Atop the high tower, a girl was indeed hidden.
She had no real name.
Eighteen years ago, when the woman who called herself "Mother" carried her here, she named her "Lettuce."
Since then, those two words became her only designation in this corner of the world.
Lettuce had striking golden hair, incredibly long and as supple as flowing sunlight.
Every time she combed it, the strands sliding through her fingertips carried a silk-like coolness.
She loved to sit on the window ledge at the top of the tower (the only place where the tower could breathe, hidden behind thick vines), letting the wind brush through the tips of her hair, watching the golden locks fly in the breeze as if trying to grasp something, yet catching nothing at all.
Her eyes were light brown, like pools of melted honey, though they were always rippled with an inextricable layer of confusion.
For as long as she could remember, her field of vision was limited to this small tower top; the four walls were cold stone, and outside the window was an endless forest. Aside from "Mother," she had never seen another person.
No friends, no playmates—not even a bird would rarely stop at the top of the tower.
During the day, she would talk to the walls, treating the vines as her audience and naming every small purple flower—the most vibrant one was called "Little Purple," and the one that always hung its head was "Shy One."
She would pass the time by counting the patterns on the stone bricks; she could count how many cracks were in a single brick even with her eyes closed.
Only at night, when the moon climbed slowly over the tower's spire like a polished silver coin, would "Mother" arrive under the cover of darkness.
The woman always wrapped herself in a voluminous black cloak with the hood pulled extremely low, almost covering her entire face, only occasionally revealing a jawline as cold and hard as the bluestone of the tower.
She carried a wicker basket covered with a coarse cloth, which always contained rye bread and a ceramic jar of fresh water; on lucky occasions, there would be a small bouquet of wild chrysanthemums, their yellow petals damp with night dew—a rare splash of color in the monotonous tower top.
She never used a ladder, nor did she ever take a conventional path.
Every time she reached the bottom of the tower, she would stand still, look up, and call out in her raspy voice:
"Lettuce, Lettuce, let down your hair."
Then, Lettuce would go to the window and untie the plain silk ribbon binding her hair.
That long golden hair would pour down like a waterfall, cascading along the tower's side until it reached the ground, the strands fluttering gently in the air like a river condensed from moonlight.
"Mother" would grab the hair and skillfully climb up the waterfall of gold.
The hem of her cloak would sweep across the stone windowsill, bringing a cool breeze mixed with the scent of forest soil and decaying leaves, making the stray hairs at Lettuce's temples quiver.
She would always walk straight to the stone stool beside Lettuce and sit down, her rough palms habitually stroking Lettuce's supple golden hair.
The calluses on her fingertips were like sandpaper, making the hair strands tremble slightly, but Lettuce had long since grown accustomed to this touch, even finding it to be "Mother's" unique form of tenderness.
"Lettuce, it's dangerous outside."
Her voice was like wood rubbed with sandpaper, carrying an unquestionable gloom; every word seemed squeezed from between her teeth.
"Only by staying here are you safe."
Every time she said this, she would subconsciously lower her voice, her eyes warily scanning the darkness outside the window as if afraid something might overhear.
Immediately after, stories about "danger" would surge forth like a tide—
"There are 'Pseudo-humans' outside; they are not real people." Her voice dropped even lower, carrying a chill.
"They have faces exactly like humans and smile more kindly than anyone, but inside their mouths are snake tongues, and their teeth are wolf fangs.
By day, they hide in the deepest shadows of the forest, licking the blood from their claws;
By night, they roam the woods, mimicking human speech and using sweet words to lure lost Travelers."
"Once the other person lets down their guard, thinking they've met a companion, they will pounce, baring sharp claws and fangs to tear open the person's throat, devouring every bit of flesh and blood until not even a bone remains."
She described it vividly, as if she had seen it with her own eyes.
"You can hear their roars, sounding like wild beasts yet also like a baby's cry;
You can also hear the victims' screams, squeezed from their throats, intermittent, until they finally turn into whimpers..."
The details in those stories were terrifyingly lifelike, as if they were echoing in the air of the tower top, swirling around Lettuce's ears.
Lettuce would always tremble all over, goosebumps crawling from her arms to the back of her neck. She would hurriedly bury her face in "Mother's" cloak, her nose rubbing against the coarse fabric, smelling that familiar, dusty scent before she dared to settle down slightly, never daring to ask another word about the outside world.
Eighteen years—a full eighteen years.
