Dad's birthday is one week away.

  I'd already planned it in my head. No need for a big party. Just Mom's homemade cake and a bit of decoration in the living room. A small celebration would be enough.

  At least... that's what I imagined.

  ? ? ?

  Outside, a car was already parked neatly. Dad's driver was loading luggage into the trunk. This is the first time I've seen a car in the residential area.

  I stood at the door with Mom. The morning air felt a bit cold and the front yard was still quiet.

  Dad stood a few steps from us wearing a neat dark suit. His coat fell straight on broad shoulders, and a hat covered part of his hair.

  The way he stood made him look like someone used to traveling far. Calm, but hard to approach.

  Somehow, clothes like that always made him look different from usual. Like an actor in old films. Cool. And a bit... distant.

  I watched him quietly.

  Mom once said half-jokingly that Dad doesn't really like his own birthday. She said since long ago Dad always ran away whenever that day came.

  At that time I didn't think too much about it.

  But now... it seems like it's really true.

  Even when he knows his daughter might be waiting for that day, he still chooses to leave.

  My chest felt a bit tight. But I know I can't stop him.

  Dad is always like this even though he often jokes around and is a bit narcissistic.

  Once he's decided something, nothing can truly stop him.

  Dad turned toward the car. The driver had already opened the door for him. He adjusted his hat slightly before getting in.

  My reflex moved faster than my thoughts.

  "D-Dad... wait a moment," I said.

  Dad stopped and turned slightly toward me.

  I immediately turned around and ran quickly into the house. From the closet in my room, I took out a small wooden box I'd prepared beforehand.

  When I came back, Dad was already standing near the car door. Mom was tidying his suit collar with a face that held a bit of sadness, but she only smiled when she saw me.

  "Here," I held out the box.

  Dad received it with a furrowed brow. "What's this?"

  "Just open it."

  Dad opened it slowly. Inside, on a worn velvet cushion, there was an old brass compass whose surface I'd already polished until it gleamed.

  I'd been keeping this little secret for two weeks now. A brass compass that Mom slipped into my hand with a thin smile I found hard to read.

  "Keep this. Give it to your Dad when the time is right," she said back then.

  I was confused at first. But I finally understand now.

  This is a birthday present for my dad.

  In the history book I read, compasses have a meaning far deeper than just showing cardinal directions.

  Back then, in the age when sailors had to challenge storms for months without certainty, their wives or families would give them compasses before sailing. It was a prayer made manifest.

  A symbol of promise. No matter how lost they get in the boundless ocean, the way home will always be open.

  Giving a compass means giving trust that the wanderer will always return to their embrace.

  Dad froze. His finger touched the compass's cover glass very carefully, as if the object was made of easily broken crystal.

  "Sera... this..."

  "Don't lose it," I cut him off. I deliberately made my voice a bit flat to hide my disappointment.

  The atmosphere became silent. Mom covered her mouth with her hand, an action she usually does when watching dramas.

  Dad knelt in front of me, matching his height with mine. He put that compass in his suit pocket, right above his heart.

  "Papa promises to take care of it," he whispered. He stroked my head briefly, then looked deep into my eyes. "Sera... is there anything you want? As compensation because Papa's leaving on Papa's birthday?"

  I looked at his face.

  A simple question.

  But somehow, I didn't immediately know what to answer.

  There are many things I actually want to ask. I want him to be honest. I want to know what his job really is. I want to know everything that makes me curious.

  But I can't ask that now.

  So I decided to be a bit naughty.

  "I don't know," I mumbled while turning my face away, pretending to tidy the edge of my shirt. "Doesn't Dad love me? Dad should know what I want without having to ask."

  Dad looked stunned. Maybe didn't expect to get such a typical female answer from his still-small child.

  "Huh? That's not fair."

  "Dad's the one leaving first, abandoning me and Mom," I mumbled, almost inaudible. I stared at my own shoes. "Just think about it while you're gone."

  Dad laughed quietly though his laughter sounded a bit bitter. He kissed my forehead once more, then stood up.

