Nevara was a wonderful, beautiful, and miraculous capital located approximately 850 ft above sea level on the Central Continent of the world.
It was built on the foundation of a highland, surrounded by several taller mountains with lush green scenery, making it one of the most popular tourist attractions and a natural defense barricade due to its rocky terrain.
One thing that stood out about this city was its sky-scratching lighthouse at the center of the capital, which was deemed one of the natural wonders left by their long-gone ancestors.
The lighthouse was built around the 12th century by the late governor to guide sailors and voyagers across the globe upon reaching Nevara's maritime.
On top of that, the lighthouse was also used to signal nearby ships to immediately dock in the port before an unforgiving storm sent their ships to the bottom of the ocean—leaving only traces of shipwreck and no treasure.
Today, under the brilliant leadership of the Ministry of Sea Affairs, the enormous lighthouse still operates in this micro-instant and continues to be the guiding light of the sailors at night.
The district was crammed with shops and entertainment facilities for tourists.
Motels' signs were brighter than the sun itself during the night to attract customers so they would spend money and stay at the motels.
Including the special kind of motels where two people meet to search for nonmutual pleasure.
Simply put, a brothel. Nevertheless, that is not the concern of the story.
"Love," such a mundane yet subjective statement. It exists in many forms and expressions.
One could love with such pure intentions, while another loves with a contradicting belief in romance.
But can one truly define the meaning of romance?
That said, what instrument conveys the essence of true love? A poet's love is a lie told, and a musician's romance is an ever-contradictory one.
But what of those who have yet to understand what emotions are? What of those who know not the meaning of love?
Because even something as simple as "I love you" is not a light vow; it's a testament one must carry to their grave.
Thus, it brought us here. The story of a girl who was never given purpose, who was never thought of, who does not recognize what it is like to simply live and not kill.
And I promised you that if you stay, you'll venture this story with me in finding "love."
On the outskirts of Nevara lies a small nursery run by a few nurses and simple town doctors.
It was used by the locals to treat ill elderly or injured children who dared to play too close to the danger.
But never has the nursery asked to look after a wounded soldier. Let alone a young girl with a slim figure and short height.
Yet she was no girl; there is no difference between her and a killer. She was a product of war, meant to slaughter the opposing forces.
That's what has been said, that even a child is not innocent in war.
That day, the early sun seeped through the glass windows of the nursery.
She was awakened from her sleep, stretching her tired body wrapped in bandages on the patient's bed.
Her right eye opened first as it adjusted to the bright ray of light that had interrupted her sleep.
However, the same couldn't be said for her left eye—it was hidden under the cloth of bandages, yet she could not feel its presence anymore.
With a grunt, she pushed herself to sit up straight on the bed, using her weak arms as a crutch.
She looked to her right, and there was breakfast served by the nurse earlier when she was still deep in her sleep.
There were foods that one would expect to be on a breakfast menu: one sunny-side-up egg, two strips of bacon, a bowl of mixed veggies, and a glass of water.
But something else caught her attention; it was an envelope with the post office's signature stamped on it.
It had sat there quietly beside the plate all morning—waiting to be opened.
"A letter…?"
The girl took the envelope, and her small hands began to work on tearing the envelope to reveal the contents hidden inside.
Why would anyone send her a letter? And most importantly... Who?
"Could it be...?" When she finally tore open the envelope, she hurriedly pulled out the letter inside.
But as soon as she read the first paragraph, her shoulders slumped, and her earlier excitement vanished as if it never existed.
The letter reads;
"Dear Scarlet,
I addressed myself as Clint Wood Everhart, your adopter and your soon-to-be legal guardian.
I am sending this letter to you to let you know that you will be discharged from the nursery starting today.
As your legal guardian, I hope you could cooperate with me as per the request of your superior officer during the military campaign against the Berheming forces.
I was entrusted with this mandate of taking you in after the war had ended.
That said, I hoped you would understand that my intention was merely to help and to fulfill my promise, and neither I nor any party concerned harbors any Ill intention towards you.
With regards, Clint Wood Everhart"
After she finished reading the letter, she set it aside on her bed beside her pillow.
She then stared at the food before her — the letter had made her lose any appetite to even take a bite anymore.
In this moment, she could only think of one thing, where is "he"? How long will she have to wait until she can finally be reunited with her superior? Her... Master.
It is like a guard dog who is lost and in need of their master's order.
For almost 6 months, she has been stranded in this nursery all by herself, accompanied by only the usual checkups by the nurses in charge which have been her constant source of human connection.
Just as she was lost in her own world of thought, a sudden noise of an engine roaring outside the nursery caught her attention. Could it be?
She had hoped, and that hope must be reality. She wanted to understand, what his last order was, what "romance" meant?
When the engine of the automobile was killed, a figure stepped out of the vehicle. It was not him, but it was someone she expected. Seeing her in this condition... Vulnerable to all threats.
The person knocked on the nursery door, once, twice. And finally, a nurse rushed to answer the door, the man standing in the door frame was dressed casually, his brown hair flowed smoothly as the wind blew the strands gently.
"You're.. Mr. Clint Wood am I right?" The nurse asked, and she looked at the guest's list to confirm.
"That's me." He responded shortly — his eyes scanning the room critically to look for a particular girl with white silk hair. Suddenly, his eyes landed on a hanging guitar on the wall.
For some reason, he felt a familiar sense of unease when he stared at it for too long, he could swear he saw blood leaking out from the hole and in between the strings of the instrument.
The nurse cleared her throat and made a polite gesture to follow her.
"This way please."
Clint nodded, following the nurse to Scarlet's infirmary where she currently resided.