Chapter 5 : Ugly eight years old (1)

Winter is cold.
‘…Cold and painful.’
Winter is painful.

For the girl, the season of winter brings days more wretched and desolate than any other.
Her swollen skin, battered by the harsh, biting wind, keeps splitting open. With nowhere to escape the season, she can only fidget with the tattered plank that fails to shield her from the gusts.
Crouching against the cold stone wall, she finds faint relief in the fact that at least her back is spared from the wind.

Last winter was like this.
The winter before that was the same.
And likely, every winter before that passed with the same cold and pain.

But.
This winter is a little different.

‘Warm.’

The warmth she could never feel in her ragged scraps is present in the thick, worn-out clothing.
It was something tossed to her by a nameless boy who met her eyes for just a moment before passing by.
Unlike the children who come daily to torment her, he returned after half a year, barely remembered, and with indifferent eyes, tossed it and left.

‘…Strange person.’

He doesn’t see her as human.
Yet because he doesn’t see her as human, he doesn’t despise her.
A child raised by parents who shun the ashen girl.
Yet unlike his mother, he doesn’t hesitate to approach her.

“St…range…”

Mumbling with slurred speech, the girl wraps herself tightly in the lint-covered old cardigan.
It’s warm.
She feels its warmth.
The lingering heat from being stored in a wardrobe still remains.
To savor it even a little more, she buries her face in the rough fabric.

‘…Will he come back?’

Will that nameless boy return to this alley?
To avoid the bullying of other children, she’s had to frequently change her hiding spots, but doing so might mean he won’t find her.
Recalling his impassive eyes, she’s certain that’s likely.
It feels like his indifference, his fleeting interest, might vanish forever.

So, for the first time, the girl decides to stay in this alley where they met.
Every year, every season, she’s fled to new places, but this winter, she resolves not to.
‘Warm…’
This winter, she has the lint-covered old clothing.

Two years have passed.
A bit more, and the new year’s snow melted, spring arrived, and flowers bloomed.
As if proving this is a novel’s world, days passed peacefully without any significant events, leading to this moment.

In other words.
After that much time, I’ve turned eight, still a small and frail child in this world.
And naturally, during that long stretch, I couldn’t take a single step toward the alley where the ashen girl likely remains.

I wanted to be the witch’s watcher, but it’s fair to say the novel doesn’t want new roles to emerge.
It was Mom’s firm opposition and Dad’s troubled smile.
Of course, both their responses stemmed from worry for me, not hatred for the witch.

I knew.
The ashen folklore is a story widely spread in this world, even as a fairy tale for children.
Naturally, I remember reading that book in Mom’s arms and her warning.
“You must never go near someone with ashen hair, son. Got it?”
It was a promise sealed with our pinkies, filled with her concern.

The world’s law dictates consequences for a child who breaks a promise with their parents.
This would’ve happened even without the excuse of the novel’s setting.

So, I often think.
I’m still this childish, and honestly, I kind of hate it.
Even after stepping into the novel’s plot, claiming the role of the witch’s watcher.
Especially when I realize I haven’t actually set foot in it at all, I dwell on these thoughts.

At times like this, I can’t just flip the page to skip time, and I wonder what makes this a novel’s world.
Look at that.
During these two long years, all I could do as an extra was.
The duty of a child.
Eat, poop, sleep, and repeat endlessly.

Trying to convince my parents by saying the alley girl looked pitiful would be meaningless.
Even if I brought up the ashen story, their perceptions wouldn’t change.
It might even restrict my actions further as I grow.
Just recalling Mom scolding me for tossing the old clothes to the alley girl makes that a plausible prediction.

So, this is.
My impression of this world after reaching eight.
I don’t think centuries-old perceptions of the ashen can change just because of a son’s whining.
Thinking a mere extra kid could instantly alter a fixed story is admitting ignorance.

In that sense.
I decided to be a thoroughly good son for these two years.
Listening to Mom, greeting Dad when he comes home from work.
Avoiding trouble typical of kids, helping with chores despite seeming a bit mature.
Faithfully playing the role the novel assigned, living a peaceful life.