She grew up amidst these daily repeated horror stories; the word "danger" was like a vine that had long since wound itself into her blood and bone, fueled by the nourishment of those tales.
She didn't even dare to stare at the forest outside for long, always feeling that within those swaying tree shadows hid countless pairs of eyes—Pseudo-humans "Mother" spoke of could leap out at any moment, staring at her with venomous eyes, waiting for her to show a single weakness before pouncing to tear her apart.
But after all, a young heart is like a seed buried under frozen soil, always unable to resist sprouting toward the light.
The curiosity that "Mother" had suppressed with horror stories would occasionally sneak out during the gaps when she was combing her hair or singing.
For instance, in the early morning, when she saw a flock of birds fluttering past the tower top, their wings slicing through the morning mist as they flew toward the depths of the forest, she would stop her wooden comb and daze off in the direction the birds disappeared.
Was there a bluer sky at the end of the forest?
Was there a vaster wind than at the top of the tower?
Those birds must see different scenery every day, right?
Or late at night, when the faint roar of a beast came from afar, low and long, like someone singing in the valley.
She would wrap herself in a robe and go to the window, peering out through the vines; the moon hung on the treetops like a bitten rye cracker.
Besides "Mother," were there other people?
Would they also sing to the moon?
Would their songs sound better than the tunes she composed herself?
Just as these thoughts emerged with a bit of timid joy, they would be precisely captured by "Mother."
The woman seemed to have ears that could hear the wind; she could always look up from the stone stool the moment Lettuce's gaze drifted.
She never needed to say much, just silently watching Lettuce; her eyes, hidden in the shadow of her hood, were bottomless like a frozen lake.
The severity in her gaze was like a chilled ice pick, shooting over with a "shua" sound, instantly freezing all of Lettuce's curiosity and the small sprout of joy along with it.
"Forget those improper thoughts."
She would say coldly, her voice devoid of any warmth, like the cold wind at the tower top scraping against the stone bricks.
Then she would stand up, reaching out to straighten the folds of her cloak to ensure there were no gaps.
"I will come to see you again tomorrow."
Then, she would once again grab Lettuce's cascading golden hair, her grip heavier than when she arrived, as if as a warning.
As her fingertips slid through the hair, the calluses made Lettuce's scalp tingle.
She slid down the high tower along that golden "ladder," the hem of her cloak sweeping across the windowsill with a "whoosh," sounding like a door being shut.
Lettuce was left alone at the top of the tower once more.
In the empty stone room, only the stones of the four walls watched her silently, like countless eyes.
She would slowly walk to the window, watching "Mother's" figure disappear into the forest, then lower her head toward her own shadow and extinguish those newly emerged curiosities one by one.
Just like pinching off the excess buds on a vine, for fear that if they grew too wild, they would attract the dangers "Mother" spoke of.
Over time, Lettuce even began to fear her own curiosity.
She felt that those surreptitiously emerging thoughts were like the Pseudo-humans "Mother" described—cloaked in an alluring exterior but actually hiding fangs, luring her step by step out of this high tower toward destruction.
So, she became even more well-behaved.
Every morning upon waking, she would sit at the stone table and comb her long hair over and over with a wooden comb, from root to tip, with meticulous care.
She named every small purple flower among the vines and remembered how they looked when they bloomed each day.
She sang the songs she had composed herself to the walls; the lyrics contained only the wind, the moon, and stones that would never fly away.
She treated this tiny world as her only safe zone, like a snail retracted into its shell, believing that as long as she didn't poke her head out, she could avoid all the dangers "Mother" spoke of.
This afternoon, she sat on the window ledge singing as usual.
It was a tune no one had taught her, one she had composed herself by listening to the wind and birds; as she sang, tears would fall—she didn't know why she was crying, only that her heart felt empty, as if a piece had been hollowed out.
Suddenly, a strange shout came from below the tower, like a stone hitting a calm lake, exploding with a "clatter."
That voice was as raspy as sandpaper rubbing against wood, carrying a wild force that immediately made one think of a roaring beast in the forest, creating layers of echoes in the empty woods.
Lettuce was so startled she trembled all over; the wooden comb in her hand fell to the ground with a "clack," its teeth hitting the stone bricks with a crisp sound.
She subconsciously shrank back, her spine pressing tightly against the cold wall, hiding herself in the shadows of the tangled vines.
Her heart thundered in her chest, as if trying to break free from the constraints of her ribs and burst out.
