Night descended slowly on the outskirts of Horgaz Village, bringing with it a silence deeper than that of the day.
After scrubbing the rented house until not a trace of dust remained, Rea set aside the worn rag and straightened her back. The old house was still far from comfortable its wooden walls damp, its corners holding the stale scent of a past long abandoned.
Yet it was livable now. The dust had been swept away, a window left slightly ajar, and the cool breath of night had begun to chase the stuffiness from the room.
To clear her thoughts, Rea stepped outside.
The night wind greeted her gently, lifting strands of her golden hair and brushing her skin with a tranquil chill.
The sky stretched wide and cloudless, stars glittering like watchful eyes observing the world in silence. In the distance, the lantern lights from the heart of the village flickered faintly, like embers on the verge of dying out.
Here at the edge of the settlement, the world felt detached from life itself. The houses stood apart from one another, separated by wild grass and narrow dirt paths. The nearest was about twenty paces away far enough to preserve distance, near enough to remind her she was not entirely alone.
For a while, there was only the whisper of leaves and the hum of insects.
Then...
A sharp scream split the night.
A woman's voice, thick with emotion. Loud. Fractured. As though the full weight of her life had been hurled into a single outcry.
It came from the neighboring house.
Rea did not startle, but her gaze shifted toward it at once. Though the distance was considerable, the sound carried clearly. There was anger in it. Despair as well perhaps both entwined.
Another shout followed, accompanied by hurried footsteps and the crash of something falling. The peace of the night fractured like thin glass struck by a stone.
Rea remained beneath the starlight, listening.
The wind stirred again, softer now, as if trying to soothe the disturbance. But the tension lingered in the air subtle yet unmistakable, like the first ripple before a storm.
The woman's voice rang out once more, clearer this time.
"Remember this! If you can't read and write, you'll live in misery just like we do now! Stuck in this village because there's nothing else left to hope for!"
"I told you already, write it properly!"
Rea listened for a long moment.
Then came the harsh sound of a door thrown open.
"Go outside! Leave me alone!"
The neighbor's door swung wide. A little girl stepped out.
Noa the same girl who had been with her earlier that afternoon. She walked slowly onto the porch and sat alone in the yard.
Her small hand reached for a twig. Tilting her head slightly, she began to draw in the dirt.
Rea approached.
"Are you alone, Noa?"
The girl turned. Her eyes brightened, as though Rea's presence was an unexpected delight.
"You're here?"
"Yes."
"Why?" she asked, a mixture of excitement and curiosity in her voice.
"I have some business nearby, so I'm staying here for a while," Rea replied simply. "What about you? What are you doing out here so late?"
Rea glanced at the marks in the soil.
Noa smiled faintly. "I'm making a house." She pointed to the simple square shapes drawn in the earth.
"Hm."
"This is Mother's room. This is Father's room.
This is my older brother's. This one is mine. And this is my little sister's."
Rea studied the layout. Everything was neat. Complete.
"Your mother and father don't share a room?" she asked gently.
Noa shook her head. "No."
"They sleep separately?"
The girl tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
"It's not important. Just… something adults deal with."
Noa was quiet for a moment, then asked earnestly, "When I grow up, will I sleep separately too?"
The question was so honest it almost hurt.
"I don't know," Rea answered lightly. "I've done it before."
Noa's eyes widened in awe. "That means you're amazing! You've already done it even though you're not grown up yet!"
To Noa, Rea was simply an older sister figure only a few years ahead of her. She did not know that Rea's age surpassed generations of grandmothers long turned to dust.
Rea glanced at the neighbor's door, now firmly shut.
"What is your mother doing inside?"
Noa shook her head. "I don't know. Every night before bed, she tells me to go outside."
There was a pause.
Curiosity stirred within Rea. She directed her gaze through the wooden walls using the power of her Order magic that allowed her to see beyond physical barriers. What she perceived was difficult to describe, yet enough to understand why Noa was always sent away.
She drew a slow breath.
"Do you hate your mother?"
"No," Noa answered quickly, still tracing lines in the dirt.
"But she often gets angry and hits you."
Noa stopped for a moment, then spoke softly. "I'm scared when Mother gets angry. But when Father was still home, she was very kind."
"Where is your father now?"
"I don't know. Mother said he went far away."
Her voice grew smaller. "But I wait every day. He hasn't come back yet. Even though I…" She faltered, struggling to steady herself. "I can read and write now. I can eat by myself. I help Mother cook. Yesterday I picked fruit to sell. But… but…"
Tears fell before she realized it. She wiped them away quickly.
"Are you sad because your father hasn't returned?" Rea asked.
Noa nodded..
"But Mother will be angry if I cry."
"Then don't cry." Rea offered a faint smile. "I have something for you."
She took out a redberry she had bought earlier from Noa's mother.
Using the Order's magic to manipulate space and time, she had preserved it in perfect freshness, as if it had just been picked from the branch.
Noa stared in wonder and took a bite. The sweetness brightened her face instantly. She ate several more, her cheeks puffed full.
Rea let out a soft laugh.
They sat side by side. Noa spoke of many things not about favorite foods, for in this village they did not have the luxury of choosing what they ate. Not about games of hide-and-seek, for most of her time was spent helping her mother.
She did not speak of new dresses patterned with orchids like the children who went to church with their families.
She spoke only of the square house she had drawn in the dirt. Of a father who worked. A mother who cooked. A brother who studied. Herself playing with her little sister.
A simple family.
Without conflict. Without quarrel.
And that was all.
Before long, the door opened again.
Her mother stepped outside, holding an oil lamp. Her face looked worn, her dark hair streaked heavily with gray.
"Noa, come inside and go to bed," she called.
"Yes, Mother."
Before entering, Noa waved. "Bye, big sister."
Rea rose and returned the gesture with a warm smile.
Noa's mother remained at the doorway. She said nothing, only looked toward them with exhausted eyes the gaze of a woman abandoned by her husband and forced to endure tomorrow alone.
"You look tired, Mother," Noa said softly.
"You're right," the woman replied in a low voice. "I'm tired. Truly tired."
That was all.
The door closed. The oil lamp was extinguished.
When Rea turned to return to her own house, she found Zen standing a short distance away, leaning against a wooden post. He had been watching the entire time.
"What?" she asked flatly.
He exhaled a thin stream of cigarette smoke that drifted upward before dissolving into the night air.
"Nothing," Zen said quietly. "I thought you didn't care about other people's affairs."
Rea met his gaze evenly. "She's still a child. She hasn't known sin yet. So I must protect her."
She stepped past him.
"And it doesn't mean I don't care," she added calmly. "I simply act within my boundaries."
The night returned to silence.
Yet in the dirt of that yard, Noa's little square house remained clearly etched a small, intact world she guarded with innocence still untouched by ruin.