  "Alright. Papa will think about it. Papa will bring something you want most when Papa comes back later."

  I just nodded, watching his back slowly move away then get into the car.

  The car window opened slightly. From there, Dad turned once toward me.

  I gave a lazy wave, tracking the silhouette of the car until it was completely swallowed by the bend of the road, drenching itself in the glow of the morning sun.

  ? ? ?

  The morning sun did not reach this place. Here, the only light bled from low-set torches with pale blue flames—fire that had long since forgotten how to be warm.

  Its flickering glow cast long, distorted shadows over the same dark suit he had worn just days ago—back when he was simply a man tidying his collar for his wife. He was also a father who stood stiffly because his daughter gave him an early birthday present.

  But now, that world feels millions of miles away.

  This room exists on no map. No windows, no crack of light. Only slick stone walls that hold the damp smell of an age too old to count.

  The only illumination comes from low torches embedded in the floor. Their flame pale blue. Like fire that forgot how to be warm.

  In the center of the room stands an odd formation. A large triangle arranged from twenty-one chairs. Seven on each side.

  Those chairs have backrests as tall as a man, arrogant and as if refusing to bow to gravity.

  In the Black Block occupying one side of the triangle, at chair number three, the man sat.

  He no longer looked like the man who likes to joke in front of his daughter. He leaned back with eyes closed. Calm, yet his aura as heavy as a mountain ready to collapse.

  On his chair's backrest was carved a black crow with golden eyes. The bird stood not on ground or branch, but right atop the hilt of a sword stabbed into a nameless grave.

  In its beak it gripped a dagger. Its tip red and wet.

  As if it had just finished doing something that needs no words.

  Right to his left, chair number two was empty. Its backrest also carved with a crow. But this one white, with the same eyes. Twin crows in form, different in color.

  That emptiness felt like a wound that never truly healed. That wound is only covered by time, but always reopens every time he looks toward it.

  To his right, Avant the giant sat frozen at chair number four. On his massive chair's backrest was carved an ancient mountain whose peak pierces clouds. There were lava cracks that seemed ready to flow anytime if he lost patience.

  While at chair number five, Zephyr appeared busy tossing three dice. The man had a face resembling a rat, though clearly not his real face.

  His chair was no less odd. There was carved a die surrounded by dozens of thin hands worshipping it. As if begging fortune that's never certain.

  Click. Click. Click.

  The sound of those dice was the only heartbeat in this dead room. The silence was so thick that even breathing felt like a sin.

  Until finally, someone on the white-gold side decided to shatter it.

  "Aamon," a sweet yet sharp voice split the silence.

  The owner of that voice was the First Saint. She sat at the center of the White-Gold Block, where seven pure marble chairs lined up arrogantly. Those chairs reflected the blue torch light until they looked like thrones of gods.

  There, those holy women sat in shining silk robes. Sharply contrasting with the darkness enveloping the other side.

  Across from them, the Blue-Silver Block watched coldly. Seven chairs occupied by figures who looked like scholars. They were silent witnesses and voiceless mediators in this tension starting to boil.

  At the base of the triangle, the man called Aamon still didn't move.

  He was a shadow among marble and gold.

  Lilith grinned sharply. Her eyes black as night gleamed full of hatred held too long.

  "Somehow, every time I see that flat face of yours, I feel like plucking every strand of your hair then strangling you to death with that hair itself. Unfortunately, you don't even have hair long enough to be strangled with."

  The man named Aamon didn't flinch. His eyelids didn't even tremble.

  His silence instead felt like an invitation. As if every word thrown at him only gave more fuel to the already burning fire.

  Before the echo of Lilith's voice disappeared, the Second Saint leaned forward to shorten the visual distance between them. The blonde with that piercing gaze locked her target.

  "Why are you silent?" she continued in a higher tone. "Are you mute? Did you eat your own tongue? Or has your mother dropped you as a baby since birth so your brain ended up in your ass?"

