As soon as he entered, he was welcomed at the town's threshold by a wide plaza paved with gray stones, brimming with life and movement, as though it were a beating heart distributing warmth throughout the place. Men and women, young and old, each was immersed in the details of their daily life, strolling confidently between wooden stalls that exuded the scent of ripe, appetizing fruits.
At the center of the plaza stood a striking fountain that drew the eyes. It featured intricately carved stone statues, from which water flowed in thin streams like threads of liquid glass. The droplets reflected the light, forming a small, vibrant rainbow through which children leapt, their laughter echoing as they danced around the fountain. Their cheerful voices blended harmoniously with the gentle sound of flowing water, creating a musical scene of spontaneous joy.
Ace stopped in the middle of the square, his eyes scanning every corner, every color, every motion. His gaze resembled that of a child seeing the world for the first time. Although the place lacked the grandeur and embellishments of big cities, it radiated a subtle warmth that brought a sense of peace—an atmosphere measured not by its size, but by the emotions it stirred. While he was entranced by the captivating scene, he heard Emilia's cheerful voice behind him, saying with a bright smile,
"How about I give you a tour of the town? There's so much to see."
Ace turned to her, momentarily surprised by her offer, but quickly smiled and replied with gratitude,
"That would be very kind of you."
Just before they set off, his eyes landed again on her bulky bag. Raising his eyebrows and gesturing toward it, he asked,
"May I carry your bag for you? It looks heavy."
Emilia blinked in surprise, glanced at her bag, then smiled gently as she placed a hand on it and replied playfully,
"Oh, this? Don't worry, it's not as heavy as it looks. It's full of fabrics. I just got back from the Royal Capital after hearing about an amazing sale. I couldn't resist buying a large amount of fabric at fantastic deals."
She laughed and lightly tapped her forehead, as if scolding herself for her shopping spree, then added,
"And that's how I ended up with such a big bag—but really, it's not as heavy as it seems, so don't worry about it."
Despite her casual tone, Ace felt that her words revealed a part of her character—a blend of childlike innocence and mature wisdom, as if life had shaped her early on without ever stripping her joy. Still unconvinced, he replied with gentle insistence,
"It doesn't feel right to let a young lady carry such a large bag, while I'm barely holding anything."
His sincerity made the girl pause a moment before she smiled softly and, without further argument, nodded in agreement. She bent slightly, letting the bag rest on the ground, and the straps slipped from her shoulders, leaving faint marks—subtle signs of its weight. Ace noticed them instantly. That small trace told a story of effort and endurance—a child who never complained. In one swift motion, he lifted the bag as if afraid she might change her mind.
He hoisted it onto his shoulder. Though the weight meant little to him, he could tell it was heavy—far too heavy for a child. He imagined the strain she must have endured, hidden beneath her layer of innocence. Despite her youth, she was remarkably self-reliant. A sense of admiration and respect blossomed within him.
Afterward, the girl suggested they stop by her home to drop off the bags, which clearly weren't suited for a long tour. Ace nodded in agreement, and the two set off down the town's main street, where the sidewalks were paved with weathered stones, faded by time and the footsteps of passersby. On either side stood small houses with slanted roofs covered in red tiles and modest shops, some wafting the scent of fresh bread, others, the aroma of coffee.
Though the street wasn't bustling, every corner pulsed with the quiet life of its residents. An elderly woman sat in front of a tiny shop, knitting a piece of sky-blue wool. Children darted between low-hanging trees, while a gray cat perched on a stone wall, observing passersby with half-closed eyes.
They continued walking, with Ace observing the surroundings in detail, while Emilia occasionally pointed out familiar landmarks and shared their stories. After a roughly 500-meter walk, they reached a crossroads, turned left, and entered a quieter side street. The closely packed houses gave the area a warm, intimate feel, as if the homes whispered secrets to each other through their open windows. They passed a small garden surrounded by a worn wooden fence, where wildflowers bloomed chaotically, singing joy into the air despite the neglect.
At last, they stopped in front of a modest house. Though small, it radiated warmth with its soft colors and simple features. Its facade was partially covered by climbing plants, wrapping around it like a gentle embrace. A large window, almost shop-like, offered a clear view inside. Above the door, a small sign swayed gently, adorned with a golden thread and needle design. Emilia stepped forward, unlocked the wooden door, and pushed it open. It creaked softly, as if whispering a shy greeting, followed by the chime of a bell that welcomed them in. She turned to Ace, gesturing politely for him to enter, her eyes full of innocent hospitality.
