The PalmPilot booted up with its usual faint beep, screen flickering to life.
I scrolled through my files with a thumb that still didn't quite cover the whole button.
The Stories folder had grown — Little Red, The Clever Monkey, The Boy Who Drew a Cat, and two half-finished originals that still needed polish.
The Songs list was longer too, though most were just lyric fragments, waiting for tunes I couldn't yet play.
The Drawings section… well, that was improving. The stick people were turning into something almost human. Almost.
Still, the PalmPilot wasn't just storage — it was strategy. Every new page, every doodle, was another brick in whatever I was building.
---
Business was steady.
Brittle sales were bringing in enough coins to restock sugar without begging the kitchen for scraps. I'd added molasses cookies to the rotation — trickier to bake in secret, but worth it for the smell alone. The rich, dark scent hooked people from two stalls away.
But doing all the baking myself — even with Ryo, Mika, and Tomi — was starting to eat into the time I could spend on other ideas.
That's when I wondered: what if I sold the recipes instead?
I could find someone with an oven, charge for the instructions, and take a cut of every sale. No more stirring pots in a freezing shed until my hands went numb.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I'd need an adult to make that happen.
And the more I thought about that, the more I realized I could pitch it to the headmistress — with the promise that a percentage of the profits went straight to the orphanage.
One problem: I couldn't read or write.
---
So I went with Plan B.
Crayons. Big sheet of scrap paper.
I drew a picture of a cookie. Then a coin. Then a stick figure with my hair holding the coin and smiling. Then a bigger stick figure — her — holding more coins and smiling even wider.
By the time I was done, it looked less like a business proposal and more like a treasure map drawn by a raccoon, but it was the thought that counted.
---
That afternoon, I decided to try something different — story testing.
Not the usual fairy tales or folk songs, but something with bounce.
I wanted to see if rhymes could hook strangers faster than plain speech.
My test subject? Gween Ehhgs an' Ham.
I'd been practicing the whole thing in my head for a week, in pure baby-babble.
I climbed onto an empty crate in the market square, cleared my throat, and began:
> "I doo not wike dem, Sam-ah-I-am.
I doo not wike gween ehhgs an' ham!"
Two shopkeepers looked up. One started grinning immediately.
A pair of passing genin slowed their steps.
> "Woud yoo, couwd yoo, in a bwain?
Woud yoo, couwd yoo, in a twain?"
A kid in the crowd doubled over laughing.
An old woman stopped, bought a packet of brittle, and pressed another coin into my hand "just for making the day brighter."
The reading was short, but the results were clear:
Rhymes grabbed attention faster than brittle samples.
Kids were instant fans.
Adults were a coin toss — some amused, some baffled.
Baby voice? Weapon-grade.
I mentally filed it away for later. A street act and candy? That could be a two-pronged business.
---
That night, I checked the calendar app.
The note was still there, same bold text:
DON'T OPEN THE WINDOW!!
Only now, there were two exclamation marks at the end.
I didn't know why it made my stomach feel heavy, but it did.
February was ticking down.
March was coming.