[Age 7]
The Stellaron destroyed your homeland. The Skyfolk became refugees, eventually taken in by the Oak Family.
You, Robin, and Sunday were placed in Oak Orphanage—a shelter for children orphaned by war. This world was never kind. The kindness you knew existed only in memories of love.
In the cataclysm, your right arm was crushed. When you woke from coma, only an empty sleeve remained.
White ceiling. Sterile antiseptic. Fluttering curtains.
Anming opened his eyes, numbness giving way to grim awareness: his right arm was gone. His left hand barely responded. Bandages swathed his body like a mummy's wrappings.
"You're awake." The nurse checked his chart. "Right arm: pulverized. Stellaron contamination at Stage IV. Amputation was the only way to stop corrosion from reaching your brain."
"Left hand: neural dysfunction. Temporary mobility loss. Minor lacerations... Are you listening?" She glanced up—and froze.
Sunlight haloed Anming's golden hair, his celestial ring glowing softly. But behind his ears, dark feathers nestled—black wings, stark against his radiance.
Divinity tainted by the profane.
"I'm listening." Anming smiled serenely, raising his left hand to shield his eyes. "The sun... is too bright."
How ironic, he thought. This cruel world still lets monsters bask in its light.
But he knew—what saved him wasn't the world's mercy. It was his parents' love, their sacrifice etching itself into his bones.
The nurse drew the blinds. "Your friends are next door." She fled, unnerved by the otherness in his gaze.
The door creaked open.
"Long time no see." Sunday lingered at the threshold. "Robin's been worried."
Anming forced a smile. With the nurse, he could pretend. Not with them.
Sunday crossed the room in three strides and hugged him.
No words. Just warmth.
The dam broke. Silent tears soaked Sunday's shoulder. He was seven. He'd had a home.
Gone.
"..."
"I know." Sunday pulled back, thumbing away Anming's tears. "Won't tell Robin. Our secret."
"Thanks." Anming's smile turned real. In this moment, he understood: no matter what, they'd always be family.
"Brother!" Robin burst in, skidding to a halt at the sight of them embracing.
Sunday sprang back, hands raised. "You weren't in your room! I just—"
"I trust you~" Robin perched on Anming's bed, eyes shimmering—but she held back her tears. He needs strength, not pity.
"You slept for half a month," she whispered. Every day, she'd sat by his bed in the orphanage infirmary, sometimes crying when no one watched.
"Missed you too." Anming tried to sit up—his body refused.
"Doctor's orders!" Robin pushed him down gently. "No more... losing people."
The unspoken please hung between them.
"Promise."
"Pinky swear!" Robin hooked her finger with his, then grabbed Sunday's. "Together for a hundred Amber Eras!"
"We'll be bones in the same grave by then," Sunday deadpanned.
"Still together!" Robin sniffled, joining their hands.
"A hundred eras."
"Together."
Robin grinned through tears. "Break the vow, and you eat a hundred sour lemons!"
The world might be cruel, but she was its light. Anming loved Robin's eyes—clear, hopeful, like wings that never faded.
[Age 8]
Confined to bed, you were tended by Robin and Sunday in turns. Robin painted the outside world with her words—tall buildings, dream bubbles. Sunday "entertained" you by reciting dense textbooks (you suspected revenge).
After three months, you regained mobility. Your left hand worked, albeit weakly. The right arm never grew back.
"This is where they buried the Stellaron's victims."
Spring's first lukewarm day found them at the memorial. A monolithic slab bore countless names.
"Just ashes now," Sunday muttered. "Can't tell if it's rubble or people."
"Wrong." Robin laid white flowers at the base. "As long as we remember, Mama, Auntie An, and Uncle Chen aren't truly gone."
Anming stared upward, finding two small names among thousands.
Yes. In the end, only names remain.