  That crude insult was met with a cold snort from the chair beside her. The Third Saint, the purple-haired one, rolled her eyes lazily. Aamon's stupidity seemed to have become too boring a sight for her.

  "No," she mumbled quietly yet piercingly. "He just pretends to be deaf every time a woman speaks. But notice, his eyes open slightly when another man speaks."

  She squinted toward Aamon. "It seems like his vision only functions for the same gender."

  Someone from the Blue Block laughed shortly. A man in chair number three was playing with a small cube in his hand, as if the whole commotion was just light entertainment for him.

  "Fucking bastard." That curse slipped from the lips of the Fourth Saint who had just adjusted her sitting position.

  The flaming red-haired one with those killer dimples smiled thinly, but that smile wasn't warm at all.

  "Sometimes I feel like I once liked a pig," she said lightly. "At least wild boar still has value, its meat can be sold. Whereas you..." She shrugged slightly. "Even earthworms would probably think twice before eating you when you die."

  The Fourth's cynical laughter hadn't subsided when a flatter yet dismissive tone chimed in from another corner. The Fifth Saint, the green-haired one with narrow eyes, shook her head slowly.

  "How funny. He rejects us all... yet can still sit relaxed as if nothing happened." Her lips curved thinly. "Like buffalo shit proudly drying in the middle of the road. Shameless, but still feels worthy of being there."

  Behind his closed eyelids, Aamon wasn't thinking about the women insulting him. Those beautiful faces never meant anything to him.

  Things like love, seduction, or the Saints' complicated feelings weren't his business.

  This place was always filled with unpleasant energy. He never liked it. Too many emotions that felt unnecessary to him.

  "Tsk. Still acting cool," exclaimed the Sixth Saint while pointing at Aamon's nose with her slender finger. The rhythm of insults that felt elegant before now became more childish.

  "I'm really sick of seeing your face. You think by staying silent like that you look mysterious? No! You look like someone holding in a bowel movement, you know!"

  From chair number five, Zephyr's voice sounded without looking away from his dice. "Heheh... Your mouth is still cruel as usual..."

  Avant at chair number four held back his laughter though his body trembled. His broad chest shook like a mountain about to erupt.

  "Right!" exclaimed the Third Saint again. Her face grew redder because her anger fire had just been doused with gasoline by Avant's laughter.

  "If only Aaron were here, he would've already hit your head until it went into your stomach! Your brother knows manners far better than a useless lump of meat like you."

  Her lips curved cynically.

  "Aaron is a diamond... while you're just grime under his shoes! Even that grime still has function, at least it protects shoes from direct dirt. You? Useless for anything except taking oxygen that should be for more deserving people!"

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  That storm of words continued raging, but at its center Aamon remained untouched.

  The Sixth Saint grinned thinly, as if remembering a very disgusting memory. "I still remember what he said back then."

  She mimicked Aamon's voice with a tone deliberately made flat without emotion. Almost like a machine.

  "I'm not interested."

  Several Saints immediately snorted annoyed in unison.

  "Not interested?"

  "He didn't even try to pretend to be polite."

  "Right."

  In the midst of that chaos of curses, a far calmer voice finally broke the current. Unlike the others, the Seventh Saint leaned wearily in her chair. The silver-haired one with melancholy eyes stared blankly.

  "I even prepared a wedding dress back then," she said quietly. "A white dress... with lace from moon silk. And you just said not interested. In my chest that's too big."

  Her lips curved thinly, almost like a smile that failed. "What a cruel man."

  Silence for a moment.

  Zephyr dropped his dice. "Ahem... Ophelia, what are you doing?"

  "Um... are you serious?" asked the Second Saint, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  "Yes." Ophelia let out a short sigh.

  "How embarrassing... how could you fall for that doormat?"

  "Shut up!" Ophelia immediately pointed toward Aamon. "This is all his fault! That bastard isn't just cold. He also spreads stupidity to anyone too close to him."

  She took a sharp breath. "Look at me... became this stupid just from once liking him."

