CHAPTER 21 Eye Can See
Early Light of Dawn
In the darkness of night, within the Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store—the first-floor home of the Gustmill household—a door creaked open at the end of the hallway. And a small, shadowy figure emerged, moving slowly and sluggishly into the hallway.
One of its shadowy hands traced along the wall for balance, guiding her through the corridor. Darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by a faint strip of yellowish glow of light spilling from beneath a single door ahead—the workshop.
Drawn to the light, the figure shuffled toward it.
Whirrr-chrrrrk… Clack, Whirr-chrrrrk… Clack…
A sound of gear crack as it bites into the wood can be heard behind the door.
The shadowy figure paused at the door, staring in silence, listening for a long moment. Its hand lifted, reaching for the knob—but halted midway. The figure wavered, its attention slipping from the glowy light and stuttering noise beyond. Then, without much thought, it turned away—swift and silent—and drifted instead toward the kitchen.
Step by step, it crept forward until—
Clunk!
A foot caught the leg of a chair, and the figure tumbled forward with a muffled yelp.
"Ahhh—!" it gasped, landing flat on its chest.
With a quiet groan, the figure flipped over onto its back, limbs splayed in mild defeat.
For a moment, it simply lay there, eyes adjusting to the dark.
Then, raising a hand toward the faint outline above, it muttered, "I really wish there was a light…"
A finger pointed to the vague silhouette of a ceiling lantern, barely visible in the under the darkness.
"Ignite! …No. Illuminate! …Still no. Illumine? No neither… Alright, forget it."
Muttering to itself, the figure pushed up to its feet and start looking around the kitchen. That's when it noticed it—on the stove, a tiny ember still smouldering.
With slow, careful steps, the shadowy figure approached.
Then—
Whoosh—
It exhaled a soft breath, gently fanning the ember, coaxing the ember to life.
Tiny sparks bloomed, licking into healthy flame.
Firelight washed across the kitchen in hues of red and gold, casting long dancing shadows on the walls. And in that glow, the shadowy figure was finally revealed.
It was Kimmi.
She smiled, eyes bright and glassy as she stared into the flame. The warm air kissed her cheeks and spread across her face, stirring the quiet hunger in her belly.
Kimmi turned her gaze toward the kitchen table—and there it was. A large brown dome, woven from long-dried stem, sat neatly in the centre.
'Food!' The thought lit her up.
Kimmi hurried over and scrambled onto a chair, her eyes fixed on the dome. She reached up and managed to lift it, just enough to peek beneath.
Inside, sat a wide ceramic casserole dish and its glossy surface still faintly warm. A ladle rested inside it, and beside it—two bowls, each already paired with a spoon.
Kimmi let out a slurred murmur as she eyed the dish before her, but her arms were not quite long enough to fully lift or shift the lid.
With an annoyed huff, she set the lid back down, then quickly clambered up and sat squarely in front of it on the table.
This time, she grabbed the lid again with both hands, brimming with confidence. At last, she had enough leverage to lift it wide open. But the lid slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a soft bounce, barely making a sound.
Kimmi ignored it, for her eyes now sparkling as she fully took in what was prepared inside the casserole.
"A stew… of some sort?" she whispered in awe.
Steam drifted upward in lazy swirls, carrying the scent of sweet vegetables.
Without much thought, she ladled stew into her bowl and settled at the table, the fires glow warming her back. She ate in quiet silence, the darkness around her softened by the flicker of flame, her mind wandering to the troubles of yesterday.
It had all unravelled the moment her strange abilities triggered, releasing a burst of light—shocking her mother, startling the neighbours, and nearly knocking out her poor friend, who almost fainted after being blasted by it.
There had been awe, when they realize that the light was some sort of a divine magic that healed. Murmured of compliments, even a smattering of admiration upon knowing the effect of the magic. But beneath the smiles lurked something colder, fear and worries.
A child blessed with divine magic could bring great fortune to her family, yet such a gift was just as likely to draw the wrong kind of attention from those in power. Already, her strange abilities had unsettled the clerics of the Royal Infirmary—their sudden, unannounced visit to her home yesterday was proof enough of that.
"If I hadn't fought those stupid birds, none of this would've happened! I should've just stayed quiet!" Kimmi muttered, lowering her gaze to the bowl of soup. Her reflection wobbled in the surface as her expression sank with it, the soup slowly growing cold.
For a moment, she went silent. Then, in a small, miserable voice, she whispered, "I should've just waited… should've endured… but the urge—oh, the madness of mine… huhuhu…" She whimpered softly, puffing at her spoon until ripples danced across the surface of her soup, the gentle bubbling echoing her restless thoughts.
"No, no—we did the right thing…" Kimmi murmured, her tone soft but weighed with uncertainty. "Yet the manner of our doing… was not as it should have been. Even righteous acts falter against the cynical heart."
She slumped forward, realizing that her carelessness—and her refusal to take her condition seriously—had set everything spiralling out of control.
Kimmi continued sipping her soup while humming a tune. "Oh, th' desire, oh, th' urge… were you here… were you not… only we, only me…"
Meanwhile, behind the door where Kimmi had just stood, Catherine sat hunched over her workbench, carefully boring a small hole into a figure of wood.
Whirrr-chrrrrk… Clack…
A low, creaking hum echoed through the room as the hand drill bit deeper into the wood, each careful turn sending a soft vibration through Catherine palm. She was fully absorbed in her craft, carving and shaping a simple log of wood into something anew.