Her fingertips tightly gripped her cascading golden hair, her knuckles turning white from the force, the hair strands crumpled into a bunch.
Was it the "Pseudo-human" "Mother" spoke of?
Terrifying images flashed through her mind—monsters with wolf claws, fangs dripping with saliva, and torn flesh... But in that shout, there didn't seem to be the cold malice "Mother" described; instead, it carried a bit of reckless, warm energy.
Two thoughts fought in her heart: fear was like ice, curiosity was like fire, burning until her fingertips felt numb.
Perhaps the eighteen years of loneliness were truly too heavy, outweighing the fear deep in her bones; she heard her own voice squeeze out of her throat, thin as a mosquito's buzz and carrying a tremor she hadn't even noticed herself.
"Who... who is down there?"
Her voice dissipated in the wind, receiving no response.
It was quiet below the tower, with only the "rustling" of the wind through the leaves, as if mocking her cowardice.
Lettuce huddled in the corner, her eyes staring unblinkingly at the small window hidden behind the vines, her palms sweating.
Maybe she had heard wrong? Maybe it was just the wind? She comforted herself this way, yet her heart still beat wildly.
Just then, a small colorful bird fluttered its wings and squeezed through the crack in the window.
Its feathers were vibrant—red like fire, blue like gems; it circled the small tower top twice before landing on the stone table by Lettuce's feet, tilting its head to look at her and chirping as if saying hello.
Lettuce's tense nerves were like a bowstring soaked in warm water, relaxing slightly.
Seeing the small colorful bird tilting its head to preen its feathers, a faint smile couldn't help but appear at the corners of her mouth.
She carefully reached out, her fingertips suspended in mid-air, an inch away from the bird's feathers.
The little bird didn't seem shy at all; instead, it tilted its head, looking at her with bright black eyes, its small claws tapping gently on the stone table with a soft sound.
Lettuce's heart skipped a beat, her fingertips trembling slightly.
But before her fingertips could touch those soft feathers, the scene before her suddenly changed—
The little bird was like paint dropped into clear water; its body instantly dissolved and stretched, its colorful feathers receding like a tide to reveal the fair skin beneath.
Slender bones extended with soft cracking snaps, wings retracted and transformed into arms, and the beak faded away, revealing the features of a child.
In the blink of an eye, the little bird on the stone table had actually turned into a small boy!
The little boy's eyes were large and round, like two clear springs; right now, he was tilting his head and observing her, his long eyelashes casting shallow shadows under his eyelids, with a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips.
Lettuce gasped in shock, her chest feeling as if it had been stuffed with a block of ice, freezing her entire body stiff.
She jerked back, her back hitting the cold stone wall with a dull "thud" that sent dust fluttering down from above.
Her mouth hung open, her throat feeling as if it were blocked by a ball of cotton, unable to make any sound.
She could only stare blankly at the little boy before her, her mind a complete void—What... what was this? Was it the Pseudo-human "Mother" spoke of?
But he clearly looked like an ordinary child; his eyes were bright as stars, and his smile was as clean as the sky after rain—where was any of the monster's ferocity?
"Who... who are you?"
Lettuce finally found her voice, thin as a fallen leaf in the wind, shaking uncontrollably.
The little boy looked up, and hearing this, his eyes curved into crescents as he smiled even more brightly at her.
"My name is Gwof, and I'm a Magician."
"And you?"
Lettuce was completely dazed.
How did he turn into a bird? He said he was a Magician? Was he not afraid of the Pseudo-humans "Mother" spoke of? And... he was so good-looking, better than any image she had ever imagined.
Countless questions swirled in her head like a herd of panicked deer.
Her previous fear had long since been cast to the winds, leaving only a belly full of bewilderment and a trace of... excitement she hadn't even noticed herself, like a seed buried in the soil quietly sprouting.
The wind at the tower top was still blowing, the vines swaying gently, and the small purple flowers nodding among the leaves.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves and fell on the little boy, casting dappled shadows that danced on the tips of his hair.
Lettuce looked at him, looked into his eyes, and suddenly felt that the horror stories "Mother" told about the outside world were... perhaps not so believable after all.
At least this little boy named Gwof didn't seem dangerous at all.
Instead... he made her want to get closer.
Her fingers, which had been clutching the hem of her clothes, quietly loosened; she gathered her courage and answered softly.
"I... I am Lettuce."
This was the first time in eighteen years she had spoken her name to a stranger.