  The atmosphere that had eased briefly heated up again as the other Saints started responding to each other.

  "If only Aaron were here..." mumbled the Fourth Saint.

  "Aaron wouldn't make us cry," the Fifth Saint immediately cut in. "He's a real man. Not a frozen statue that needs a thousand years just to thaw."

  "He didn't even really reject," added another. "Just left, then came back as if nothing ever happened."

  The First Saint massaged her temples, annoyed. "Every time I see his face... I want to slap him."

  "Slap?" The Sixth Saint laughed quietly, grinning wildly. "I want to drown him in the dirtiest river, then bury him in a mass grave... then dig him up again, burn him, scatter his ashes to the sea, then..."

  "Sounds like you still have feelings for him," Ophelia cut in calmly.

  "What?!" The Sixth Saint immediately turned sharply. "Of course not!"

  "You sound too enthusiastic."

  "SHUT UP!"

  The Second Saint who had been observing suddenly narrowed her eyes. She seemed to be thinking something very technical.

  "I have a theory," she said quietly. "Maybe he really is incapable. I mean... after killing thousands of lives, who knows if his lower body parts no longer function. Or maybe from the start he never had... the equipment a man should have."

  "Or maybe his equipment is only as big as a baby's pinky?" added the Fifth Saint in a dismissive tone.

  "Maybe smaller," the Third Saint responded without hesitation. "Like the nail at the tip of a pinky finger."

  The Fourth Saint laughed quietly, her smile crooked. "You're all too kind. I think he doesn't even have anything there."

  Her cynical laughter sounded clear in that echo-filled room. That last attack made several men on the other side almost choke on their breath.

  Zephyr even nearly dropped his dice again.

  All the men looked at Aamon, wondering. Why isn't he angry?

  Are the women's absurd accusations true?

  Aamon was still calm, but fine cracks started appearing on the surface of the marble chair he gripped.

  Air pressure around his chair felt colder. As if that silent mountain was starting to crack from within.

  Not because of their insults. Words like that he'd heard too often already.

  But every time those women opened their mouths, old memories returned. Without realizing it, his gaze shifted for a second to that empty chair number two.

  He once tried to teach them a lesson. The result was only one: a useless headache. Their logic was already too twisted to fix.

  Since then, all that remained was one simple decision. Stay away from them as much as possible.

  Avant whispered quietly, just enough for only Zephyr to hear. "Zephyr... are they talking about... certain body parts?"

  Zephyr turned slowly. His rat face grinned thinly. "Hermit... I'll explain later when you're old enough."

  "But... I'm already 347 years old."

  "You're too pure for this, Avant. Keep your innocence."

  Avant nodded slowly, then looked at Aamon with the most honest expression in the entire room. "So... does Aamon really not have it?"

  Zephyr hid his face behind his three dice.

  No one answered. And somehow, that felt like an answer itself.

  Across from them, the Saints' hatred seemed to have reached its peak. That anger changed from mere insults to increasingly derailed discussion.

  "Even if he has 'it', it must've rotted from never being used!" shouted the Sixth Saint.

  "Right!" The Third Saint nodded in agreement. "Rather than being a useless man like him, better to be a lesbian woman! At least we understand each other!"

  The Fifth Saint patted the Third Saint's shoulder. "Told you, Violet. Just move to our side. I can make you my second wife."

  "Second?!"

  "We'll talk about it later."

  "FOCUS!" The First Saint shook her head, frustrated.

  The Saints looked back at Aamon with murderous gazes.

  "Sorry, quick interruption," the man sitting in the last chair of the Blue Block raised his hand.

  Though he was at number seven on his side, his voice sounded loud enough to silence the Saints. He still wore his black sunglasses and casual clothes.

  "Honorable Saint ladies, 'grime under shoes' doesn't seem like appropriate language for holy representatives, does it?"

  "SHUT UP!" all six shouted in unison.

  But suddenly they stopped, looking at each other.

