Chapter 118
Charity work
A loud knock echoed through the cramped hallway of their floor.
"Lillie!" Ella shouted, her voice bored and exasperated. "Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to wake up earlier?!"
There was no response.
Ella narrowed her eyes and smacked the door again with the flat of her palm, harder this time, letting out a sigh that was half exhaustion and half frustration.
From the other side came a delayed and thoroughly annoyed groan, followed by the unmistakable chaos of things being knocked over—a loud thud, the clattering of objects hitting the floor, and a frantic scuffle that sounded more like a miniature battle than someone getting out of bed.
Eventually, the door creaked open.
Lillie peeked her head through the gap with an exaggerated innocent smile spread across her sleepy face. "Whatever do you mean, dear sister?" she said in a voice far too sweet to be genuine.
Then she swung the door fully open with theatrical flair. "I am obviously ready for the day."
Ella blinked once, then again, looking her little sister up and down slowly. Lillie had clearly thrown on her work clothes in a panic. The shirt was buttoned unevenly, her apron was twisted to the side, her socks didn't match and her braids looked half-slept on.
She looked like someone who had woken up five minutes ago and tried—unsuccessfully—to make it seem like she hadn't.
Ella sighed deeply and shook her head, her braids swaying slightly with the motion. "Ew, Lillie. You haven't even cleaned yourself. Go and clean yourself right now. You smell like a nightmare."
Lillie pouted, her expression morphing instantly from smug to whiny. "Ohh, but I don't want to work at such a young age! This is abuse!"
Ella rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, one foot tapping rhythmically against the dusty wooden floor. "You're just mad that you don't get to play with that boy I saw you with the other day as often."
"I—what?! Noooo," Lillie groaned dramatically, stomping her foot like a child... Well... She was. "I just don't want to be a chef or a waitress… I want to be an artist!"
Ella raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And I want you to wash your stinky armpits."
Lillie gasped as if she'd been mortally wounded, stuck out her tongue like a defiant five-year-old, and ran off toward the bathroom. The sound of her slippers slapping against the wood echoed behind her.
Ella stood there for a moment, arms still folded, watching the hallway where her sister had disappeared. Her expression softened slightly, but only for a breath. "You're not the only one with dreams…" she whispered under her breath, the words barely audible to herself.
She shook her head, catching herself before the mood could shift towards her strange thoughts again. There was no time for self-pity. No time to dwell on things that wouldn't change just by thinking about them harder.
She turned and headed downstairs into the main floor of Johan's Best, the family restaurant nestled in one of the slightly less-crumbling corners of Hope's End.
The building had aged like the rest of the slum—weather-worn and patched with layers of memory and exhaustion—but Johan's Best still stood strong. The sign was faded, the walls had been painted over so many times they had forgotten their original color, but the smell of good food still drew in tired workers and worn-down souls. It had been passed down through generations of her family, each one working tirelessly to keep it running. And now, it belonged to her mother. One day—though Ella never said it out loud—it would belong to her and her sister. Whether they wanted it or not.
Hours passed in a blur of chopping, boiling, frying, scrubbing, plating, and repeating. Ella worked beside her mother in the kitchen, hands moving with a quiet rhythm born of repetition and necessity. Her sister, looking only marginally cleaner than before, bumbled around with a level of motivation so low it was practically buried underground.
Despite the occasional snap of irritation or the clang of a dropped spoon, the restaurant breathed its daily life.
Customers came and went. Some regulars, some strangers. Some talked too much, some not at all. None tipped at all, others didn't even offer a thank-you. But the day carried on like it always did.
At one point, while drying a clean bowl, Ella paused and glanced toward the front of the restaurant.
A subtle frown crept onto her face.
"Is it just me," she asked aloud, eyes narrowing slightly, "or is there a significant increase in people wearing that Mine brand stuff? You know, the really expensive one?"
Her mother, who was busy stirring a large pot with one hand while prepping vegetables with the other, looked up. The light gleamed off her smooth, bald head as she gave a humorless chuckle.
"Oh, did you not know?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "That stupid charity building that was set up a few years ago finally decided to start doing their job. They're handing out clothing now—from some mysterious donor, apparently."
She dropped a carrot into the pot and huffed. "Which is funny, because usually when these kinds of people want to do something even halfway decent, they make sure everyone and their granny hears about it. 'Oh look at me, I'm such a great person,'" she mimicked mockingly. "But this time, they seemed to have kept themselves anonymous."
She snorted. "Maybe someone finally gives a monkey about this shithole."
"Mom! Stop swearing!" Lillie shouted from across the kitchen, where she was half-heartedly wiping down tables.
"Sorry," their mother said flatly, with no real remorse, still stirring.
Ella looked back toward the customers, watching them laugh and chat while wearing fresh, expensive-looking Mine brand clothing. It was strange. People around here didn't usually wear things that clean. It stood out like color in a world drawn in charcoal.
She watched the smiles on their faces. Real smiles... Something that was rare in hopes end.
People who looked, even just for a moment, like life had finally handed them something other than pain.
She stared at the fabric, the loud designs on some of the clothes. They really looked like they cost a lot of money. Like a lot.
And she found herself wondering—really wondering—about the person behind the donation. What kind of person could afford to hand out clothing like that without even asking for recognition? What kind of power did they have? How rich were they? What kind of life did they live? Were they good? Were they selfish? Or just bored? What were they doing right now?
She thought about how many people you could change—really change—if you had that much influence.
Her thoughts drifted like clouds over a sky she couldn't reach. She thought about herself. About her sister. About the dream she never spoke aloud.
What if she had that kind of power?
What if her dream—her real dream—wasn't so impossible?
She stopped herself. Caught the idea in her throat before it could swell.
No.
She shook her head firmly and turned back toward the sink. The world didn't change just because you wanted it to. Dreams didn't serve food. Daydreaming didn't pay for shit. It just kept you distracted from the reality in front of you.
And so, like she always did, she hooked the thought away—tucked it into the dusty corners of her mind—and kept moving.
She couldn't afford to hope for more. Not today.
Maybe never.