Inspired by the posable mannequins at the Frasier Fine Frippery Store, she was carving her own small wooden figure—part by part, joint by joint. When finished, it would be about the length of her forearm, with limbs that could move and pose however she liked.
It was, without question, the most delightful thing she had ever made.
"My dearest… would love this," she murmured with a quiet smile, brushing a curl of wood shaving from her wrist as she thought of her daughter.
Catherine stretched her back with a quiet sigh, then glanced over at the crate beside her—filled with carved doll parts. Arms, legs, torsos, and heads, all neatly stacked, waiting for the final pieces that would bring them to life.
Then her eyes drifted to the centre of her worktable, where a wooden bird doll rested, its joints crafted to move from wing to neck to beak. It was her first project of the day, already finished before she even began on the others.
Catherine reached for the doll and began toying with it, carefully shifting its joints into different poses. But she knew it would not last. Wooden joints stiffened with time, cricking under pressure, and made every movement awkward and fragile.
"No, it had to be metal—smooth, sturdy, and flexible." Catherine muttered. "I need to visit Goran…" she sighed.
With that thought, she realized she would need extra help. Until then, the rest of the dolls would remain in pieces, waiting.
Suddenly—
Clink!
A faint sound tugged at her attention. A sound of something bounced across the floor beyond the door.
She paused, frowning. 'Probably nothing…' she told herself.
But then she remembered the stew she had prepared for breakfast early in the late night.
Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me… a rodent?" she gasped in dread.
Grabbing a broom with urgency, she rose from her seat and crept toward the door. When she opened it, darkness greeted her. The hallway was dim, save for a small flicker of light at the far end—the kitchen.
Her heart dropped.
'Fire!' she thought, panic rising. 'Did I forget to put it out?'
She picked up her pace, footsteps quick and light as she rushed toward the kitchen. But just as she turned the corner, she froze.
A shadowy figure sat atop the kitchen table, perfectly still. Behind it, the faint firelight from the stove cast flickering shadows, deepening its form—eerie, unnatural, almost otherworldly.
She gasped. "Demon! Back to your realm!" she cried, brandishing the broom like a spear.
The figure flinched. "Cane?"
Catherine blinked. That voice—soft, familiar.
"…Kimmi?" her guard down.
Still uncertain, she flicked her finger and shouted, "Illuminate!"
The lantern overhead flickered to life, bathing the kitchen in a pale white light that grew from dim to bright, sweeping away the shadows.
There, sitting cross-legged on the table with a bowl in hand, was her daughter Kimmi, looking up like a startled kitten caught in the act.
"Why are you eating in the dark, dear?" Catherine asked as she stepped into the kitchen. A soft smile touched her lips as she sees Kimmi quietly enjoying her meal.
Ignoring the fact that her daughter sitting on top of the table. Catherine move crossed the room with unhurried, opening the cabinet to prepare a warm drink.
Kimmi lifted her head slightly. She knew her mother was not upset, but even so, a hint of hesitation slipped into her voice, touched by quiet embarrassment.
"I didn't know how to turn the light on," she murmured, then took a small sip of the warm stew slowly.
Kimmi did not understand magic—despite having so many times wielded it. Or at least, she believed she had. But even that moment felt distant, she does not feel the magic truly her own.
Perhaps it had not come from her at all.
Perhaps it had been borrowed.
Borrowed from the entity that sometimes whispered in her mind.
The thought frightened her.
She remembered what Grand Elder Raimund had said at the Royal Infirmary. He had spoken of devils—of dark pacts and unnatural abilities—and suggested her survival might be tied to such forces. Though he dismissed the notion moments later, his words had already sunk deep, festering in the quiet corners of her mind.
Because he was not entirely wrong.
Catherine arched a brow, mildly surprised. "Oh?" she said, turning to face her daughter. "Have you forgotten the phrase? You simply say, 'Illuminate.' The lamp responds to incantation."
"I did that… and did say it," Kimmi murmured, her expression falling. "But nothing happened."
Catherine gave a soft, understanding chuckle as she returned to mixing a cup of rose syrup.
"Perhaps it was simply too dark, and you couldn't tell where the lamp was," she said softly, her voice calm and composed. "That can happen, especially when one is still groggy." She set the cup beside her daughter and gently combed her fingers through Kimmi's messy hair, tidying it with care.
Kimmi head tilted back slightly, following the motion. Without much effort, Catherine drew a long strip of cloth from her pocket and tied her daughters hair up neatly, securing it in a delicate bun.
Then, with a light touch of her finger—imbued with a sharp gust of wind—she snipped the excess ribbon clean.
Kimmi set her bowl down for a moment and picked up the warm cup her mother had prepared. She took a sip, then spoke without lowering it, her voice muffled and hollow, resonating faintly within the wooden cup.
"Mom… what do you mean I have to… sense it?" she curiously asked.
To sense magic, defied her reasoning. Not out of ignorance, but because it felt foreign.
Catherine picked up the ladle, pouring more stew into Kimmi bowl.
"Finish your meal first," she said, with the calm tenderness of a mother.
Kimmi beamed. Her mother was finally going to teach her something she had always wanted to know. She hurried to finish her stew, licking the last bit from her spoon, then climbed down from the table.
When she was done, she stood in front of her mother, eyes bright with expectation, ready for the promised lesson on how to sense magic. But Catherine had other plans. With a gentle pat, she directed Kimmi back to her bowl.