  Zephyr whistled quietly. "They have beautiful teamwork. Avant, note that."

  "Note where?"

  "In that hard head of yours!"

  Finally, the Fifth Saint let out a long sigh. "Forget it. This man really has no feelings. Rather than keep being angry, better we focus on the meeting..."

  Suddenly, a heavy voice that vibrated low from the bottom of the stomach stopped the entire debate. Avant, the giant from chair number four, had just opened his mouth for the first time.

  He always wanted to ask something but always hesitated because confused about choosing the right words.

  "Honorable Saints."

  All the women turned. Even Aamon moved his eyebrow slightly. The biggest response he'd ever shown.

  "Yes?" The First Saint hissed.

  Avant let out a long sigh, like wind blowing through mountain gaps. "I just want to say... for the past two hundred years, I've sat beside Aamon every meeting. And for those two hundred years too, I've seen you seven get angry at him every meeting."

  "So?" They narrowed their eyes.

  "So..." Avant scratched his bald head. "I'm just curious... if you already know he'll stay silent, why are you still angry? Isn't that like being angry at a rock for not being able to talk?"

  Silence.

  Zephyr chuckled quietly. A more awkward silence controlled the room.

  "YOU MEAN WE'RE WRONG?!" shouted the Third Saint.

  "No."

  "YOU'RE DEFENDING HIM?!"

  "No."

  "THEN YOU'RE ALSO ON THAT BALD HEARTLESS GUY'S SIDE?!"

  Avant was shocked. "But I'm also bald..."

  Zephyr couldn't hold himself anymore. He laughed out loud while holding his stomach. "That... that's not... ahahahaha... Avant... you... you just... ahahahaha!"

  Avant's face turned bright red. "THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" Avant almost stood up.

  "SIT!" all seven Saints shouted in unison.

  Avant sat.

  That mountain obeyed women.

  The Saints' anger subsided slightly, replaced with confusion. They looked at each other. This wasn't according to plan.

  Lilith raised her hand, asking for attention. "Before we continue... Aamon, I have one last question. Among us seven, who would you least want to reject?"

  A trap question. The Saints held their breath.

  Aamon opened his mouth. "I..."

  "DON'T ANSWER!" one of them suddenly shouted. "WHATEVER YOUR ANSWER IS, WE'LL BE ANGRY!"

  "RIGHT! BETTER STAY SILENT!" added another.

  "BUT IF YOU STAY SILENT WE'RE ALSO ANGRY!"

  "SO WHAT SHOULD HE DO?!" Ophelia rubbed her forehead.

  Zephyr raised his hand. "How about he answers with a dance?"

  "SHUT UP!"

  In that commotion, Aamon finally truly opened his eyes.

  His golden pupils gleamed coldly. His gaze swept across those beautiful angry faces with an intensity that made the room suddenly dead silent.

  "I've already marr..."

  But the world seemed to decide that day wasn't yet Aamon's time to speak.

  From chair number one in the Black Block with the empty white symbol, a voice was heard. That voice old and tired. Like someone who just woke from a five hundred year sleep.

  "Can you all shut up? I'm trying to sleep here."

  Everyone froze.

  "This is The Triad Empyrean. Not a place to discuss Aamon's organs or lesbian theories."

  "But..."

  "Quiet. I'm not done talking," he said in a hoarse voice, like someone almost out of breath.

  "What you all need to know, Aamon will not marry any of you. Accept it. Move on. Zephyr, stop mumbling. Avant, you're fine. Saints, you're all beautiful but your brains need fixing."

  Everyone fell completely silent.

  Zephyr leaned forward slightly and whispered quietly. "What's wrong with him?"

  Avant answered without turning, his voice equally low. "His illness is acting up."

  Zephyr clicked his tongue quietly. "So fierce... when soon he'll become fertilizer for plants."

  The man in chair number one finally glanced at him. "Zephyr... you want to die?"

  Zephyr chuckled quietly, raising both hands as if surrendering. "Joking. Just joking."

