The alley was lit by the dappling of sunlight from the orange tree working through the cracks in the rusted brick wall. The sounds of the orphanage ran deep through the halls, calling her back. "Cellodora," they laughed, "come play." A sound in sepia, the sights of old crackling movie screens washed all along her eyes; a tear almost fell, almost broke like glass against the cold pavement. She was stronger than that. Cellodora rose her hand to her cheek and whisked it away, tossing the dew to the air and watching it fly like doves from a magician's fathomless hat. Her hand, pale as it was, could have passed for the glove; her finger the wand. She walked with the airs of a magician, a steady and strong gait that hid all her tricks to the end. She kept her pace trotting down the hall, broken fluorescent bulbs washing her face with a harsh white that hid the blush, the blood her heart had worked up the courage to beat. Near the end, a door sitting ajar made her brush the cimmerian hair from her eyes. A small, pimento red fire truck grinned sheepishly as its ladder locked the door in place; the paint was faded and the wheels were missing. As she swept the toy away, a faint siren went off. A small light near the crown of it blinked like a drowsy toddler, sending flashes along the smooth wooden door. She opened it fully and let the dust dissipate, coughing once or twice as