“Son!”
“…Yeah, Mom.”
“Come help with this, will you?”
“Alright, I’m coming.”

I acted naturally until Mom saw me as a mature son, and I kept up the act.

This way.
I can reclaim my role.

I.
I won’t be dragged around by this novel.

This world is actually quite peaceful.
An eight-year-old running errands to the grocery store doesn’t get kidnapped, and even if they get lost in the square, a lost-and-found is within 100 meters, so there’s little worry.
It’s not just a medieval setting; it’s a world conveniently arranged, like a novel’s allowance.

Not every nation or region is like this, but at least the Empire’s capital, the story’s early setting, is.
Of course, as time passes and the plot progresses, dangers will creep in, but for now, to a child in the Empire, it’s safer than Earth.
Except, of course, for the ashen girl.

“Son, don’t cross the street when carriages are passing.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t be rude to the grocery store uncle.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“You know you can’t just wander off somewhere you want to go, right? If you want to go somewhere, we go together. Got it?”
“Yeah, I promise.”

I hook pinkies with Mom, taking a small basket, some coins, and a note with the errand list.
“Sorry for making you run errands when I’m busy, son.”
“It’s fine. I’ve gone with you enough to find my way.”
“Pfft… My son’s all grown up!”

Mom says this, ruffling my hair.
It gets all messed up, but I don’t complain.
I’m a good kid right now.

So, for the first time in this world, I’m alone.
In the middle of a bustling street, with people weaving past and carriages speeding by.
I take in the scene for a moment before stepping into it.
Following the familiar path I’ve walked with Mom countless times, I march along childishly.
Down the alley leading to the market.

“….”

Like a good kid.
I head straight to the grocery store without looking around.
Like a kid my age.
I bow to familiar faces I pass, then bow again when they praise my maturity.

After about ten minutes of walking, I push open the large wooden door of the grocery store.
“Welcome… Oh? Haha, you little rascal! Ain’t you Lane’s boy? What’re you doing here alone?”
“…Hello. Mom’s busy, so I’m running errands, uncle.”

The bear-like man at the counter, about to lazily greet a customer, bursts into hearty laughter seeing me walk in alone.
“Haha! Already running errands on your own? That’s the spirit of a real man!”

“….”
I feel a bit too young to be called a man, but whatever.
I’m a good kid, so I bow to his words.

“Right, right. If it’s errands, tell me what you need. Since you came alone, I’ll give you a discount!”
“Uh, well… Here.”

I fumble out the errand list and coins Mom gave me, handing them to the uncle, who grins and reads the note.
“Hmm, alright. Nothing different from usual. Guess Lane’s cooking skills aren’t up for fancy dishes yet!”
“Probably. She’s still young, after all.”
“Hahaha! That’s true! Wait a bit, and I’ll get it ready!”

He says this, placing more change than usual on the counter before heading to the back storage.
“….”
This guy.
I’ve always thought he’s unnecessarily energetic.
Just being around him feels draining.
But his boisterous, lively nature also shows he’s a good person.
Even someone this great is just an extra in this world, huh.

While thinking this and looking around the store, vegetables and meat appear in front of me with a thud.
“Here you go! Want me to put them in your basket?”
“No, I can do it.”

I start packing the items into the basket with my small hands.
After carefully placing everything in, I look up to say goodbye, and the uncle hands me something with a grin.
“A gift, Ain! For this cute little guy!”
“Uh, oh…”

A handful of sweet candies.
Enough to overflow from both hands, the kind any kid would love.
Mom would hate it, saying candy ruins teeth.
As if knowing parents’ thoughts, he ruffles my hair and says,
“Keep it a secret from your mom and eat them on the sly!”
“…Thanks, uncle.”

His words and actions make me chuckle.
How am I supposed to hide this much candy?
What a needlessly generous, kind guy.
I pour the candies into the basket and leave the store.

Leaving the quiet grocery store, the lively bustle of the market greets me again.
“….”
Thanks to the uncle quickly packing the goods, I have plenty of time left.
I was worried being too late might make Mom suspicious, but at this rate, I can take a detour and still get home on time.

