So the girl was, for all she knew, an orphan. You should have known, after all. Cinders stain promiscuously, announcing themselves to all they touch and never letting you forget.
Cinders are the embodiment of color.
Ashes are a different story. She never thought of them as residue, as lacking something they once had or could have. She loved the ashes. Her sisters called them cinders, but this was a vile misrepresentation. They knew how it upset her.