Dragging a chair over to the sink, Kimmi placed her bowl inside, climbed up, and began to wash it carefully. Water splashed around her small hands, but she took care not to leave a single spot unwashed.
Catherine watched from the corner of her eye, quietly amused.
Once the bowl was clean, Catherine handed her a cloth. Kimmi took it proudly and dried the bowl with exaggerated care, as though handling a treasure. When she was finished, Catherine leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her daughters head.
"Now?" Kimmi asked, her emerald eyes shining.
Catherine lips curved into a gentle smile, her reply soft. "Brush your teeth first, my little one."
Kimmi eye twitched like a tiny drumbeat, her patience slipping away one tick at a time—though she valiantly pretended it was not happening. Not now, not when there was a chance to uncover the mystery that had been dawning her for quite some time.
Her belly was brimming, her worries grew small, yet madness kept hymning, a whisper through all.
Spiral Eye of The Void
As the first light of dawn crept over the cities walls and spilled across the 17th District, it stretched through narrow alleys, climbed rooftops, and slipped into shuttered windows—one of which belonged to a modest store.
Golden light filtered through the window and landed softly on Kimmi, revealing her perched atop her favourite wooden stool. She stood bundled so tightly in her winter coat, her furrowed brow and narrowed, judging eyes peeked out from beneath her fluffy cap, casting silent accusations across the room.
Catherine, busy with her work, barely spared her daughter a glance. Her focus was fixed on hauling crates up from the basement and stacking them neatly onto the handcart waiting outside.
Every time she passed by with another box in her arms, Kimmi would scowl at her—a dramatic, exaggerated frown sharpened by narrowed eyes just barely visible beneath the puffy cap.
But Catherine did not respond. Not with a word, not with a sigh. She preferred her daughter pout from one spot, rather than run underfoot while she loaded the cart. Besides, she knew Kimmi storms blew over quickly enough—especially once there were snacks or new toys for her.
And Catherine knew full well that Kimmi was sulking.
The child had planted herself on that stool like a statue, arms crossed in protest—but even so, her daughters stubborn presence somehow filled her with energy and motivation.
And perhaps that was thanks to the coat she had prepared for her.
A fluffy white and taffy-coloured puffer coat swallowed Kimmi small frame, the collar so high it covered half her face. Only her eyes and a tuft of brown hair peeked out. To make matters worse, a matching cap—just as fluffy and tragically adorable—sat snugly on her head, giving her the unfortunate look of a walking marshmallow.
What truly made Kimmi sulk, what dragged down her mood like a soggy mitten, was the fact that her mother still had not taught her, how to use an enchanted magic lamp light.
Every time she asked, her mother would gently redirect her with another task—like brushing her teeth or tidying her room. And while the praise she received for doing those chores did warm her heart a little, it was never what she truly seeks.
Eventually, Kimmi stopped asking.
Now she relied on the oldest trick in the book.
The silent protest, with an added hostile manner.
She wore her most conspicuous scowl, eyes narrowed just enough to express grave injustice.
It was her way of saying; I want to be heard! Really heard!
And so, bundled in her ridiculous winter coat and armed with nothing but a stubborn pout, Kimmi stood atop her favourite stool in the store, glaring up at her mother like a defiant marshmallow—and refusing to come down.
Yet still, her mother ignored her.
Each time Catherine passed by, lugging another crate from the basement to door to the handcart, Kimmi scowled harder. But on her seventh pass, Kimmi caught it—a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of her mothers lips.
That smile told her everything.
Her mother was not truly ignoring her. No, this was a ploy. A silent trick to keep her sulky little snowball rooted in one spot while she worked. Kimmi protest had backfired spectacularly. Her tantrum had been turned against her.
And now she was fuming.
Betrayed by her own mother and still unacknowledged, Kimmi let out a dramatic huff. With all the righteous fury a bundled marshmallow could muster, she leapt off the stool. It wobbled dangerously before clattering to the floor.
Thunk!
The stool hit the floor.
Catherine head snapped around, panic flashing in her eyes—half-expecting to see her daughter sprawled on the floor. But there stood Kimmi, perfectly upright, arms crossed, her sulky glare sharpened into a triumphant grin.
"I got your attention now," Kimmi muttered, chin raised in defiance. She would not be ignored.
Catherine let out a long breath of relief. "Oh Lioris preserve me…" she whispered, setting the crate gently on the counter. She crossed the room and knelt before Kimmi, eye to eye.
Without a word, she pinched her daughters nose between her fingers and gave it a gentle wiggle.
"No! Stop it," Kimmi mumbled, jerking her head away with a pout.
Still smiling, Catherine reached into the fold of her coat and pulled something from her pocket. "I was going to give this to you after we got back, but… I think now's a good time."
She held out a wooden bird, no larger than her palm. It carried the faint scent of fresh woods, with delicate limbs and jointed wings that could actually move—a clever little thing, one of her newest creations from the night before.
Kimmi eyes lit up instantly.
Her fingers twitched with temptation, her entire expression softening for one dangerous second, then her resolve returned. She pressed the doll back into her mothers hands with a sulky frown.
"Huumpt! I still need my answers," Kimmi huffed, her voice small but stubborn.
Catherine raised an eyebrow, sighing softly as she began to draw the doll back. But Kimmi fingers clung to it—a gentle tug, but enough to show she had no intention of letting it go.
Catherine paused, then slowly loosened her grip, allowing Kimmi to snatch the doll and bury it deep within her coat.
"…I'll keep this bird as a peace offering," Kimmi declared, puffing out her coat to hide the toy like a dragon hoarding treasure. She hugged it tightly to her chest, daring anyone to pry it away.
