Since the conversation session with Aunt Marlene was designed to be brief, she eventually had to step away from our table. Though the meeting had been warm and pleasant, in the end, our exchange amounted to little more than lighthearted small talk, constrained by time and circumstance.
Not long after, the sky gradually shifted in color. Dusk began to creep in through the glass windows of the concert hall, signaling that the event had come to an end. The guests started rising from their seats, the sound of chairs sliding and shoes tapping against the marble floor forming a closing symphony to an evening filled with music and emotion. My mom and I blended into the orderly stream of people moving toward the exit.
As soon as we stepped outside the concert building, the afternoon sunlight greeted us with a gentle warmth—not scorching, just enough to remind us that spring was still in bloom. Golden rays brushed against my skin, and the scent of the city streets filled the air—a blend of expensive perfume, vehicle exhaust, and a hint of breeze from the nearby city park.
We walked along the sidewalk, following the footsteps of others who had perhaps just finished work, or like us, had spent their time enjoying the capital's entertainment district. This part of the city, after all, never truly sleeps.
Unlike when we arrived, we returned home on foot. Mom said the distance wasn't too far and didn't warrant calling a taxi—besides, this could be a good moment to clear our heads while enjoying the evening air. Also… well, saving money was never a bad thing.
We walked side by side in silence for a while, until Mom suddenly broke the quiet with her calm voice, tinged with a note of observation.
"Erina," she said, glancing sideways at me, "you're… disappointed, aren't you?"
I was caught off guard about her question. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"About Marlene's mentoring offer falling through. I could see it earlier—your expression changed after that conversation."
I didn't answer right away. My gaze drifted ahead, toward the line of buildings now cloaked in the glow of streetlights.
"Eh… did it really my face look that way?" I murmured eventually, trying to hide my discomfort.
Earlier, Aunt Marlene had enthusiastically offered to personally mentor me. But that moment was quickly crushed by the man standing behind her—someone who, from the very beginning, never took his eyes off her. He introduced himself as Marlene's schedule coordinator, but from his demeanor, actions, and tone, everyone in that room knew: he wasn't just staff. He was a minder, perhaps a government agent, assigned to ensure Marlene stayed within a "safe" line.
That man spoke with a cold, flat voice, saying that personal mentoring was impossible. Marlene's schedule was too full, he said. There would be no time to train anyone, not even a child with "potential."
Was I disappointed? I'd be lying if I said no.
Who wouldn't feel honored if a major celebrity—someone like Marlene Hoffman—personally offered to mentor you? Even if it was just a passing comment, it was enough to make any little girl's heart soar.
"It was written all over your face," Mom said with a half-smile.
I sighed quietly. "Yeah… maybe a little."
But in the end, what could we do? The man shut it down so firmly—no room for discussion, no offer of compromise. It was as if the decision had already been made long before the conversation began. And from the way he looked at me… I knew he didn't see a gifted child—he saw a potential liability to a carefully orchestrated system.
I guess he just didn't want extra work. Or maybe he was afraid Marlene would form a bond he couldn't control. Whatever his reason, his refusal struck like a gavel silencing any hope.
We kept walking, our steps falling into rhythm with the footsteps of others around us. And even though my heart still felt a little heavy, I tried to soothe myself.
Because maybe… opportunity isn't always about the present. Sometimes, the world just wants to know how badly you want something… before it gives you the path to get there.
"If you were that disappointed," Mom suddenly said again, her tone teasing or perhaps serious—I couldn't quite tell, "why didn't you just throw a tantrum? Lie on the floor, scream like a little kid. I'm sure that weird guy behind Marlene wouldn't know what to do."
"…Huh?"
I stared at her, completely stunned by what had just come out of her mouth. She was truly a strange woman—the only mom I knew who would suggest her child cause a public scene with such an innocent expression.
"There's no way I'd ever do something that insane in public," I protested, still trying to process her absurd idea. "Especially not at a formal event… with so many respectable people watching!"
Mom just giggled, her expression saying, 'That's exactly the point.'
"Fufu~ that's what makes it effective. If you'd actually rolled on the carpet, sobbing and shouting about wanting Marlene to mentor you, that handler would've panicked. He wouldn't have known how to handle it properly. The situation would've been… too public."
I shook my head quickly, almost despairing. "That's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. What kind of mom encourages her kid to cause a scene? Isn't that supposed to be every parent's nightmare?"
"Eh? Maybe. But at least it'd be an unforgettable memory, don't you think?" she said with a smirk.
I could only take a deep breath. And then, a memory from my previous life suddenly surfaced—so vivid, so clear.
It happened after the war ended. I was on my way home from the eastern front, still wearing my dust-covered uniform, passing through a city just beginning to breathe again. I stopped by a small supermarket—the building still smelled faintly of smoke, its shelves half-stocked at best. In the snack aisle, I saw a young mom standing awkwardly, staring down at the floor, her face tired, her eyes puffy.
