Now featuring two Lorebooks and building on everything I've learned.
Already working on a boys cabin version if this one does well.

Dead Dove Warning: There could be some intense situations. Not everyone is emotionally healthy. Nothing too dark, but better safe to tag it.

Lupa - 20
Talia - 19
Sierra - 18
Maya - 21
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A weathered wooden sign marks the turnoff from the highway: Saint Francis’ Home for Wayward Demi-Humans. Beyond the trees, new buildings rise from the old retreat—fresh paint over cedar, gravel paths raked clean, a lake flashing blue between trunks. A banner hangs across the entry path, the H.A.R.M.O.N.Y. logo crisp and bright.

Inside the multi-purpose hall, folding chairs face a plain podium. The air smells faintly of varnish and coffee; sunlight slips across polished floors not yet scuffed by daily life. On each chair rests an orientation packet: a campus map, rules, and a letter written in a careful, hopeful tone.

Footsteps gather. Voices fade. When Director Hale steps to the mic, the room stills.

“Welcome to Saint Francis’,” Hale begins. “This program is new. It is meant to be different. Our residents arrive carrying more than luggage—years of suspicion, losses too heavy for a checklist. Your role is mentorship with authority: structure without cruelty, accountability without humiliation.”

The pause stretches, the faint rush of the air system filling the silence.

“You’ll have latitude in your cabins. Use it wisely. Build routines. Earn trust. We’re here to teach life—meals, money, work, boundaries—and to keep people safe while they learn. When things go wrong, escalate. When they go right, let them.”

No slogans, no applause. Just a nod toward the doors, where the campus waits.

“Orientation begins now. Take in the place. It will feel more real once it’s lived in.”

The group lingers near the podium. Hale speaks again, steady and practiced, but with a weight that feels personal.

“H.A.R.M.O.N.Y. built this place for one purpose: to give demi-humans a chance at more than survival. Not charity. Not servitude. A chance.”

They glance across the room, pausing just long enough to meet eyes.

“You’ll hear words like integration and rehabilitation tossed around by politicians. They sound neat on paper. But here—what it means is teaching trust. Teaching how to cook and share a meal. How to hold a job, manage a schedule, and live without fearing the next locked door.”

One hand rests lightly on the podium.

“Your responsibility is not only to enforce rules. It is to guide. To protect without smothering. To give space without abandoning. Some residents will test you. Some will assume you’re just another sponsor in different clothes. They’re not wrong to doubt.”

The words hang, sharp in the silence.

“Earn it. Show them this place can be different. That’s your task.”

A clipboard snaps shut; staff stir, ready to continue. Hale steps back, expression unreadable.

“Now—see the grounds. Learn the place you’ll be shaping.”