  But after that, he secretly lowered his aura. His presence that felt clear before slowly sank, as if he was never there.

  The commotion that filled the room earlier slowly receded. Silence controlled the place again.

  Aamon closed his eyes again. His back touched the chair's backrest.

  In the middle of that quiet room, suddenly...

  CRACK!

  A crack of light tore the air right at the center of the triangle of chairs. No warning.

  Just a bright tear that widened quickly, forming a gleaming round portal. Like a broken mirror that united in another form.

  Everyone fell silent.

  Even the Saints who had been shouting at each other now closed their mouths.

  Only Ophelia still looked at Aamon one second longer than the others. Then she turned away, tidying the folds of her robe calmly. Exactly like a woman who had just decided something for the last time.

  Even Avant who was usually slow immediately straightened his back.

  From within the portal, a man stepped out while adjusting the bridge of his glasses.

  "Forgive my tardiness," he spoke flatly, his voice slicing through the oppressive silence of the room.

  ???

  A similar silence... though one that felt far more hollow, now crept into every corner of the house.

  The road dust had long since settled, and the rooms suddenly felt far too spacious.

  Usually there's the sound of Dad's narcissistic laughter that likes to bother me filling the room, or the aroma of bitter coffee left in the kitchen every morning. Now there's only the sound of the wall clock ticking louder than usual.

  Mom became more often lost in thought. Meanwhile, I often found myself unconsciously checking the calendar on the study desk.

  Counting days that felt like they went slower, as if time itself was reluctant to move without that tall figure's presence.

  Two weeks felt like two months.

  Until finally, after fourteen days that felt slow, Dad came home safely.

  Not empty-handed. He came carrying several boxes at once. Inside were dolls, a set of colored pencils, and several other small toys.

  Making my room more crowded.

  It seems like Dad bought more than he should have.

  I received them with a small smile.

  Maybe Dad just didn't know what to buy me.

  After that, life returned to normal for us. Dad went back to his routine leaving in the morning and coming home in the afternoon. Mom was also just as busy with her daily life.

  But one thing changed.

  Dad started often taking me out on weekends.

  One weekend, the three of us went to a big mall in the center of Sector Two.

  That place always amazed me every time I came before. Bright lights, crowded stores, and people passing by.

  But now it feels ordinary.

  Anyway, my house is located right on the border between Sector Two and Sector Three. Going to the center of Sector Two isn't difficult.

  We walked through the mall's cold corridors. Dad held my hand tightly, while Mom walked on the other side, occasionally looking at store displays.

  At a children's clothing store, Mom stopped.

  "Sera, look at this."

  I turned. Mom was holding a dress.

  Not an ordinary skirt. This is a dress. Complete with a big ribbon at the waist and lace at the edges. Its color pastel pink, exactly like the favorite color of girls my age. At least that's what other mothers believe.

  "Pretty, right?" Mom waved it. "Try it on. Mama's sure you'll look really pretty."

  I looked at that dress. Ordinary skirts I can still accept. But a dress with big ribbons and lace like this is too conspicuous.

  I shifted my gaze to Mom.

  Beside her, Dad smiled widely. His face as if saying go ahead, Sweetheart.

  Again?

  "I don't want to, Ma."

  Mom sighed. She lifted that dress a bit higher in front of me.

  "Sera, you're a girl. How can you never want to wear skirts or dresses? This is pretty, you know."

  I shook my head slowly. "I just want to wear pants."

  "Try this first." Mom waved that dress again. "Who knows you might like it."

  "I don't want to." I turned my face away. The shoulder part is too open and the dress skirt is too puffy.

  Mom looked at me with a look I knew very well. But before she could say anything, Dad stepped in.

  "Honey," Dad gently grabbed Mom's shoulder. "Let Sera choose what she likes. There's nothing wrong with that."

  Mom turned toward Dad then looked back at me, before finally letting out a long sigh.

  "You," she said while smiling sourly. "Fine, go choose the pants you like."

  I smiled slightly. "Thanks, Ma."

