—Follow me; I’ll show you the shelter— Anya said, her practical voice cutting through the emotionally charged air. She turned with an energetic movement and, with a firm shove, opened the heavy wooden gate, which creaked softly on its hinges.

  They crossed the threshold into a wide, utilitarian central courtyard. The ground was packed earth, clear of weeds, with a path marked by flat stones. In the exact center, like the heart of the space, stood a stone well with a wooden cover and a simple winch. Anya extended an arm in a sweeping gesture.

  —As you can see, the well is here in the center— she said, her voice taking on the tone of an experienced guide. —Clean water, always. It is our first blessing— She then moved her hand toward a low adobe building, earthy in color, with a thin column of gray smoke rising from a short chimney. —The kitchens are over there— She patted her belly with a comical gesture and let out a clear laugh. —In the afternoon, some of us help give bread to the little ones. That’s why you hear voices now. They are in the dining hall, finishing up.

  She continued pointing, her calloused, steady index finger tracing a map of survival. —There, attached to the kitchen and our humble dining hall— she pointed to a longer structure, also made of adobe, with several small, closed windows —are the quarters. Don’t get your hopes up, little one— A playful smile lit up her face as she saw the slight hope that must have sparkled in Selena’s eyes. —We all sleep together. Ha! It’s a communal dormitory. But it’s dry, and it has clean straw pallets. It’s more than many have on the street.

  Selena nodded, swallowing any disappointment. A common roof was a thousand times better than none at all.

  —Now— Anya continued, her tone turning more serious, —if you follow the gravel path—she pointed to a trail of small white stones that meandered toward the back of the temple, away from the domestic buildings —you’ll notice a small separate room, almost tucked against the church wall. Sister Elara is there. She is the head matron, the administrator. You must give her your description, your name, and a signature to stay here, little one— Anya looked at her directly, a kind but firm warning in her green eyes. —She is… meticulous. Be respectful and direct. Once you’re done, come to the dining hall. By then, the children will be gone, and you can have something hot to drink with us.

  Selena nodded again, thanking her with a slight bow before turning onto the gravel path. The tiny stones crunched under her sandals, a sharp sound in the relative silence of the courtyard. The room she reached was small and sober, built of the same adobe as the rest but with evident care: the corners were sharp, the wooden door well-fitted. She entered.

  The interior was a world apart. The floor, unlike the earth of the courtyard, was polished wood, cleaned to a shine. The scent of mild soap, cleansing herbs, and old paper filled the air bubble of order amidst the surrounding precariousness. In front of her, at the back of the tiny room, sat an imposing and extremely tidy dark wood desk. It was literally covered in papers, leather folders tied with string, open ledgers, and stacks of documents, but every pile was perfectly rectangular, every edge aligned with almost obsessive precision.

  Behind the desk, sitting in a straight-backed chair like a soldier in formation, was the woman. Her hair, of a pure snowy white, was pulled back into a bun so severe and perfectly it looked carved from marble. Not a single hair strayed. Her tunic was a deep, intense dark brown, pristine, without a wrinkle that wasn't deliberate. Her back was perfectly straight; her hands, pale and prominently veined, rested on the desk on either side of an open registry book. She did not look up when Selena entered.

  —Come in— she said. Her voice was clear, dry, lacking both resonance and warmth. —Take a seat— She pointed with the tip of a quill, without looking, to a simple wooden chair placed in front of the desk.

  Selena obeyed, feeling the formality of the place take hold of her, forcing her to sit with her back equally straight and her hands in her lap.

  Sister Elara finally looked up. Her eyes were cold gray, like the water of a deep well in the shade. There was no hostility in them, but neither was there a trace of Anya’s warm curiosity or Father Theron’s compassionate serenity. Only a cold, functional evaluation.

  —First, the rules— she announced, her gaze dropping back to the paper in front of her as if reading them for the thousandth time, ensuring there was no deviation. —You will stay for a maximum of fifteen days. Afterward, you must wait two full months if you wish to apply for lodging again. Second rule: you are entitled to one meal each morning before vacating the shelter at the designated hour. You must return at dusk, before the sun touches the western edge of the wall. Once night falls, the doors will not open for any reason. Third: each morning, you will be assigned a task. Sweeping, kitchen help, cleaning the latrines. If you fail to perform it or do so poorly, you do not eat that day— She paused briefly, letting the weight of the consequence settle. —It is strictly forbidden to arrive under the influence of any drug or intoxicant: Dream Sap, Corsol, root brandy, among others. And the last, the most important: every morning upon waking and every night before sleep, you must offer prayers to Aelthra in the shelter’s chapel. On Mendr days, attendance at the high mass in the temple is mandatory— Finally, she looked up again, pinning her gray eyes on Selena’s. —Do you understand, girl?

  The term “girl,” spoken with such coldness, sounded more like a filing designation than a name. Selena nodded, not daring to break the protocol-heavy silence.

  —Good. Now, answer the questions— The tone was almost military, like an officer taking a recruit’s report. —Describe yourself. Height. Hair color. Eye color. Skin tone. Any mark, scar, or mole that uniquely identifies you. Then, tell me your full name and your age. To finish, you will sign this registry sheet— She pushed a thick sheet of paper and an already-inked quill toward her.

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  Selena took a deep breath. Lie. But lie coherently. Build a shadow.