"Of course, my dear," Catherine chuckled, then gave Kimmi's cheek a gentle squish. "But please, don't do anything dangerous while Mom's working." She pointed toward the stairs. "Sit there, just for a moment—two more crates, and we're done."
Kimmi huffed, stomping her foot against the floorboards. "But I want my answer!"
Catherine sighed and sank cross-legged onto the wooden floor, weariness finally catching up to her. "Oh dear Kimmi… I can't answer you without knowing the question…"
"I can't sense magic! How am I supposed to sense magic? I still can't make sense of it!" Kimmi burst out in a barrage of questions, her long frustration finally bubbling over.
"Oh?" Catherine blinked. "Then how did you turn on the lamp in your bedroom?"
"The lamp?" Kimmi tilted her head, genuinely puzzled.
'I've never once turned it on,' she thought. 'It's always just… been there for me.'
Kimmi was shocked by her mothers words. It had never occurred to her to wonder how the lamp in her room worked. To her, it had always felt natural—the way it lit up whenever she was near and dimmed whenever she fell asleep or left the room.
Yet now, with her mothers remark lingering in her ears, her logic began questioning how it was supposed to work. But nothing about it truly made sense, except in the strange ways she had always assumed it ought to.
'A motion detector? No… maybe a signal wave? Or radiation?' Her thoughts tumbled and tangled, each idea less convincing than the last, and yet she clung to them all the same, chasing the faint belief that some hidden truth must be waiting behind the impossible.
"I don't know how… I just did," Kimmi admitted, her brow furrowed.
Catherine's lips pressed into a thin line. "That's… troubling," she murmured. There was no mistaking the concern in her voice. Her daughter was not known for having strong magical flow. If anything, Kimmi magical presence was faint—barely sensible.
"Very well," Catherine sighed. "Show me your hands."
"Okay…" Kimmi held out both her small palms.
Catherine gently pinched the tips of Kimmi index fingers.
"Close your eyes, Kimmi. Try to feel it—the flow of magic moving through your body."
Kimmi obeyed, shutting her eyes and slipping into the darkness behind her eyelids. She felt pressure of her mothers fingers pressing on hers. Then, slowly, a strange sensation crept in—a tiny cramp, like a worm wiggling just beneath her skin. It slithered from her left finger to her elbow, then up to her shoulder and across to her chest, where it pulsed softly in her heart… then retraced the same path toward her right hand.
"Do you feel that, Kimmi? That's magic, flowing through you," Catherine whispered.
"It tickles!" Kimmi giggled.
She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands—but nothing had changed. No glowing lights. No sparkles. No magical fireworks. Just a sense of something living and wiggling beneath her skin.
"Don't look—feel," Catherine reminded gently. "You need to focus to find your magic radicle."
"Magic radicle? What's that?"
"It is but a small stone—or perhaps a seed—nestled deep inside us, close to the heart. There it keeps our magic, like a spring that never truly runs dry." Catherine softly spoke.
"Oh! Like a battery!" Kimmi said brightly.
"Battery?" Catherine tilted her head, unfamiliar with the term.
"You know... the thing that produce electrical power…" Kimmi paused, frowning. The word felt right and wrong at the same time.
She winced and rubbed her temple. A dull ache flickered behind her eyes.
"Never heard of a battery, dear," Catherine chuckled. "Unless you mean a buttery-butter—That fills your belly and gives you strength."
Kimmi snorted but did not answer.
Catherine rose and gently released her hands. "Still hungry? Do you want a snack?"
"No, I'm not hungry…" Kimmi murmured, her mind already wandering elsewhere.
She pressed her palm against her chest, just above her heart. She could hear it—steady, rhythmic, alive. Yet it was not her heartbeat she was listening for. She remembered the strange current she had felt earlier, looping twice before slipping away into the centre of her chest.
'Something was there—faint, null… foreign, yet somehow familiar.' She wondered.
'What was a battery again?' The thought flickered, confused and uncertain.
"Alright then," Catherine said, brushing Kimmi hair back and placing a soft kiss on her head. "Mom's going to finish up. Just a couple more crates, and then we'll have a nice treat, okay?"
"Fine…" Kimmi replied distractedly.
But her mind was already drifting—spinning with thoughts of solving her new dilemma.
'How do you trigger magic…?' she still clueless.
She sat on the steps, hands curled near her chest, lost in thought. With the wooden doll in her grasp, Kimmi turned it over absently, her mind twisting and turning in search of the truth of magical power.
Catherine watched Kimmi playing with her new doll, and the sight warmed her heart. But when she noticed Kimmi muttering to herself, unfocused, worry crept in that her mania symptoms might soon return.
Kimmi drifted deeper into the recesses of her mind.
Renoa…
A faint whisper brushed against her ear, close enough to break her concentration.
Kimmi turned her head to the right, glancing toward the counter, then to the small hatch beneath the stairs—but nothing was there. She shifted her gaze to the door—it was now closed.
'Odd..' Kimmi thought.
She turned her attention to her surroundings, only to sense a strange change stirring around the store.
At first, she thought the store had simply grown darker, perhaps from a cloud crossing the sun or a shutter being drawn closed. But no—that was not it.
The light had not dimmed.
The colours had vanished.
Her wide eyes swept across the shelves, taking in each item on display. She blinked in disbelief—everything had lost its colour, every object fading into the same lifeless shade of gray.
