Ten minutes into the mountains behind the orphanage lay an abandoned reservoir.
It was a place where the vibrant summer grasses staged a silent coup over the brittle, skeletal weeds of winter. The stalks weren't reeds, but they grew tall enough that if a child crouched down, the earth seemed to swallow them whole, hiding even the fiery crown of vibrant red hair from the world.
The wire fence, meant to be a deterrent, had long since rusted to the color of dried blood and iron-rich silt.
Here and there, jagged holes gaped in the mesh, cut by illegal fishermen or those looking to dump what they found burdens, like wounds that never closed.
Every summer, the reservoir claimed two or three lives.
Rumors of vicious water ghosts—vengeful spirits pulling the living into the depths—kept the villagers at bay.