  —I am Selena— she began, and the name—her name now—resonated in the silent room with an echo of falsehood only she could hear. —I am…— she calculated quickly, mentally comparing herself to Anya and Father Theron, —one meter fifty-four. I have fair skin. Brown hair. Green eyes— She paused, searching her physical memory. The reflection in the mirror, in the water… any marks? Nothing distinctive. Only the softness of young skin. And then, a sudden chill gripped her back. How old was this body? The face in the reflection was young, but not childlike. Sixteen? Seventeen? She opted for a safe number that explained a certain independence but not too much experience. —I am… eighteen.

  Elara noted each detail with quick, precise strokes in the registry. Then, she held out another sheet—a printed form with blank lines—and pointed to a space at the bottom. —Here. Your signature. Or your mark, if you cannot write. An ink smudge of your thumbprint will suffice. Remember that every day, upon returning, you must sign your arrival in the daily log.

  Selena took the pen. The instrument felt familiar and strange at the same time its weight, its balance. Without thinking too much, she touched the tip to the paper and traced, in clear, fluid cursive: Selena.

  She used no surname. She had none she could invent with conviction. Only the name.

  Elara, who had been watching her hands, looked up sharply when the quill stopped moving. An eyebrow, perfectly shaped despite her age, arched upward.

  —You know how to write?— she asked, her voice now tinged with genuine, surprised curiosity. Her gray eyes scrutinized Selena’s face, then dropped to the signature. Her expression shifted into even deeper skepticism. —I do not recognize the script of the lettering. What language is it?

  Panic, sudden and sharp, bit at her stomach. Language? She had written in Spanish. In the Spanish that flowed from her mind effortlessly, the language of her thoughts, of her absent memories. What language was spoken here? How was it written? She didn't know. She had spoken the whole time, understood everything, without thinking about it. But writing… that was something else.

  With her voice struggling through a knot of nerves, she said —I only… I only know how to write my name. A boy… taught me when I was a child— She looked at Elara, who remained motionless, her gray eyes digging into her. —Though… he never told me what language it was.

  The explanation sounded weak, ridiculous. But Elara watched her for a long moment, her face expressionless. Finally, she gave a single, sharp nod. —I see, girl— She didn't seem convinced, but she chose not to dig deeper. Perhaps it was a common thing, a trivial oddity in the miseries she administered. She made a gesture with her hand, a dismissal. —You may go. Remember the rules.

  Selena stood up, her legs feeling somewhat weak. She left the room, the fresh evening air feeling like a liberation after the claustrophobic atmosphere of the desk. She followed the path back toward the dining hall, her mind racing around the near-catastrophic error. I have to be careful. Much more careful, she repeated to herself.

  When she reached the dining hall, the smell of bread was already a ghost, replaced by the faint aroma of herbal tea. The long, worn wooden table was occupied. She saw Anya sitting at one end, presiding. There was a handful of women of various ages, from elderly women with hands deformed by labor to young women with tired, empty gazes. In the center of the table sat a large ceramic pitcher and several simple mugs. There was no sign of solid food.

  Selena took a seat in an empty spot next to Anya, feeling the curious, evaluating, or simply absent gazes of the other women.

  —Well, now that we are all here— Anya announced in her warm voice, which seemed to melt some of the icy formality, —we can introduce ourselves. It is good to know the sisters with whom we share roof and bread. We shall start with the eldest, those who have been with us the longest.

  One by one, the women spoke, their voices a catalog of wear and tear:

  Enara, the first, with a voice as worn as her hands, had been a laundress at the river until the cold and the effort broke her bones. Now her fingers were permanently twisted.

  Tessa, younger but with a stiff leg, used to herd titanopods until one, spooked, ran her over and shattered her femur. Without money for proper healing, she was left crippled and unemployed.

  Maren, a thin woman with eyes that were always red, murmured that she had been a collector of ornitura eggs. She wept silently, rubbing her hands, repeating in whispers that "it wasn't her fault," though she never specified what.

  Nyssa, the "market madwoman," as Anya introduced her without malice, mechanically repeated prices of fruits and vegetables, a litany of numbers and names that was the echo of a life lost in the bustle.

  Lyra, a young woman but with her face marked by a massive, reddish birthmark or burn covering half her face, lowered her head and murmured that she had been a "maid." Nothing more.

  Pira, the quietest of all, said only two words, staring fixedly at the table: "Dust collector." No one asked what that meant.

  Then came the newer ones, those who, like Selena, were in their first days.

  Kaela, a teenager with a hard gaze and rough hands stained a dark brown, said curtly: "Tanner. I couldn't go on." No one asked why. In this place, the "whys" were often too painful or dangerous to untangle.

  Cora, a petite young woman with eyes as wide as saucers, was introduced gently by Anya: "Cora doesn't speak, little ones. But she listens very well, and her hands are quick at weaving." Cora only swallowed and nodded, a timid smile touching her lips.

  Finally, all eyes turned to Selena. She took a deep breath. The lie she had prepared on the way from Elara’s room burned her tongue, but it was necessary.

  —I am Selena— she said, and this time her voice sounded steadier, more inhabited. —My father was a fabric merchant. We traveled a lot. But… we lost everything. A bad deal, debts…— She left the sentence hanging, an echo of Lykos and Rolus’s story, but with a touch of mobility to explain her presence here, her lack of roots, and, most importantly, her ability to read and write. A merchant, however humble, might have taught his daughter.

  Anya nodded, her gaze sympathetic. The other women murmured, some with sympathy, others with the indifference of those who have heard a thousand variations of the same tragedy. Selena had crossed the first threshold. She had gone from being a stranger to being "Selena, the daughter of the ruined merchant." It was a borrowed identity, built on sand, but it was an identity at last. And in this world, having even a shadow of an identity was a first step toward not disappearing entirely into the indifferent flow of misery.