"Wait—did I just turn colourblind?!" she muttered. "What kind of sickness is this—cancer? Nerve damage?! Or is this another form of madness"
She noticed something far worse.
All motion stilled, every sound vanished—as if the very flow of time itself had been cut away.
Before she could form another thought, a thin crack split through the wall—sharp enough to make her flinch. More fractures followed, spreading like spiderwebs across the wood and stone. The house began to peel apart, each splinter lifting away and drifting upward, as though the seem of reality finally showing itself.
Kimmi watched in horror as fragments of her home dissolving into the gray void above. She hoped that someone—anyone—outside might see what was happening. But there was nothing beyond the disintegrating walls. No streets. No houses. No city.
Only dark emptiness.
She turned toward the hatch where her mother should have been, but it too had shattered into a hundred drifting shards. The debris twisted into a furious vortex, dragged by an unseen force, spiralling toward some unfathomable abyss.
"Wha—what's going on?! Everything's… dematerializing! Walls aren't supposed to do that! That's not how destruction works! Kimmi yelped.
"Unless—oh no—this is a dream! Or—or one of those terrifying sleep paralysis!" Kimmi squeaked, twitching her head nervously as the cracks slowly crept toward her feet.
Kimmi eyes followed the torrent—until she saw it.
A pale shape in the void, resembling a single hollow eye. Its gaze drew in every fragment of debris, like an ever-hungry demon devouring the last remnants of her reality.
She stood frozen, caught between awe and horror. And as the final pieces of the floor were torn away, she began to fall.
Finally, as the final pieces of the floor were torn away, she began to fall.
Her stomach lurched as the ground vanished beneath her. Kimmi yelped, flailing wildly, arms reaching for anything solid—but there was nothing. No walls. No ground. No end in sight. Only herself, plummeting deeper into the fathomless dark.
Renoa…
Once more, a whisper brushed against her ears—but she chose to ignore it again.
Kimmi descent suddenly stopped—or so she thought. With all her senses numbed and her surroundings void of form, she could no longer tell if she was falling or floating.
It did not matter anymore.
Renoa Renoa Renoa
But Kimmi kept ignoring it—there was a far greater dilemma demanding her attention.
"What's happening? Is this truly… a dream?" Kimmi muttered, glancing down at her hands as she float in the darkness.
"But the fall should've woken me up by now… which means either I'm very brave, or I don't fear death…" She paused, her expression twisting into confusion. "Or maybe… I'm already dead."
Her voice grew softer, almost thoughtful. "If that's true… then it really was a test all along," she whispered, a weary smile touching her lips. "So, I was right… in the end—I really did die."
Kimmi had once believed all the strangeness she felt was a divine trial—a test of faith. But later, her belief shifted toward something more rational, more logical—anything to keep herself from drifting one step further into madness.
"Ah," came a voice, calm and weathered, yet warm. "That depends on how you perceive it, child. You are here, are you not? Conscious, aware. Dead, perhaps—but still alive in the ways that truly matter. Perhaps this is death, yes—but death is but a passage, another transition in the endless cycle of life."
Kimmi turned, startled.
There, seated in the void, was the shadowy figure of an elderly man clad in tattered gray robes. A large, travel-worn satchel rested upon his lap.
Beside him, a gnarled wooden staff floated weightlessly, several small phials tied to it by frayed cords. Each glowed faintly in soft hues of yellow and red, their light gently revealing his weathered face.
His beard was long and unkempt, and even his eyebrows had grown wild, as though they too had wandered through time. Atop his head sat a tilted chaperon hat, worn and faded, giving him the air of a wayward hermit drifting between worlds.
"I have seen you before… haven't I, child?" the old man asked gently.
Kimmi froze and turned her head the other way, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Yes… yes! I remember you now," the man continued, his voice brightening. "You were the child snatched away by goblins!"
Kimmi blinked. 'Goblins?' She had never even seen one, let alone been kidnapped by it.
"You're not a god, right? 'Cause gods don't lie! And I've definitely never met you before, Grandpa—maybe that's because I couldn't even see you clearly in all this darkness!" Kimmi squinted, trying hard to get a clearer glimpse of the old man.
"Ah, I see…" The old man chuckled softly, rubbing his beard. "Perhaps you are right, child. My memories do seem… misplaced in these times."
He paused, then reached into his bag, pulled out a small phial, popped the cork, sniffed it, and gave it a gentle shake.
"But heed my words, little one—do not trust divine beings too willingly. They are… shrewd entities."
Kimmi tried to sit up, following the old man's example, but sitting upright on nothing proved nearly impossible. She pressed her hands against the void, only to find no resistance whatsoever. With a grunt, she rolled awkwardly toward him instead.
"Are you afraid, child?" he asked.
"No! I'm frustrated!" Kimmi snapped irritably in an instant.
"Do not be," the old cleric said gently. "There is nothing to fear here. No pain, no harm can reach you in this place."
"Well, that's obviously a lie!" Kimmi snapped. "You just said I was kidnapped by goblins—and that hurt my feelings!"
The old man fell silent, pondering her words. His brow furrowed deeply, as though he were weighing something far greater than her remark. At last, he gave a solemn nod.
He raised the small clay phial high, murmuring an incantation.
"Flair of Mender—Radiance Oil."
With a flick of his wrist, the old man throws the phial into the air. It shimmered from deep crimson to brilliant gold, and in an instant, the darkness around them bloomed with light—like a tiny sun awakening from slumber.
Colour returned to the void once more.