  Mom shook her head, her lips slightly pouting.

  I walked to the children's pants section, leaving the two of them in front of the dress rack. From the corner of my eye, I could see Dad whispering something to Mom, and Mom laughed quietly while hitting his arm gently.

  Geez!

  Without realizing it, I pulled the edge of the shirt near me toward my mouth.

  Ugh, why can such a trivial thing make me feel giddy?

  ? ? ?

  Days passed. In between time with family, my days were still filled by them. Annie. Julian. Bombom.

  They never really left my life. Actually stuck even more like chewing gum. My relationship with them developed in a unique way.

  Julian, for example. One afternoon he came with a face as gloomy as about to rain. He led his bicycle that he once was so proud of.

  Now that thing is just a pile of noisy iron.

  "Sera... it's broken," he mumbled while looking down.

  I looked at that bicycle. Its chain pitch black, stiff, and full of dirt.

  I sighed. Without much talk, I looked around for something. Luckily there was a piece of cardboard and shabby rag near the trash can.

  If I use my own clothes to clean the chain, my life will be over when I go home later.

  I crouched beside his bicycle. Carefully, I used the cardboard piece to scrape the disgusting black mound piled up on the rear gear. It's a mixture of old oil, road dust, and somehow there's a tangle of hair stuck there.

  Where this oil came from I don't know. Maybe his grandma put it there.

  Dried mud and black crust started falling off.

  Julian looked at me with a face between amazed and nauseous. "Ew... what is that, Sera? And what are you doing?"

  "Cleaning."

  "Bu... why? It's already broken anyway."

  I rolled my eyes. Patiently, I explained.

  "So noisy. Hold the handlebars so they don't shake," I ordered.

  "But..."

  "Quick! Hold the handlebars properly, don't let the bike fall on me," I cut curtly while pulling that hair tangle until it broke.

  Julian hurriedly held the handlebars tightly.

  Meanwhile, Annie and Bombom also helped.

  Bombom always came with something in his hands. This afternoon he brought a used popsicle stick he picked up from who knows where. Instead of feeling disgusted with this cleaning task, he actually looked very enthusiastic.

  "Sera, this can be used to scrape those black things!" exclaimed Bombom while holding out his popsicle stick.

  He's the easiest kid to make happy I've ever met. Give him food, and he'll smile as if he just found treasure.

  I accepted the stick from Bombom to help dig out the narrow gaps of the gear.

  Annie, because she was afraid to touch the black parts, was busy blowing dust on the bicycle seat as if that would help a lot.

  I taught them how to clean a bicycle. Anyway it's a simple thing.

  Cleaning the chain. Lubricating with oil we asked for from the nearest house. Tightening the loose chain by asking a security guard for help.

  When everything was finished, a simple satisfaction filled my heart.

  The squeak-squeak sound like a mouse being pinched disappeared, replaced by the smooth sound of gear rotation.

  Julian looked at me, then looked at my hands that had now turned pitch black from oil.

  "Sera..."

  "What?"

  "You... how do you know so much?"

  I shrugged. "Read books."

  "What books?"

  "Books... just books."

  Julian nodded, though clearly not fully convinced.

  But since that day, he no longer showed off in front of me. Instead, he started often asking questions.

  Every time there's a small problem with his bicycle, he'll come to me.

  "Sera! The chain still makes this squeak-squeak sound! Like... like there's a tiny mouse dancing inside!"

  I rolled my eyes. "It's not a mouse!"

  "The tire's a bit flat, will you blow it up?"

  "Blow it yourself."

  "Sera, look, it's cleaner, right? I washed it yesterday."

  I nodded slightly. There's a certain satisfaction seeing that kid now appreciates his belongings more.

  But of course, Annie didn't want to lose the attention competition.

  I regret it now! This person always comes to me asking strange things! Because of him, Annie and Bombom also ask me.

  "Sera, Sera! If bicycles are given oil they run smoothly, if flowers are given oil will they also grow smoothly?" asked Annie with a face so innocent yet illogical.

