Of Dust and Divinity

Chapter One - The Fall

Flashback: The First Day 

The halls of Ashford Community Home smelled faintly of lemon polish and old wood. It was cold that morning, the kind of cold that settled deep into your bones, and Juno sat slouched in the common room, picking at the frayed sleeves of her hoodie.

Another new kid today. Sister Joan had said so over breakfast, her voice warm but cautious — the way she always was when preparing them for someone fragile.

The front door creaked open. Juno looked up.

A girl no older than six stood there, clutching a threadbare backpack with both hands. Her hair was wild from the wind outside, her sneakers scuffed and thin. She had a bruise blooming like a dark petal on her wrist — not fresh, but not old either.

And her eyes.

Her eyes were what made Juno sit up straighter.

Big, greenish grey, too quiet, too old for someone so small. Like she already knew the world could hurt you in ways you didn't deserve.

Sister Joan knelt beside the girl, murmuring something only she could hear, and gently guided her inside.

"This is Eden," Sister Joan said finally, her voice the kind of soft that made you want to believe in things again. "She's going to be staying with us for a while."

Eden said nothing. She just stared at the floor, the backpack clutched so tight her knuckles turned white.

Most kids cried the first day.  Some acted tough, picking fights to prove they didn't care.

But Eden stood there, frozen — silent, unblinking.

Juno pushed herself up from the couch, hands shoved into her pockets.

Something — instinct, maybe — made her walk over. She stopped a few feet away, crouched low to be at Eden's eye level.

"Hey," Juno said, voice low and almost shy. "I'm Juno."

Eden didn't respond, but her eyes flickered toward her — quick, sharp, assessing.

Juno shrugged. "Wanna sit by the window? You can see the river from there. It's kinda cool."

Another long pause.

Then Eden gave the smallest nod.

The curly haired girl smiled, not too big, not too much. She just turned and started walking slowly toward the window seat, leaving enough space for Eden to choose.

After a few seconds, small footsteps padded after her.

From across the room, Sister Joan watched them with a soft, hidden smile, hands folded in front of her habit. She knew some connections didn't have to be forced. Some were stitched together quietly — like stitches mending torn cloth.

As Juno and Eden settled by the window — two broken kids sharing a little piece of safety — something invisible, something important, took root between them.

Velvet Grind Café — Late Afternoon

Eden was wiping down the counter, the quiet hum of the espresso machine and the soft clinking of cups the only sounds in the nearly empty café. The evening rush had yet to pick up, and the golden afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. She was used to this slow, peaceful moment at the end of her shift, when she could tidy up and collect her thoughts before heading home.

She was just about to toss the rag in the laundry when the door creaked open. She adjusted her apron and fixed up the few fly aways of her auburn hair that had settled in her face.