The elder now stood clearly before her—his robes of green and red were frayed at the edges, their colours dulled by time.
His hair, a tangled mane of deep green, framed a face illuminated by calm silver eyes that gleamed faintly in the void. Sun-worn skin bore the quiet marks of time, each line a testament to years spent beneath open skies.
A massive satchel hung from his shoulder, filled to bursting with curious odds and ends; the faint clinking of clay phials accompanied his every movement.
He seems to looked more like an old merchant.
But Kimmi ignored that, for something else had caught her attention. She had heard similar incantation before.
'Flair of Mender! I know that spell!' she squealed inwardly, her thoughts practically bouncing.
"Umm… good Grandpa," she asked aloud, tilting her head curiously, "could you tell me your name?"
"Ah, well… hmm…" The old man's voice rumbled. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
Kimmi stayed sprawled on the floor, staring up at him, waiting.
"Hmm…" He scratched his forehead, frowning deeply as if the question was difficult.
She continued waiting—still sprawled on the ground, her mouth hanging open in waiting.
Finally, the elder exhaled a long sigh and murmured, "I… don't quite remember."
Kimmi's eyes went wide. "What do you mean you don't remember?! You can't just forget your own name! That's like… the first thing you're supposed to remember!"
The old man chuckled softly, his voice raspy but kind. "My apologies, child… it seems age has finally caught up with me. Hohoho…"
Kimmi puffed her cheeks. "But… we're dead, right? So you must've gone senile before dying!"
The old man blinked, clearly wounded by her words. He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Such cruelty from so young a tongue. Tell me then, little one—do you remember your name?"
"Normally, the stranger should introduce himself first," Kimmi said, resting her head on her folded arms as she lay there, unable to stand. "But fine, I'll go first! My name is… Kim… Kimber… Kimberly… Mae Gustmill!" she stammered, as if testing the syllables for the first time.
The old man raised a brow. "Is that truly your name?" he asked, suspicion twinkling in his eyes.
"Yeah! And my friends call me Kimmi!" she declared proudly.
"I see… Kimmi, then," he said with a soft nod.
"No, no, no!" she interrupted, waving her finger. "My friends call me Kimmi—you're still a nameless stranger! You don't get friend privileges yet!"
The old man let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. "Very well then, little one. You may call me… Mender. I believe that's what I was once called. Yes… yes, that sounds right."
"A Mender…" Kimmi echoed, tilting her head thoughtfully.
"I am a Mender," he clarified, nodding with gentle pride.
The moment the word left his lips, Kimmi froze. A faint hum stirred in her mind, like a chorus of distant voices whispering through her ears. Her eyes flickered, unfocused, and before she knew it, her lips began to move.
"A Mender hands bear no divine,yet still she turn back deaths design.She healed with thread and bone and steel,no god to bless, no prayer to kneel. Blades may swing and arrow fly, a ward turns them all awry. As long as will and magic dwell, the harm she brace will never swell." Kimmi blinked, breathless, as silence followed her strange recitation.
The old man raised his brows, clearly impressed. "A wonderful play of words, child… though I fear that poem was not meant for me." He chuckled softly, stroking his long, wispy beard.
"Wait—aren't you a Mender?" Kimmi asked, squinting.
"Not quite so grand one, I assure you," he said with a good-natured laugh that echoed like a hymn.
The old Mender rose slowly to his feet, his movements deliberate yet light, as if the void itself do not bother him. With surprising strength, he reached down and lifted Kimmi from the depths of the nothingness, setting her upright with a gentle pull.
Kimmi blinked in disbelief, flailing her arms as though bracing for a fall. She prepared her feet for solid ground—only to remember there was none.
And yet, she did not fall.
She turned toward the old man, eyes wide, mouth agape. He simply smiled and gave her a reassuring nod, as if this defiance of reality were the most ordinary thing in the void.
Cautiously, Kimmi bent her knees and lowered herself, her arms waving for balance. Her body wobbled as though sitting on nothing—and yet, somehow, she managed to settle into a cross-legged.
Kimmi continues. "Then what about… Blades may swing and arrow fly,a ward turns them all awry.As long as will and magic dwell,the harm she brace will never swell.With every step, her magic grew,nature pulse beneath her hue.The ground beneath began to crack,as she walked, it all turned black… do that make any sense?"
"It sounds like a riddle, child. But to me, it is simply… poetry that stirs an old heart," the old man said with a serene smile. "Is there more?"
"Hmm, well… She speaks with zeal, her voice so grand, as though she's preaching through the land. Unaware, she's got the flair, for a sermon no one asked to bear… Aaaand that's all I got.." she exhaled.
The old man chuckled, his eyes shining. "Thank you, little Kimmi, for such a lovely verse. I almost wish I was that Mender of your poem. Your words make this old heart ache for the past—whether it happened or not."
He leaned back and gazed up at the glowing clay phial, now floating like a tiny sun. "Tell me, little one… how did you come by such flowery speech?"
Kimmi scratched her cheek, embarrassed. "I didn't! It just started buzzing in my head the moment you said Mender. Like… a cursed riddle, or some divine song."
"Ah… then perhaps the divine speak to you, little Kimmi," the old man said, his gaze deep and knowing. "For when the gods choose a voice, it is seldom through the wise or the worthy—but through those who still listen."
He looked at her meaningfully, his tone softening. "And you did listen…"
Kimmi froze, eyes wide. Then, with a yelp, she clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
"I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything!" she squeaked, panicking as if that alone could save her from divine trouble.
