She saw his face before they carried him away on a stretcher. The wind was strong that day, and a corner of the white cloth covering his lifeless body had flapped upwards.
Her mother had tried to pull her away, but it was a split moment too late.
Orchid recognized who he was.
She'd seen him walking around aimlessly the blocks where she lived, and she knew that he had no family, no home to go back to.
Yet, strangely enough, the blood and gore didn't scare her as much as it should have had.
It was the empty, hollow look in that man's eyes.
That scared her.
The realization that he'd be forgotten the very minute his body burned to ashes. That the world was going to continue like the death of one sad, lonely man didn't exist at all.
"I don't want everyone to forget me when I die," she'd muttered tearfully to her mother afterward.
It was selfish, she knew, to care only about herself instead of the millions of other sad, lonely people who died everyday.
But Orchid wasn't perfect. And the look in that man's eyes continued to haunt her, a bitter memory created by wind and chance.