Her son—probably four or five years old—was rolling on the ground, crying and screaming for something. He pointed up at the top shelf, where a few chocolate bars were displayed, stock limited. The price? Three times what it had been before the war. Even I—who had just received my final pay from active duty—thought it was expensive.
People around them only glanced. Some muttered under their breath, others pretended to look elsewhere, walking away like she was contagious. Not a single one offered help.
Eventually, I stepped forward and knelt beside the boy.
"Do you like ones with nuts, or without?"
He stopped crying immediately, stunned into silence. He pointed to one with caramel, eyes shining.
I took it, paid for it, and returned to hand it over. The mom stared at me—shocked at first, then quietly emotional. She didn't say a word, only bowed deeply and briefly squeezed my hand before walking away with her son.
It was just a chocolate bar. But in times like that, a chocolate bar could preserve a mom's dignity… and calm a child whose hunger wasn't just for food, but for love.
That memory has stayed with me. Even now.
Eventually, we resumed our walk, and before long, we found ourselves in the Capital Park—a place often described as the green heart of Kronfeld amidst its concrete sprawl. Strangely enough, the park hadn't changed much since the first time I came here—or rather, was carried here—back when I was only six months old. Though my memory of that visit is hazy, I still recall lingering impressions: sunlight filtering through the leaves, the earthy scent of damp soil, and the laughter of children mixing with birdsong in the high branches.
Even now, the atmosphere hadn't changed much. People still came—some sitting quietly on benches, lost in thought, while others strolled hand-in-hand with their partners. But… something felt different. There were fewer young couples than I remembered. Perhaps many of them—especially the men—had been conscripted or had volunteered for military service and were now far away on the front lines.
Speaking of the war, I'd begun to notice something strange.
Over the past few weeks, reports from the front had drastically declined. It was as if the conflict had begun to quietly vanish from the public eye. Newspapers, which once published daily updates on troop positions, casualty counts, and tactical movements, were now filled with headlines about reconstruction efforts in Veldenmark—the disputed territory previously under Noirval's control and now "liberated" by Felsburg.
Every day, articles detailed the atrocities committed by Noirval during their occupation: forced labor camps, mass starvation, brutal indoctrination of children. Stories of how Noirval had "destroyed" the local culture and oppressed anyone believed to be loyal to Felsburg.
Or at least… that's what the media claimed.
But behind those loud, dramatic headlines was a silence that felt far too calculated.
To be honest, it all felt like a deliberate distraction. As if something was happening on the front lines—something they didn't want the public to know. Maybe… something they couldn't afford for us to know.
Suddenly, a young man's voice echoed across the wide and bustling park. He stood near the main pathway, holding a stack of newspapers that looked freshly printed, then shouted loudly:
"Hot news today! Felsburg's army is repositioning its forces at the front line! Read more in the Royal Gazette! Come get today's latest headlines!"
I stopped in my tracks. Without realizing it, my body froze on the spot.
"What is it?" Mom asked, noticing I had stopped abruptly. Her tone was flat, but attentive.
"Hmm… it's nothing," I replied quickly, trying to sound casual.
In truth, I didn't particularly care about the newspaper vendor himself. But the words he had just shouted... caught me off guard.
Repositioning?
In the middle of an offensive campaign that had previously been flaunted in the media?
That… didn't make sense.
Especially after weeks of silence from the front lines, and now suddenly an announcement about troop repositioning? Not victory. Not territorial gains. Just… repositioning?
It sounded like retreat. Or worse—a defeat, carefully wrapped in language that made it sound strategic.
At first, I wanted to ignore it. But curiosity started creeping in, like a cold breeze at the back of my neck. Eventually, I came to a full stop.
Mom looked at me, clearly about to ask something. But before she could, I spoke first.
"Mom… can I go home a little later? I want to stay in the park for a bit."
"Huh? Why all of a sudden?"
"I don't know… it's just that there's not much to do at home anyway. At least here I can enjoy the fresh air for a while."
She looked a bit hesitant. Her eyes glanced at the sky, now tinged with the golden glow of the afternoon sun, before returning to me. "It's already getting late, honey. I'm a little worried."
"Don't worry. I promise I'll be home before sunset," I said, flashing a reassuring smile.
She paused for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Alright… but remember, just like you said—before sunset. Not a minute later."
"Got it!" I replied cheerfully, giving her a small wave as she turned to head home.
Once her figure disappeared into the crowd, my gaze returned to the newspaper vendor.
Not long after, I walked toward him—a young man in his twenties, still moving about, loudly hawking the day's news to passersby.
At first, he didn't notice me. Probably because my small frame was lost among the adults around me. But once I stood right in front of him and stared straight into his face, our eyes finally met.
