Anurj

00. Prologue.

11:51 PM- Waisenhaus Rosenhof of Bern, Switzerland.

POV: ...

I empty the last box of matches and toss the empty box onto the pile stacked in the corner of the room.

I stack the matches two by two, building them into a tower. I'm on my twenty-second tower.

I repeat the same movements three more times until I have twenty-five towers. When the orphanage bell rings to announce midnight, we'll welcome the new year.

The walls of the orphanage are coated in oil-based paint—flammable oil paint.

I grew up in this building. I lived here. Except that, no matter how things turn out, I won't be able to live here anymore.

I've been an orphan since birth. Sometimes, I feel the emptiness left by not having parents, but I comfort myself by remembering that I'm surrounded by people like me.

Still, being separated from those same people hurts. Whether they're adopted or reunited with relatives, they leave.

At first, the sadness fades with time. Eventually, though, it turns into melancholy.

The cathedral sisters who look after us are kind. Yet, through their actions, I can sense a flaw hidden behind their pretty words—a selfishness disguised as kindness, all to serve their own interests. Their goal is nothing more than to raise little orphans in a pleasant environment so that we'll grow grateful to society.

But why should I work for a society that rejected me?

I open the last box of matches and pull one out.
It's snowing outside. The cold should keep the fire from reaching the surrounding buildings, and, in theory, no one should get hurt.

The orphanage is empty. Everyone has gone to church to celebrate the New Year.

Me? I pretended to be sick.

I don't know what I'll do after this, or after midnight. Maybe I'll burn alive.

Perhaps that would be a fate I deserve.

I stare at the ceiling. When the bell finally rings, I strike the match.

The flame consumes the wood, turning it black.

My heart pounds.

I'm nervous. I hesitate.

But the flame has already eaten through most of the match. It will reach my fingers soon.

I let go.

I've set the fire free.

The sound of fireworks outside makes my anxiety worse.

The flame seems to die out, but then, without warning, it catches onto each tower of matches, one after another.

The temperature suddenly rises.

I'm sweating from fear—

No. From the heat.

The fire spreads. It has already reached the pile of empty matchboxes.