Lost trust

A Cathedral Proves to be Deadly.

After that ordeal, all I want now is a nice warm bath and a nap.

As if by magic, a light turns on in the house across from us. I'm desperate to find somewhere warm because the worst that could happen is Heather catching hypothermia.

"Come on, let's go in there," I say, helping Heather to her feet.

We approach the house, peering through the slightly frosted window, and catch a glance of a woman pouring some water from a kettle into a cup. The steam rises up into her eyes and she snaps her head away to avoid it, but accidentally spills hot water on her bare feet. Her expression clearly conveys her frustration: "It's too early for this."

Suppressing a smile at the action, I rap my knuckles on her front door three times.

A second later, the woman opens the door, her brows furrowed, clutching her robe tight to her chest. The woman's face pales as she takes in our bloodied state.

Without hesitating, she ushers us inside.

"What happened to you?", she exclaims, rushing past us to pull out more cups from her cabinet.

My mouth reacts before my brain does, blurting out a sob story.

"We were simple servants for the king, and we thought we were safe from the war because he told us he values us, but one day he–he–he just b–b-bombed our home. His men came afterward and tried to kill us," I stutter, the last word coming out as a sob.

Heather side–eyes me, her face set in stone. Good to know she still judges me.

"Oh, you poor girls," the woman says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. "Let's get you some fresh clothes, a nice shower, and something to eat."

Heather follows us reluctantly as the woman guides me towards the bathroom.

"There's a towel in there already."

I nod, sniffling as I enter the bathroom.

White tiles make up the walls, a white basin and toilet to the left, and a washing machine to the right. The worn light swinging above my head throws a tinge of yellow onto the ceiling. The smell of steam hangs in the air, suggesting someone just took a shower.

I peel my clothes off, wincing as I detach my t-shirt from the gouge in my side, and step into the shower that takes up the entirety of the back wall.

I leave my blood-soaked clothes on the floor and turn the shower on. A hiss escapes through my teeth as the water stream hits my injury, but I soon relax as I adjust to it.

Afterward, I wrap myself in the towel hanging from a railing on the wall, the slight roughness of the fabric grating on my skin. Raising my hand, I knock on the door with the back of my index finger, poking my head into the hallway.

I call out for the woman but receive no response. Moments later, I hear footsteps thumping down the stairs. A boy of about the same age as me, with fluffy blonde hair, appears. Our eyes meet, my green ones locking onto his blue ones. He freezes, with one foot hovering over the step beneath him. I quickly pull my towel closer to myself.

To his credit, his eyes stay fixed on my face.

"Who are you?"

"Ruby," I say.

"That's not what I meant."

A boy with a brain; a rare species indeed.

"A survivor," I reply. He blinks at me. "Survivor of what?"

Before I can answer, his mother comes in from the kitchen. "James, go back upstairs."

James regards me warily, seeming reluctant to leave me alone with his mother. He eventually rushes upstairs, but not without a backward glance at me.