Chapter 12 : Ugly nine years old (3)

Spring comes every year.
Winter fades with its cold winds, and as milder weather arrives, new buds sprout.
Like those buds, I make a new resolution.

I can’t put it off any longer.
Like a college assignment due monthly, it’s finally here.
Last time, I built the witch a house. Before that, I taught her to study. Last semester, I fed her and applied medicine.
Now, a new task shakes me, demanding to be done next.

“….”
Right.
Witch.
Let’s finally get you bathed.

But I’ve got a question.
Dear nameless professor… or, since this is a novel, author, right?
Anyway, buddy.
How am I supposed to bathe a witch who can’t even leave the alley?

So, I’m racking my brain for the first time in a while.
In my kid-level naming sense, let’s call it Operation Wash the Filthy Witch.
I’ve fed her, treated her wounds, taught her, and built her a house to shield from rain and snow.
Now, it’s time to scrub off years of grime.

It’s not because of the smell last time, okay? I’m just helping her step by step.
Really, that’s all.
It’s rude to tell a girl she smells, after all.
“….”
Ugh, the smell.

Anyway.
I’ve thought of about four possible places.
The public bathhouse, our house, the shop’s restroom, and the public restroom at the square.
Sadly, three are out from the start.

The bathhouse would expose her ashen hair to everyone.
Our bathroom’s no good—Mom’s home too often to sneak in.
The shop’s restroom could work before the uncle arrives, but betraying his trust pricks my conscience.

So, the square’s public restroom seems the most feasible.
There’s the issue of the square’s patrols and it only being usable at night when no one’s around, but at least it’s accessible.
If I can solve the problem of being a kid who has to be home by evening, it might work.
Hmm.
“Maybe I should run away…”

I can’t imagine explaining it to her and expecting her to go wash at the square’s restroom alone.
Or maybe I should just bring a bucket of water and wash her roughly.
After just thirty minutes of thinking, I’ve got nothing, and my spring resolution feels like it’s crumbling.

As I tilt my head in frustration, a booming shout comes from behind.
“Ain, if you’ve got time to mutter about running away, sweep the floor! Customers are coming soon, you brat!”

The uncle grabs my half-broken resolve and snaps it completely.
Fine, I’ll just work for now.
“Thanks, uncle.”
“What’s that out of nowhere? No thanks needed—just clean!”
“Yessir.”
I’ll clean hard and earn big.

My days pass quickly.
Working at the shop, the afternoon slips by in a flash. Closing up with the uncle, the sun dips, and twilight settles in.
After work, I take the dinner the uncle gives me and head home.

I bow to the shopkeepers I pass, flashing smiles at the mothers who frequent our store.
Even at nine, with spring approaching, nothing changes—my days flow the same.

But once a month, on a set day, the clockwork of my routine twists.
It goes off-kilter, and along those misaligned gears, a time of delinquency unfit for a good kid arrives.

I don’t think of it as delinquency, but the world’s history says otherwise.
Approaching the ashen is wrong.
Trying to save the ashen is a mistake.
Caring for the ashen makes you a villain.
For centuries, this unchanging cycle whispers that my actions are evil.

Yet.
I choose anyway.
I vow not to follow the rules set by the world, by the novel.
I’m not a character.
I declare I’ll walk a different path and step onto it.

And so, once a month comes again.
Today, I resolve to break free from the role of a good kid.

Late at night.
In the quiet house, with Mom and Dad asleep, I step carefully.
Creak, creak.
The floor groans uneasily, but Dad’s steady snoring doesn’t stop, so I take another step.

I already told the ashen girl I’d come back at night, to wait for me.
I gave her soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some towels, so I just need to slip out.
“….”
Creak.

The floor’s extra loud tonight, but the novel urges characters to sleep at night.
So, nothing’s wrong.
A kid sleeping soundly, a father snoring from exhaustion, a mother muttering in her sleep.
Tonight, we’re all just playing our roles.

Thinking this, I quietly open the door and step out.

A night with the moon high instead of the sun.
Streetlights glow faintly, and no one roams the Empire’s capital.
“….”

I take in the scene for a moment, then run toward my destination on small feet.
It’s quiet.
Tap, tap, tap.
My hastily worn slippers echo through the market street.

The dark market and the sound of my slippers feel faintly eerie.
Not a childish fear of the dark, but a nagging thought that even in reality, nights are like this—yet it feels like it’s because this is a novel.

How long did I run?
The streets stay dark and silent.
Nothing changes except the absence of people.
But one thing stands out.

In the alley I’m heading to, ashen hair peeks out, asserting its presence.
“…Waited…”

Unlike the day, when she must hide, she’s ventured to the alley’s edge by the market, peeking out.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“…Okay.”

I take the basket she’s holding, grasp her small, empty hand, and lead her.
I got a bit serious with useless thoughts, but today’s mission is Operation Wash the Witch.
Forget it all—let’s run to the square.

In the dead of night, the sound of water echoes in Kate Square’s public restroom.
“Blow your nose—hng.”
“Khng…”

Thankfully, the sink has warm water.
There’s the witch, being washed while standing blankly, and me, half-asleep, washing her.
No, look.
I didn’t plan to wash her myself.

When we got to the restroom, I handed her the toiletries and sent her in, telling her to wash. But she just tilted her head and stood there.
She’s never bathed, so she doesn’t even know what washing is.
That’s why.

With half-closed eyes, I’m soaping her hair, washing her face, scrubbing off years of grime.
“Ah…”
“What now?”
“…Warm…”

Of course it’s warm.
I’m soaping you up, pouring warm water to clean off the dirt.
Doing all this, it’d be weird if it wasn’t warm.
This is the witch’s normalization.
I’m doing everything.

After a long time scrubbing, her filthy state from when we arrived is gone.
Her skin’s pale—beyond pale, strikingly white.
In the novel, she was always dirty and dull from hardship until her death, but now she looks like a kid her age.
That blank face, impossible to read, is still the same, though.

Thinking this, I wrap her in a towel and rub her dry.
“Warm…”
“….”

Yeah.
It’s supposed to be warm.
Winter’s gone, but spring nights are still chilly, so I need to dry her well.
Even if a witch won’t catch a cold, I can’t wash her just to leave her freezing.
That’s the deal.

After drying her, I pull out the small clothes I bought from a shop this afternoon.
“Ah…”
I couldn’t put her back in those rags, so I got plain clothes.
Kids’ clothes are stupidly expensive—even with my charm and smiles, it was a big hit to my wallet.

Dressing her, I face her again.
Her tangled, matted hair, still wet, now flows smoothly.
Her arms, legs, and face, scrubbed clean, are flawless.
In new clothes instead of filthy ones, she looks like an ordinary kid.

Sure, her witchy blank expression remains.
But seeing her clean and tilting her head is nice.
Fidgeting with her hands and feet, staring at me intensely.
Her lips moving as if she wants to say something.
Uncharacteristically, I smile and meet her eyes.

And.
“…Ah.”

As if responding to my smile, her expression shifts.
Her blank eyes curve into crescents, and dimples form at her mouth.
She smiles.
A girl with faint emotions smiles.
Looking only at me, she gives a childlike smile.

A slightly longer day ends like this.
A promise to meet again, a farewell.
Quietly returning to the silent house.
Dad’s soft snoring.
Feeling oddly proud, I smile, lie down, close my eyes, and drift into dreams.

A hazy dream.
A gentle hand stroking my head.
Warmth.
A door softly closing.
And so, the day truly ends.