"Hohohoho!" The old Mender's laughter echoed warmly through the void.
"I can't run… I'm doomed…" Kimmi muttered gloomily, slumping forward.
"Calm yourself, little Kimmi," the old man said with a gentle smile, reaching into his satchel. "Here—drink this. It will wash your troubles away."
Kimmi accepted the clay phial suspiciously, uncorked it, and took a cautious sniff. Her nose wrinkled.
"…This smells like pears. Fermented pears." She squinted up at him. "Did you add yeast to this?"
The old man blinked, surprised. "Ah! You noticed!"
"Horrible! Horrible! You senile old man!" Kimmi cried, her voice cracking between outrage and disbelief. "You gave a child alcohol?! How could you?!" She glared at him.
The old Mender was taken aback, clearly flustered by such an accusation.
"I am—!" Kimmi began, but her words trailed off as her mind went blank. She tried to recall her age, yet nothing came to her—only the certainty that she was still a child, simply because she was small.
"I'm still a child! Can't you see that, you horrible grandpa?!" she huffed, standing up without realizing she was standing on edge of nothingness.
"I am still small…" she muttered stubbornly—then paused.
Her eyes widened as she noticed she seemed taller. Taller than she remembered. Or perhaps—she squinted—the old man was just unusually short for an adult.
"My apologies," he said quickly, bowing his head. "You seemed old enough for such a beverage."
The old Mender chuckled nervously, scratching his head. "I was misled by appearances, little Kimmi. You bore the look of a scholar, and I erred in my judgment."
"Scholar?" Kimmi frowned and extended her arms, glancing down at her sleeves. Her eyes widened. The soft, fluffy clothes she had worn before were gone—replaced by a plain thick pale coat. Her pink marshmallow coat was nowhere to be seen.
She gasped and turned sharply toward the old man. "What do I look like?"
"Hmmm…" The old Mender tilted his head, studying her with squinted eyes. "I don't quite know how to describe your face, child… except that you are undoubtedly young."
"Is… is that all?" Kimmi asked, flabbergasted by the old Mender's calmness.
He squinted, leaning in close, and she instinctively leaned closer.
"Ah! Green eyes… and long brown hair!" he exclaimed, his tone one of sudden delight.
He took a long sip from his phial of fermented pear, smacking his lips with satisfaction.
Kimmi frowned and began feeling her own cheeks, nose, and forehead, as if she could confirm the truth by touch alone. She even tugged at her hair—now longer, yet still brown—as though that, too, might prove something real.
The old Mender chuckled softly. "Oh, I have something that might help you, little one." He reached into his satchel and rummaged noisily before pulling out a small, squared mirror.
"Here—take this, and see for yourself."
He handed it to her with a grin.
Kimmi hesitated, then took the mirror and peered into it.
Her eyes went wide.
Staring back at her was not her refection—but a dark, shadowy figure with faint, glowing eyes burning through the darkness.
With a shriek, Kimmi dropped the mirror—only to find it did not fall. It floated in midair, slowly turning on its own.
As it rotated, she caught sight of the old man's reflection.
His image, too, was a figure of shifting darkness with hollow eyes gleaming faintly white.
"Demon! You're a demon!" Kimmi cried, stumbling backward.
The old Mender burst into hearty laughter. "Hohoho! No, no, little Kimmi—cast aside such fearful thoughts. I am no demon, nor devil, but merely a weary soul walking the same road as you."
"That's exactly what a demon would say!" she snapped, pointing an accusing finger.
"True enough," the Mender replied calmly, stroking his beard. "But if I am damned, then you are as well, little one. Tell me—what did you see, when you beheld your own reflection?"
Kimmi hesitated, glancing nervously toward the mirror. The same shadowy form stared back at her—eerily similar to his.
Her voice trembled. "Th-then… we're both… damned."
"No… we are but lost souls, little Kimmi—wandering until judgment comes to us," the old Mender murmured solemnly.
He clasped his hands together, eyes half-closed. "What you saw in that mirror, child, may well be the truth of our being. Flesh are fleeting things—dust before the eyes of gods."
Kimmi frowned, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure? Maybe that mirror of yours is enchanted! It probably makes people look all shadowy and cursed!"
The Mender sighed, his shoulders slumping as though burdened by ages. "I do not believe I carry any enchanted relics."
"But what about all those bottles—and that thing!" she pointed accusingly at the glowing phial high above and a floating staff right between them. "That's definitely magical!"
He chuckled softly. "No, no, little Kimmi. These and that phial is filled with humble alchemical mixtures—some filled with medicine and food, nothing more."
"So, you're a healer of some kind—selling medicine, food, and maybe exploding stuff too?" she said, her eyes widening.
The Mender smiled faintly. "Healer, yes… though not one of those sanctimonious clerics." His tone darkened. "Clerics… I despise them."
"You don't like clerics?" Kimmi tilted her head.
"I hate them," he said flatly. "Somewhere deep within this heart of mine, I know—they are the reason I died."
Kimmi blinked. "Wait! So—you remember dying?"
"I do not," he said softly, gaze distant. "But each time that word—cleric—is spoken, a bitterness stirs within me."
Kimmi hugged her knees and nodded thoughtfully. "Clerics gave me trouble too… maybe that's my fault, though."
The old man looked at her with curiosity. "And what did they do, little Kimmi? Did they send you here—to this afterlife?"
"I don't know," Kimmi said. "I don't know if I can trust my own experiences… But they made my mother worry—all because I can do weird divine magic… kinda like yours!"