He lowered his stack of newspapers a little, raising an eyebrow at me. "Eh? What's up, little miss? Did you get separated from your mom?"
I shook my head. "No. I'd like to buy a newspaper."
"Huh? This one?" he asked, confused, holding up one of the papers.
His face clearly showed surprise. Maybe it wasn't every day—if ever—that a little girl came to buy a newspaper.
"Little one," he said cautiously, "this isn't a picture book or a comic magazine, you know."
"I know," I replied flatly, holding his gaze without flinching.
"Oh…" He still looked uncertain. "Don't tell me you're buying it for your dad?"
I sighed. "Are you going to sell it to me or not?"
He paused, then gave in with a small nod and a sheepish smile. "Alright, alright… if you say so."
I reached into the small pocket at the side of my skirt and pulled out twenty pfennigs—the exact price of a standard paper. The coins were slightly warm from being in my hand for so long.
"Thanks, miss," he said at last, handing over a single sheet with surprising care, as if the paper had suddenly become something precious.
I gave a short nod, took the paper, and walked away without saying another word.
Now… let's see what's really being hidden behind all of this.
Without wasting any time, I opened the newspaper. The scent of fresh ink greeted my nose, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the massive headline taking up nearly half the front page:
"ROYAL FORCES INITIATE STRATEGIC REPOSITIONING TO SAFEGUARD REGIONAL STABILITY"
A title that… felt too calm. Too measured. As if nothing was wrong. As if this was all part of some grand design carefully drafted long ago by generals and military planners.
As I began to read, it felt less like a news report and more like a long-winded speech disguised as journalism. The article went on about how Felsburg's main army had "successfully completed the initial phase of the spring operation" and was now "entering a phase of consolidation and restructuring to optimize front-line defensive effectiveness."
No mention of a retreat. No mention of failure. Certainly not defeat.
Just convoluted statements like:
"The repositioning of strategic units represents a proactive measure in response to the evolving geopolitical dynamics in the region, particularly in light of rising diplomatic tensions along the southern border with Aberia and Portoval."
And yet, everyone knew that not too long ago, the military had proudly declared we were on the offensive. The media was filled with stories of victories—cities being "liberated," enemies "driven back." But now… after weeks of silence, what surfaces is a report about "reorganizing formations" and "optimizing defensive posture."
Even when the article mentions the evacuation of several front-line sectors, it puts it like this:
"Adjustments in the eastern sector are part of a broader design for tactical mobility, ensuring operational flexibility while sending a message of diplomatic vigilance to neighboring states that continue to display ambiguous attitudes toward the territorial integrity of Felsburg."
One sentence, two paragraphs, and yet it says nothing. But I can read between the lines. This isn't a repositioning. It's a retreat. A slow withdrawal wrapped in the golden foil of strategic narrative.
I took a deep breath. This… isn't the first time I've read something like this. In my previous life, newspapers like these were a daily staple. And they all had one thing in common: they talked a lot… to hide something simple—
That we were losing.
Not because our soldiers lacked bravery. Not because they didn't fight. But because those in power cared more about appearances than confronting the reality.
And the people? They'll read this, nodding along, saying, "Ah, good. We're still strong."
While in truth… we're beginning to stumble.
I kept reading, line after line, but the deeper I went, the more contradictory it all felt.
Erzregent—the one praised as a visionary—had once confidently declared that Aberia and Portoval were still rebuilding after their civil wars. That they were too busy quelling unrest within their own borders to pose any threat. Government rhetoric had been certain—almost arrogant—insisting these nations had neither the capacity nor the courage to interfere in Felsburg's military affairs, let alone assist Noirval.
And now?
This very paper claimed the troop repositioning was being done to "preserve regional stability" due to "new tensions emerging along the southern border" from none other than… Aberia and Portoval.
So who are we supposed to believe?
Were they lying before?
Or have they only just now realized their confidence was misplaced?
Or worse—did they know the truth all along and simply fed us hollow optimism to keep the public quiet and compliant?
I let out a slow breath, the newspaper trembling slightly in my hands. Beneath the layers of propaganda, there was one thing I couldn't stop wondering: why did they choose to publish this at all? Even dressed in polished language and euphemism, the message was clear—something's not right on the front.
They usually hold this kind of thing back longer. But now? They're releasing it—carefully, strategically—into the public sphere.
The only explanation that makes sense?
The situation is far worse than they can cover up.
This might not just be strategic repositioning. Our forces might truly be under pressure. We may have already lost territory. And while they'll never say that aloud… they know the truth will surface eventually.
So they took the middle road—leak a little, shape the narrative, and hope the people stay loyal.
But I'm certain… I'm not the only one reading this and feeling uneasy.
Even the most devoted citizens must be starting to wonder:
"If the war is truly going well… why is this necessary?"
