The villa stood apart from Syrup Village, resting quietly on the hill as if watching over everything below.
White walls reflected the afternoon sun, softened by creeping vines and flowering shrubs that climbed its sides without being trimmed. Tall windows lined the structure, their curtains stirring gently with each passing breeze. The path leading to the entrance was clean, bordered by carefully tended gardens—flowers blooming not loudly, but patiently, as if they understood the fragile soul living within.
This was not the home of wealth alone.
It was the home of someone protected.
As the group arrived, the gates opened slowly. Several maids stepped forward, already prepared to greet Merry as they always did. Their expressions were calm—until their eyes followed his line of sight.
And then they saw her.
The air shifted.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The maids froze where they stood, hands tightening around trays and folded cloth. Their gazes lifted instinctively, then fell just as quickly, as though looking too long might be a transgression. Whatever training they had—years of discipline, etiquette, and service—was tested in that single instant.
This was not something they had been taught to face.
Still, they bowed.
Perfectly.
Flawlessly.
Their bodies remembered duty even as their minds struggled to understand what stood before them.
Merry cleared his throat gently, guiding the guests inside before the silence could crack.
---
Inside the villa, light poured through tall windows and spilled across shelves upon shelves of books.
Medical texts. Journals. Notes written in careful handwriting. Bottles of herbs and neatly labeled remedies rested along the walls. The room smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and dried flowers.
Seated near the window was Kaya.
Her blonde hair fell softly over her shoulders, pale against her white skin. She held a medical book in her hands, her fingers thin but steady, eyes focused despite the fatigue that lingered beneath them. She looked beautiful—not in a dazzling way, but in a quiet, enduring one.
A knock echoed through the room.
"Hmm… who's there?" she asked gently.
"It's me, Miss Kaya," Merry replied from behind the door.
"Oh, Merry. Is something wrong?"
He hesitated, then carefully recounted what had happened—the strangers, the pirates… and the woman. The one who did not belong.
With every word, Kaya's curiosity deepened. Not fear. Not concern.
Interest.
"A goddess…?" she murmured, a small smile forming on her lips. "I'd like to meet them."
"Miss Kaya," Merry said softly, "please don't push yourself—"
"It's alright," she replied, already rising. "Just a meeting. Could you bring me my coat?"
Merry sighed, knowing resistance was useless. "Of course."
---
They walked slowly toward the guest room.
Kaya's steps were measured, careful—each one carrying the weight of a body long weakened by illness and a heart worn thin by loss. As they neared the door, something strange happened.
She heard a sound.
A soft humming.
It slipped through the walls like a whisper meant only for her. It wasn't a song she recognized, yet it felt deeply familiar—like something she had forgotten rather than never known.
Her breath caught.
Tears welled up before she could stop them.
Memories surfaced—her parents' smiles, their voices, the warmth of being held when the world still felt safe. The pain she had buried so deeply loosened, as if something inside her finally allowed it to breathe.
Merry noticed.
"This…" he whispered to himself, watching her tremble. "So this is fate."
He opened the door.
---
Sunlight flooded the room.
Near the window stood a tall woman, her back turned, sea-colored hair cascading down her spine like flowing water. The light wrapped around her figure, outlining her in gold, as though the sun itself had chosen her as its resting place.
Kaya couldn't look away.
The humming softened, then stopped.
Cry turned.
Their eyes met.
In that instant, Cry felt it—the ache inside Kaya's chest, the loneliness, the exhaustion of pretending to be strong for so long. Without hesitation, without understanding words or customs, she moved.
She lowered herself.
And she embraced Kaya.
The room fell silent.
Kaya froze for half a second—then her body gave in. She clutched Cry's clothes, pressed her face against her, and cried. Not quietly. Not politely.
She cried like a child who had finally been allowed to stop being brave.
Cry held her firmly, gently, like an older sister who had been waiting all along.
For the first time in a long while, Kaya felt warmth—not the heat of medicine or blankets, but the warmth of being truly held.
And she did not want to let go.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued