Waif had never taken a proper bath before—not one that involved more than scrambling in the river and using pebbled mud to scrape herself clean. She wasn't going to the river, though. This time was different. This time, she was led outside, behind the church, to a large wooden basin filled with heated water. Actual heated water.

  A caretaker stood ready to assist, prepared to use soap—real soap. On the monumentally rare occasions that Waif saw some of her friends get adopted, none were ever treated to such absurd extravagance.

  Waif hurriedly undressed her ragged clothes and tattered underwear, giddy at the chance to jump into the bath and free herself from the grime that had been her eternal companion.

  Just before reaching the tub she froze. A sudden wave of apprehension swept over her, stilling her eager body. Could she so flagrantly abuse such extravagance? Was she worthy of this wealth?

  The caretaker gently gathered Waif's clothes from the floor, carefully folded them, and placed them on a nearby stool. The caretaker then approached Waif gazing at her naked form and frowned as she saw the layers of grime and scum caked onto Waif's body, almost blending as one with her skin through years of neglect.

  Even through the disgusting dredge, the signs of malnutrition were painfully obvious—Waif's thin frame and the sharp jut of her ribs spoke volumes. She was healthier than some of the other children, but only just. A simple touch could count every bone beneath the fragile surface of her skin.

  The caretaker noticed Waif's eyes fixed on the warm water, her expression a mixture of hunger and awe, yet still unmoving. The bath was such an opulent treasure that despite the desperate desire to partake, she also felt it too precious to taint with her presence.

  "You can enter the bath, Waif," the caretaker said gently, her voice a quiet reassurance. "It's for you."

  Waif turned to the caretaker. No matter how many times she was told the bath was for her, she still couldn't comprehend. The vestiges of disbelief battled with building hope. A springing enthusiasm energized her voice as she asked one last time to make sure. "Can I really?".

  It only took a simple nod from the caretaker for the mental constraints to finally lift off of Waif. With a quick, unthinking movement, she stepped into the warm water.

  As she sank into the blissful embrace of the lukewarm bath, she could feel a tangible mass lift off her skin. The water quickly darkened, swirling with dirt and filth, turning a murky brown that soon edged toward a putrid black. The caretaker's expression changed as she witnessed the rapidly darkening liquid from concern to disgust.

  The woman took an apprehensive gulp, then with a slow exhale, she took the bar of soap and scrubbed away at the naked Waif.

  Waif tried her best to remain thankful and quiet, but she couldn't help to let out a few groans of pain as the caretaker ground the soap against her flesh. Waif's skin found itself the arena for a savage battle between soap and soil. As the grit washed off, Waif couldn't help but marvel at the natural skin tone beneath. It was a pale white untarnished from the heat of the day star thanks to its long standing muddy veil.

  The liquid that Waif now sat in had become viscous, she could feel the course speckling scratch against her submerged skin. The waters had become so infected it was hard to call water anymore. No matter how hard the caretaker tried, she reached a point where she was rubbing dirt to dirt, and Waif remained unclean.

  "I'm sorry, Waif. Could you just give me a moment?" The caretaker stood abruptly, her face tight with frustration. Without another word, she left the area, her footsteps retreating into the church.

  The walls of the building were thin and so littered with warped holes and damaged boards that they barely even functioned as visual barriers, let alone auditory ones. The conversation inside was clear:

  The caretaker's voice snapped, sharp with exasperation. "I can't clean her anymore; she's literally just sitting in her own filth at this point."

  The house mother responded, unflappable as always. "He insisted she be thoroughly cleaned. We'll need more water to finish properly."

  "We've wasted too much water already!" the caretaker bitterly complained, "We need that water for the rest of the children."

  Then, the final decision came, cold and final: "If he doesn't agree to sponsor us, water will be the least of our concerns. This must happen. Get more water."

  The caretaker capitulated, "Yes, ma'am."

  The caretaker walked back outside, her eyes heavy with an unreadable solemnity. "Waif, I and a few of the other caretakers will need to replace the bath water. Why don't you exit the tub for now and wait?"

  Waif obediently obliged the adult. Her small hands, raw from excessive scrubbing, shook as she climbed out of the tub. The cold air met her skin with biting force as she reluctantly stepped onto the dirt ground, the wetness clinging to her in thick droplets. She made her way to the church wall, seeking some semblance of warmth and protection, and sat against the cold stone, her knees drawn to her chest in a feeble attempt to combat the cold.

  A small fence was the only protection she had to hide her exposed body from any passerby outside. Most completely ignored her, others displaying only pity for the state of her body, but it didn't stop Waif from feeling visually violated.

  It was an uncomfortable, dirty feeling, dirty in a different way than the black water being drained from the tub. Waif loved the bath, but she decided she never wanted to feel how she was feeling now again.

  A steady stream of caretakers came and went, dumping buckets of water into the bath. Waif was astounded at how many caretakers were taking the time to assist in this endeavour of treating Waif so specially. Waif wondered if Ritzy would be jealous if she heard about this.

  Ritzy had always been a bit of a diva in her own way, complaining often about how she used to bathe in the grandest of tubs, her hair tended to like some princess, and how her parents always served the finest foods.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Waif chuckled inwardly at the thought—Perhaps Ritzy would have something else to complain about if she knew what she was missing out on.

  Eventually, the tub was refilled, and the caretakers resumed their work. As the warm water enveloped Waif once more, it felt like a gentle embrace. The soap slid over her skin effortlessly this time, as if the water itself knew how to treat her properly. A few minutes later, the task was done. Waif stood up slowly.

  She gazed down at her body in awe. For the first time in her life, she saw herself—really saw herself. Her skin, now free of trial and tribulation, seemed to glow in the pale daylight.

  She traced her hands along her arms, marveling at the smoothness, the softness. I'm beautiful, she thought, the words almost foreign in her mind. She had never known she could love herself, but in that moment, looking at her clean, radiant body, she actually felt content.

  It was like seeing a different person entirely. Like there was a stranger buried beneath those layers of dirt and hardship, she only now broke from the filth like a cocoon metamorphosizing into something new. Something better.

  Only then did everything finally click for her. She was going to be adopted, baths would become a normal occurrence, and she could have rabbit stew every day. She imagined herself with a whole haunch to herself, savoring every bite without the fear of scarcity.

  Ritzy would also get adopted afterward, and they would become real sisters. They would live together, loved unconditionally by their new parents forever. She wouldn't have to hunt, or set traps, or clean, and she would only be beaten when she really deserved it.

  Her reverie was broken when a caretaker wrapped her in a roughshod towel, the fabric harsh against her still-sensitive skin. The caretaker's hands moved quickly, aggressively rubbing her dry, and Waif flinched slightly at the briskness. She was too tired from the mirth of a warm bath to protest the abuse. All she wanted was to slip into the new clothes she had been promised.

  But when the clothes were finally presented, Waif couldn't help the slight frown that tugged at her lips. She had tried to temper her expectations, knowing she was probably being too whimsical in her hope for a large, elegant princess-like gown. Yet, she had anticipated something a bit more substantial than this.

  She was dressed in a single, soft red dress that was made of an impossibly smooth material, so gentle it almost felt as though she were being embraced by a cloud. It was lovely in a way, but strangely impractical.

  The dress was buttoned at the back, and it only fell to her upper thigh, far shorter than the dresses she had imagined in her dreams. Waif had never worn clothes with buttons, and she needed the caretakers to close them for her since she couldn't reach behind herself.

  Waif thought it was a strange design for clothes to be impossible for the wearer to put on themselves. Besides that, the dress was extraordinarily thin, with hardly a protective layer at all. She pinched the fabric between her fingers and could hardly feel it interfere with the touch of flesh.