So, I set aside the flimsy role of a good kid for a moment.
With that thought, I turn my steps away from home.
Away from the market.
I walk down that street.

Heading opposite the crowd toward the market, I follow the increasingly quiet streets.
It’s my first time out alone, and there’s no phone or GPS in this world.
I didn’t even bring a map, so a kid would surely hesitate.
Walking an unfamiliar path, against the flow of people, is a bit scary.

But.
My memory is vivid and clear.
Even if my body hesitates, the memory from two years ago is sharp, pushing aside a child’s reluctance.
This way.
This direction.

Thinking that, I keep walking, eventually reaching a familiar alley despite only visiting twice.
Kate Square is faintly visible, but the large clock tower is hidden in this shadowed alley.
“….”

And from this lonely alley comes an unexpected clamor.
I quietly step toward the shadows, and the high-pitched voices of children echo out to me.
“…You filthy thing!”
“Ugh, look at that smelly thing… Why’s she clinging to that dirty fuzzball?”
“Pfft… Look at her! She’s bleeding from the head where the stone hit! Oh, her blood isn’t ashen!”

As those voices reach me, I arrive at the scene, facing the reality behind the sounds.
“….”

Has she grown a bit?
Honestly, I don’t know.
The ashen girl, surrounded by kids and bleeding.
Two years have surely passed for her as they have for me, yet she’s still there, her frail body barely different from before.
On a moldy, even more worn plank than two years ago, her body barely covered by tattered rags.

“…Ah.”
Clutching the lint-covered old clothing I tossed to her that winter like alms.
The ashen girl is bleeding, struck by stones.

So.
Why do you just sit there, taking it?
Why do you hold that tattered, linty mess like it’s precious?

Thinking this, I drop my basket with a thud and charge forward.
“Hey, what… What’s that?!”

Kids’ fights are all about intimidation.
Grab the one mouthing off, knock him down, and swing your fists with a scary face.
“Ow! It hurts, it hurts…! Why’re you hitting me…?! Argh!”
“….”

If there’s a reason, it’s their lack of proper upbringing.
It might be proper in this world, but not to me.
“Argh…! Stop, stop hitting me…! Ugh! Sob, waaah…”

Whether three or four kids, if you charge like a madman, grab one, and keep swinging, the others get scared and run. The one I’m hitting lets go and flees too.
They bully and mock, but they’re just kids in the end.

I glance at the kids scrambling away, then pick up my basket from a short distance.
And.
“Ah…”

I turn to the ashen girl, who lets out a small sound.
Her murky ashen eyes, wide with surprise after two years, stare directly at me.
“….”
“….”

I only meant to indifferently drop off the candies from the uncle and leave.
But, absurdly, I’ve gone beyond my self-assigned role, and now, in this silence, I lock eyes with the ashen girl.
“….”
“….”

After about a minute of staring, I let out a deep sigh, pull all the candies from the basket, and approach her.
Her murky eyes, unreadable, stare at me.
I place the candies on the plank where she’s slumped.

“…Eat.”
“….”

It might not fill her hunger, but it’ll give her some calories at least.
Muttering that, I stand, grab my basket, and start walking back the way I came, ignoring the awkward, uncomfortable silence between us.
A girl hurt by people probably doesn’t want to talk, and I’m out of time.
I just need to head home now.

“…Can’t you… stay?”
“….”

A cracked voice calls out to my turned back.
Slurred, hard to understand.
Flat, almost emotionless.
Maybe just something tossed out thoughtlessly.

But I know.
Having read the novel, I know what it means for her to speak first.
So, I’m scared.
The faint ember of emotion in her, the slight tilt of that balance.
The worry that the novel’s storm might pull me into its center.
Those fears rush in, whispering to me.

Decide.
Choose the path at this crossroads.
Fulfill the responsibility of the role you’ve assigned yourself.

So.
“…I’ll come back next time.”

In the end, I make a cowardly choice.
An irresponsible answer, with nothing certain, slips from my lips.