  I let out a long sigh, trying to explain basic things. "Annie... flowers need water and sunlight. If you give them oil, they'll die instead."

  After getting tired of dealing with illogical things, we usually continue the afternoon by going around.

  Sometimes we ride Annie's small bicycle. Because she just bought it, she insists on pedaling.

  I sit on the back seat that's actually quite narrow. While Annie in front pedals with her trembling little legs. The bicycle often wobbles because the weight is unbalanced.

  "We can do it! Don't be scared, Sera!" Annie shouts every time our bicycle tilts right.

  She never gives up even though her breathing is already ragged because I'm quite heavy.

  I hold Annie's waist tightly, feeling a bit guilty. Actually earlier I offered to pedal. But just after ten meters, my legs already felt like jelly.

  My stamina is terrible.

  I look at Annie's small back wet with sweat.

  We're the same age and eat roughly the same food. But why is her energy seemingly endless? Is it because this is another world, so little kids' energy is different?

  But I also come from the same world as them. Why is the gap so big? Why am I different?

  During the past few weeks, I've tried training by following their activities. Playing hide and seek to racing.

  I thought if I kept training indirectly, at least I'd be equal with kids my age physically.

  But reality is bitter. No matter how much I move, I realize this body was indeed born with different limits.

  I'm always the first to get tired and the slowest in races.

  I'm always left behind.

  Left far behind.

  Because of this physical weakness, my social position in this small group also shifted. Instead of being considered a wise leader because of my adult brain, I'm always considered the weakest link.

  "Sera, hold on tight! We can't lose!" Annie shouts full of spirit.

  She pedals with all her strength. But because she's carrying my weight, her speed isn't actually much different from someone speed-walking.

  Julian races his bicycle a bit ahead, but he never really shoots far. Every few meters, he'll brake or turn back, circling us like a sheepdog. He always makes sure I don't slip from Annie's unstable back seat.

  While Bombom runs along right beside us. He doesn't seem to mind having to run.

  Because Annie pedals quite slowly, Bombom even still has time to occasionally stop briefly, then run again easily to catch up with our position.

  We move like one small noisy circus troupe.

  While hugging Annie, I look at the afternoon sky starting to change color to reddish orange.

  Somehow, our friendship... feels like we're a bunch of caterpillars inside the same cocoon.

  There's a saying that goes, friendship is like a cocoon. Changing caterpillars into butterflies.

  We're all processing. There's a time when we're just little caterpillars crawling on the ground, struggling with mud, sharing used popsicle sticks, and laughing at illogical things.

  I know... someday this cocoon will break.

  These caterpillars will turn into butterflies. They'll all grow wings and fly toward different directions.

  And me?

  I close my eyes briefly, feeling the afternoon wind hit my face.

  Maybe this isn't the type of isekai I hoped for. No epic adventure full of stories, at least for now.

  But sitting here feels more fun than my previous life.

  And for now, that feels more than enough.

  "Sera! Let's go home! Your house is close!" Annie shouts spiritedly.

  I smile thinly. "Yeahhh."

  ? ? ?

  That bicycle stopped right in front of my house gate. Annie was panting, but her face was beaming as if she'd just conquered a long journey.

  "Sera, let's play again tomorrow!" she said while wiping sweat on her forehead. Her hand still holding the handlebars of her gleaming small bicycle.

  I nodded slowly. "Yeah."

  Julian, who had been escorting beside Annie all this time, now adjusted his bicycle position. He turned toward me.

  "Tomorrow, want us to pick you up?"

  "Yes!" Bombom answered first while jumping onto the back of Julian's bicycle.

  "Hey!" Julian's bicycle immediately wobbled. He hurriedly held the handlebars so they wouldn't fall. "Bombom... take it easy," he complained.

  The three of them then waved.

  Annie led in front with spirited pedaling. Followed by Julian carrying Bombom behind him.

  I watched them until the shadows of both bicycles faded at the end of the road.

  Then I went inside the house.