And perhaps, for the first time, doubt is beginning to creep into the very lines meant to bolster our confidence.
But for those who've seen what real war looks like—for people like me—these words are more than rhetoric.
They're a signal.
A faint sign that something out there… is starting to crack.
---
Truthfully, I still wanted to read the rest of the newspaper—scanning every article, searching for tiny clues that might've been missed. But I remembered the promise I made to Mom: to be home before sunset. Besides, I had already read the front-line news. The rest… was probably just more sugarcoated diversions.
Reluctantly, I folded the newspaper and slipped it into the small bag slung over my shoulder. My steps began to carry me home, accompanied by the golden-orange glow of sunset stretching across the city streets. The evening sun crept slowly from behind the line of tall buildings, turning glass windows into shimmering mirrors of light.
For some reason, today felt quieter than usual. Cars rolled by slowly, pedestrians moved at a lazy pace, and the sky—though not yet dark—was beginning to lose its sharp brilliance. Not knowing when misfortune might come knocking, I decided to slow my pace. I wanted to savor this evening for a while—silently capture it in memory while I still could.
The buildings around me stood tall and proud, draped in banners and fabric dyed black, white, and gold—the three colors of the grand Kingdom of Felsburg. They stood out vividly against the warm hues of dusk, almost as if they were screaming at the world that they still stood strong. But I knew... colors didn't always mean strength.
I knew this capital well enough. Dad used to take me on walks through the city when he was home. Sometimes just to get our favorite pastries, sometimes just to wander with no destination in mind. But the memory I remember most was from last year, when we decided to go a little outside the city. He said there was a small fishing spot he had found long ago with his friends from his youth.
We spent the entire day there. Waiting for fish that never came, tossing around silly jokes, even talking about strange things like cloud shapes and river spirit myths. Time vanished in the warmth of our laughter and idle chatter—until dusk settled in and we realized... we'd been out far too long.
When we got home, Mom greeted us with a furious look—or more accurately, worry hidden behind anger. Still, even though we got scolded, I never really regretted that day. Because it was one of those days where the world felt peaceful. When the war was just a distant shadows stretching across the walls of the houses. I quickened my pace. For some reason, there was a strange urgency building in my chest—a feeling of wanting to get home fast. Not because I was afraid of being late… but because it felt like something was waiting for me.
When my house finally came into view, a fleeting sense of relief washed over me. The sun hadn't fully set yet. I wouldn't be scolded for coming home late. I even managed a small smile...
But that smile froze instantly.
In front of the house stood two men in military uniforms. Their uniforms were pristine and elegant—far more refined than the one my dad usually wore. High ranks. Officers. One of them held his cap to his chest; the other clutched a brown folder that looked too heavy to be carrying just a letter.
They were speaking to someone standing in the doorway. A woman. Her light brown hair was tied neatly, her house dress slightly wrinkled… and even though I couldn't see her face clearly from this distance, I knew exactly who she was.
Mom.
My brisk walk turned into a run.
I didn't know why—but my body moved faster than my thoughts. My heartbeat raced—not from exhaustion, but from a sudden, piercing sense of dread.
As I got closer, the world seemed to fall silent. No birds. No sound of my footsteps. Just the blurred sight of Mom's face—because she was… crying.
A silent cry—not a sob or a wail, but the kind of cry that tears everything apart without needing a sound.
I couldn't hear anything the officers were saying. Their voices became distant echoes I couldn't understand. My focus narrowed to one thing: Mom's tear-streaked face and trembling fingers as she tried in vain to wipe away the endless stream.
I stopped right in front of her.
"Mom…?" I called softly.
She turned.
Slowly. As if her whole body resisted facing another truth that had just arrived—carried by my voice.
And when our eyes met, she didn't speak. She just looked at me for a few seconds, and then her body moved on its own—pulling me into a tight embrace, as if afraid I might vanish with the evening wind if she didn't.
"Mom, what's wrong?" I asked again, my voice small, afraid, but needing to know.
And in that embrace, with a voice choked and trembling, she whispered:
"I'm sorry, Erina… It seems your dad won't be coming home… not next year, not the year after… not ever."
In that instant, the world stopped.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just stood there—silent—as if my body hadn't yet processed the words I'd just heard.
But I knew.
I knew what those words meant. Even if Mom hadn't said them… I'd already known, from the moment I saw those two men standing outside our door, holding a cap, a folder, and a face full of grief.
Dad… was gone.
The man who once walked me through the streets of the city. Who taught me how to fish. Who once laughed so loudly when his fishing line was tugged by a fish too small to even be dinner.
Someone who… was supposed to come home.
But didn't.
And never would again.
I closed my eyes, letting Mom's embrace be the only thing keeping my body from falling apart. Because this truth… was too heavy for a child's heart to bear.
And for the first time in my new life in this world… I felt truly alone.