Kimmi clasped her hands together and pointed at the old man.
"Flair of Mender—Far Aid!"
A beam of light began to form at her fingertips, then shot forward toward the elder.
The old Mender's eyes widened in surprise as the light reached him—but he did nothing, merely watching her in astonishment.
Then, a soft voice echoed in her mind.
Failure.
Kimmi startled. The meaning was clear—her spell had failed.
The old Mender face shifted—from surprise to something softer. His breath caught as he watched Kimmi eyes shimmer into silver, the same hue as his own.
For a long moment, he simply gazed at her—speechless, as if words could not reach where his heart had suddenly wandered.
"Kimberly… Mae Gustmill," he murmured. "Never in my years did I pass such knowledge to another—save my son. And you… you are not him."
"You remember your son?" she asked, leaning forward. "Then what's his name?"
"I… do not remember him," he whispered, eyes cast downward. "And your father's name, child?"
"It's Edward Gustmill—he should be here too!" she said eagerly, her voice bright with sudden hope. She could not remember what her father truly looked like—only the stories from Catherine, her mother. "It's only logical for him to be here," she added, a nervous laugh slipping out. "He's… well, he's dead."
"I see… how most unfortunate," he murmured softly, his gaze settling on Kimmi with quiet solemnity. "Yet, I envy you, child—for you still possess memories that cling."
"I don't," Kimmi murmured with a weary sigh. "The memories I have… they feel strange—distant, unreal somehow, as if they belong to someone else entirely."
"Perhaps the gods have indeed set a trial before you," the old man said thoughtfully. "A path to relive what was lost, so your soul may find its truth once more."
"Could be… I guess that explains a lot," Kimmi said with a small sigh of relief. "Weirdly enough, that makes me feel better." She truly appreciating the idea.
"Had I known my son, I think he'd have been like you, child—his heart full of wonder, his mind ever reaching for the unknown." The old man's smile carried both pride and sorrow.
Kimmi squinted, a playful grin tugging at her lips. "Wait a minute… don't tell me—you're my great-great-something grandpa, aren't you?"
The old Mender blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter. "Hohohoho! Perhaps, perhaps! That would make you a fine little heir of my foolish blood!" His laughter faded into a sigh. "Ah… but if you are truly kin, then I am twice damned—for you are here beside me."
He reached for his phial and began to drink deeply.
Kimmi smiled mischievously. "Don't be so sad, Grandpa… you're not alone anymore."
He reached for more phial and drank even faster as he listened to more of Kimmi's nonsense.
Shattered fragments cling to a broken mind, endless tethered, no solace to attain.
Meanwhile,
Catherine finally finished loading every crate onto the handcart. She had even rearranged the boxes into a makeshift chair—complete with armrests and a soft cushion—for Kimmi to sit on. Everything was ready for their small departure.
Everything, except Kimmi.
She knows her daughter still sat on the stairs, toying with her newest invention. The faint creak of its joint brought a small, tired smile to Catherine lips. It warmed her heart to see Kimmi happy again, even for a little while.
"Kimmi, dear!" she called from outside.
Her voice carried through the open doorway, where her child should have easily heard her.
No reply came.
Catherine thought nothing of it.
Kimmi often lost herself in play, perhaps she simply had not noticed. She stepped back inside—and there she was, still perched on the stair, eyes locked on her toy as if the world beyond it no longer existed.
Catherine smile softened. She approached quietly, crouching beside her.
"It's time to go, dear," she murmured, whispering into her daughter ears. "The big warehouse is waiting. Remember? Adventure awaits…"
Kimmi did not stir.
Only when Catherine reached out did the girl suddenly jolt upright—sharp and startled, like a frightened cat.
"What is it?" Catherine asked, her tone now unsure.
Kimmi's gaze darted around the room, wild and searching.
Then, she spoke a single word. "Roa."
Catherine blinked. "Roa?"
Kimmi did not answer. She slipped away, her small boots clattering against the floor as she searched between shelves and under counters, peering into shadows. Her movements grew frantic.
"Roa!" she cried again, her voice cracking. "Gone!" she shook her hand desperately, as though trying to tell that something had missing.
Before Catherine could react, Kimmi rush toward the stair almost stumbled, nearly falling.
Catherine lunged forward and caught her in her arms—only for Kimmi to thrash and struggle against her grip. Her small hands struck out in panic. One still clutched the toy, which struck Catherine forehead, snapping in two before falling to the floor.
For an instant, the world froze. Then Kimmi broke free and bolted upstairs.
Catherine breath caught in her throat. She saw her daughter biting her own arm through the thick sleeve of her coat—desperate, trembling, lost. And in that moment, Catherine understood.
The Mania illness had returned.
Her heart broke all over again. She rushed to lock the front door, then chased after her child.
At the top of the stairs, she found Kimmi in the hall—her sleeve pulled up to her shoulder, teeth sinking into her arm until blood seeped through her hand.
"Stop!" Catherine cried, tears spilling freely.
But Kimmi only screamed louder, the same word again and again—"Roa!"—as if calling for something that was not there.
Catherine gathered her into her arms. Kimmi resisted at first, clawing, trembling, weeping. But Catherine held her tighter, whispering nothing, because words no longer mattered.
She could only hold her child as the sobs broke into small, uneven gasps—until all that was left was the quite sound of a mothers tears, and a childs desperate breath against her shoulder.
She followed echoes none could hear, branded lost, when truth was near.