss, knocking a metal pot to the floor, which bounced with a frightful clatter all across the kitchen.

'Retro ruzel, beast of the devil!' shrieked Sister Cleo, chasing the cat with her broom raised high, completely distracted by the chaos.

Taking advantage of the precious seconds of confusion, Lucifer crawled like a soldier in the mud, stretched his arm toward the bottom shelf of the pantry, and grabbed the first whole-grain bar his fingers touched. Without looking back, he turned around and darted out of the kitchen on all fours just as the nun managed to shoo the cat out the window.

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