I woke up the next morning to the sound of birds singing above the village trees. It was just another ordinary morning… no mysterious messages, no sudden appearance of missions or powers, no fights or confrontations. Just me, the gray sky, and the rhythm of work.
I went to the work site as usual. The crates were waiting to be carried, the weapons waiting to be cleaned, and the workers moved about with tired bodies and pale faces. I worked in silence, my mind replaying everything I had gone through recently... my conversation with Luxian, the warmth of the inn, that pie that reminded me of my mother, and the gaze of the little girl who made me imagine she was my sister. Nothing special happened that day—except for the silence that kept growing inside me.
By evening, I returned to the inn as I always did. The wooden door greeted me with its familiar creak, and the warm air that slipped from inside felt like a gentle hug. I stepped in. The innkeeper raised her head from behind the counter and gave me the same soft smile she offered every day—warm and familiar, like the smile my mother used to give me when I came home tired from school.
I sat at the table, and, unlike my usual self, I felt a strange urge to ask a question that had always lingered in the back of my mind.
I looked at her and asked, with a curious tone tinged with hesitation:
"Does… your husband live here with you? I've never seen him."
Her expression froze for a moment. Her gaze didn't change much, but something in her went still, like time itself paused for two seconds. Suddenly, I realized what I'd said... and remembered dozens of anime scenes where someone asks an innocent question, only to be met with the devastating answer: "He passed away."
I immediately regretted it. I wished I could pull the question back out of the air before it could reach her heart. I was about to apologize, but she interrupted my thoughts with a quiet voice, faint as if it came from the depths of an old sorrow:
"I… don't know."
I looked up at her, surprised, and asked gently:
"What do you mean?"
She took a deep breath and gazed out the window, as if recalling something from a distant past. Then she began speaking in a voice barely above a whisper:
"I used to live in another city… in another world. My husband worked, and I took care of our little daughter. One perfectly normal morning, I woke up and found myself here. No door to our home. No streets of our city… just this village. I thought I was dreaming, or that I'd lost my mind."
She paused briefly, then continued:
"I tried to understand what had happened, and I asked those around me. I wasn't the only one… they told me many others had suddenly arrived from different worlds. And that it was possible my husband had also been transported—but to a different place."
She looked at me then, a faint spark of hope flickering in her eyes, and said:
"I didn't have enough money to search for him. I worked at everything—cleaning, cooking, helping in the fields—until I saved enough to buy this small inn. I chose this place because it gave me steady income, and I could stay without moving around. I kept telling myself: I'll save up… and I'll look for him. I just hope… he's okay."
A silence settled between us—not empty, but filled with the weight of emotion.
I sat there, staring at the table, unsure of what to say. For the first time since arriving in this world, I realized I wasn't alone. I wasn't the only one whose family had been torn apart. There were others—like this woman—walking different paths, but carrying the same pain, the same longing, the same fragile hope.
I looked at her again, but this time with new eyes. She was no longer just the innkeeper. No longer just the woman who made pies and smiled softly. She was a mother, clinging to a single thread of hope in a shattered world.
I realized then that not all stories are spoken aloud. Some are hidden behind silence and routine… and that there is always more in people's eyes than we see on the surface.
...
After my emotional conversation with the innkeeper, I felt heavier than I had just moments before. Her words echoed in my mind, carrying a familiar sorrow and a fragile hope—one that mirrored my own. I slowly turned toward the stairs, seeking a bit of rest from the swirl of emotions inside me.
But just before I could go up, I felt a gaze following me. I lifted my head slightly—and there, at the corner of the hallway leading to the upstairs rooms, was the little girl, the innkeeper's daughter, peeking at me from behind the wall. Only half her face and her wide, curious eyes were visible.
I stopped where I was, then walked over quietly and crouched to her level. With a playful tone, I asked:
"Why are you spying on me, little sneaky one? Do you think I'm a criminal?"
The girl froze, clearly not expecting me to notice her. She stepped back awkwardly, fumbling with her words, her face turning red like an apple:
"I… I'm sorry… I didn't mean to… I just… I wanted to be your friend…"
I paused for a second, studying her expression, and a warm, involuntary smile spread across my face. I hadn't expected such an answer—honest, pure, and so innocent it softened something in me.
I said gently:
"Then there's no need to watch me from afar. We're friends now. Deal?"
She lifted her head and looked at me, wide-eyed, as if she had just heard a dream come true. She murmured in awe, her voice barely audible:
"Really?!"
I chuckled and replied:
"Yes, really. A promise from your new friend."
Her face lit up with a smile—one of those rare, genuine smiles that aren't faked or rehearsed. A smile straight from the heart. Then she said with a mix of joy and surprise:
"You're my first friend since I came to this world!"
Her words struck something deep inside me. I imagined the loneliness a child like her must have felt in a strange world—no friends, no children running around her, just a busy mother and a building full of strangers.
As usual, I hid my emotions behind a soft smile and said:
"Oh? Then it's a great honor for me to be your first friend!"
She giggled softly, then stepped closer and asked:
"So… will you play with me, mister?"
I froze for a second, and looked at her slowly, thinking to myself: Mister?! I'm only in my twenties!
But she was staring at me with bright eyes, full of hope and happiness, so I replied jokingly:
"Hmm… okay then, what game do you have in mind, little miss?"
She answered with great enthusiasm, her hands waving in the air:
"Hide-and-seek! I'll count, and you hide!"
I smiled, then sighed a little like I was about to take on a great mission, and said:
"Alright, but no cheating. Count slowly."
She bounced in place with excitement and began counting, covering her face with her tiny hands:
"One… two… three…"
And I ran off to find a good hiding spot, moving through the inn's wooden hallways, trying not to make a sound. For a moment, I forgot I was in a strange world. I forgot about hunting monsters. I even forgot my constant anxiety… I just ran, and my heart laughed.
And maybe… just for that one simple moment, I felt like a child again.