  Maybe the material it was made of was a super rare expensive thing. Maybe her dress was all the material that existed in the world; that would at least explain why it seemed a little small on her.

  The dress was so thin, in fact, that Waif could actually see her own body through the fabric, but maybe that was just because she was so close to it. Surely, at a distance, it wasn't see-through; that was the whole point of clothes, wasn't it? To cover up and keep warm? Even if Waif had never felt something so soft before, it didn't feel right.

  Waif turned to the nearby caretaker, her brow furrowed with uncertainty, and asked, "Doesn't it come with underwear? It's a little… drafty."

  The caretaker's laugh came out strained, carrying an edge of discomfort. "Don't be greedy now, Waif. You should be grateful you got this… beautiful dress. I think we just weren't expecting your underwear to be quite dirty."

  Waif's face scrunched in doubt. As if her clothes were any worse than anyone else's. She shifted uncomfortably as another gust of wind snuck through the thin fabric, chilling her skin. She hugged her arms around herself, trying to preserve some semblance of warmth. "Can I put my old clothes on? They were warmer."

  The caretaker placed a guiding hand on Waif's shoulder, and Waif couldn't help but feel the tension carry across through that grip. The caretaker chided her with a stilted awkwardness. "Now, now Waif, these clothes were provided specifically by your new father. You want to make him proud when you meet him for the first time don't you?"

  Waif's momentarily blanked as the words sank in. Her father. A strange warmth bubbled inside her at the thought. She'd never used that word before, not for herself. The corners of her mouth hesitated before curling upward into a small, timid smile.

  Maybe he had a peculiar sense of fashion, but what did she know about rich people? Perhaps this was just how they all dressed. If her new father had chosen this for her, it must of meant something special.

  Her resolve firmed, and she nodded. "Yes, ma'am," she said, her voice steady.

  "Good. Now we are going to go meet him. You must only speak when spoken to, and you must be well-behaved." The caretaker spoke guiltily, but Waif couldn't quite place the reason.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  As they entered the church, Waif held her head a little higher. The awkwardness of the strange dress and the biting wind faded into the background. Her heart swelled with hope—if this was what her new life required, she'd do her best to meet those expectations. After all, how could she disappoint her father before she even met him?

  They soon arrived back at the house mother's office, but this time, it was not only the house mother inside. There was also a stranger, his presence dominating the otherwise modest office.

  Waif's breath hitched as her eyes landed on him. He was a towering man, his broad frame wrapped in layers of colorful silks that shimmered even in the dim candlelight. Each fold and hue seemed impossibly vibrant, as though he carried a piece of another world with him.

  This was him. The world-shattering thought bounced erratically in her mind. This was her father.

  She plastered the biggest, friendliest smile she could muster onto her face. Her cheeks strained against the unfamiliar gesture, but she held it steady. The man's back was turned, his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths. His posture was impeccable, exuding confidence and authority, but it obscured the face of her new family.

  The seconds stretched, and Waif took the opportunity to pat down the soft red dress, smoothing out any creases. She straightened her spine and clasped her hands behind her back, fingers fidgeting nervously.

  She swallowed down the knot of anxiety tightening in her throat.

  Finally, the man turned.

  Dark hazel eyes locked onto her but did not meet her gaze. Instead, they dropped lower, fixing uncomfortably on her chest. Waif felt the blood drain from her as realization struck. The dress was just as transparent from a distance as it had been up close.

  The man's lips curled into a smile—warm on the surface, but it chilled Waif to the core.

  Her own smile faltered, then vanished entirely. A cold, creeping dread took hold of her, settling deep in her stomach like a stone. That awful, crawling sensation she'd felt by the bath, sitting exposed against the church wall, came flooding back a hundredfold.

  This was not her father.

  The thought was sudden but absolute, snapping into place with bone-jarring certainty. The air in the room felt heavier now, oppressive as if the man's gaze alone was draining the life from it.

  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.

  It could not be her father. In that instant, Waif realized she did not want to be there. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to act, immediately.