He gave a slight bow in thanks and stepped toward the threshold—but paused. A strange sensation crept over him, as though unseen eyes were watching. He quickly turned, scanning the crowd, the expressions, and the corners that might conceal someone. Everything appeared normal, leaving him puzzled. He took a deep breath, convincing himself it was just fatigue playing tricks on him, and stepped inside.
Once across the threshold, he found himself in what appeared to be a tailor's shop. Before his surprise could fully settle, Emilia's excited voice rang out as she spread her arms wide in presentation,
"Welcome to Grandma's little shop!"
With her theatrical declaration, Ace looked around, soon realizing this wasn't just a workshop—it was a living room transformed into a vibrant space of craftsmanship. Soft white curtains draped over the large window, letting sunlight stream gently inside and reflect off the wooden floor, mingling with the scent of fabric.
At the back stood a wooden table, its surface marked by age—scratches and grooves left by years of sewing, with remnants of fabric clinging to its edges. On the wall behind it, spools of brightly colored thread were neatly arranged on wooden shelves, accompanied by scissors and needles hanging like soldiers awaiting their next task.
Additional shelves lined the walls, holding small boxes adorned with delicate floral patterns, each filled with buttons of various colors and shapes—some metallic, others glass. Across the room stood a collection of small dolls, each a miniature masterpiece made by skilled hands.
One doll wore a velvety purple dress, its silky fabric trimmed with soft white lace, resembling a princess ready for a royal ball. Beside it, another doll donned an elegant winter coat lined with plush fur, its fine stitching a testament to expert hands. The third doll was strikingly different—larger, with stern features. It wasn't just a pretty toy; it resembled a warrior, its sharp details evoking strength rather than playfulness.
Ace stood in the center, absorbing every detail, then turned to Emilia, who smiled with pride. He realized then that this space wasn't merely a workshop—it was her world, woven from threads, dreams, and memories. She told him she would fetch some clean clothes. Ace set both bags down, his eyes scanning the garments displayed on simple wooden mannequins, each piece radiating care and affection.
Moments later, Emilia returned, holding neatly folded clothes and a pair of shoes. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. The outfit was simple: a clean shirt and comfortable trousers, both fresh with the scent of washing and ironing. She handed him the clothes, assuring him with cheerful confidence that they would fit perfectly. In her eyes, there wasn't a hint of doubt—as though she had memorized his measurements without ever needing to ask.
Ace took the clothes with gratitude, giving her a silent look of thanks before glancing around for a private corner to change. She noticed his hesitation and stepped forward, shaking her head apologetically, explaining that the shop was small and lacked a fitting room. Her customers, she said, usually relied on her judgment, which had never failed them.
After her explanation, he began unbuttoning his shirt—only to feel her gaze. He turned to find her staring with twinkling eyes, not just out of curiosity, but with an odd intensity. Though her staring wasn't inappropriate, it prompted a quiet question in his mind: why was she watching so intently? Perhaps she was simply accustomed to seeing customers change before her.
Still, he felt the need to ask for a bit of privacy. As soon as he did, she jolted, as if suddenly awakened from a trance. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned around quickly, covering her eyes dramatically with her hands, saying in a flustered, childlike voice,
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"
Ace smiled and, without saying another word, changed into the new clothes. After placing something into his small bag, he told her he was ready. She turned eagerly, her eyes scanning him from head to toe. When her inspection was complete, she lifted her chin proudly and said with a confident smile,
"They fit you perfectly!"
Her tone carried more than just praise—it was a subtle affirmation of her unfailing intuition. He then handed her his torn clothes. She accepted them as though receiving something precious, studying them carefully, as if imprinting their details in her memory. She placed them into a drawer, locked it with a small key from her pocket, as though protecting them from being lost or stolen.
Ace watched her silently, wondering if she saw more in his clothes than just fabric. As she straightened up, she noticed the small bottle in his hand—a clear container filled with crystal-like liquid. Curious, she stepped closer and asked,
"Excuse me… but what's that?"
Lowering the bottle to her eye level, Ace smiled and answered,
"It's just a bottle of water."
Hearing that, she placed a finger near her lips, tilting her head thoughtfully. Though her face showed no signs of thirst, her eyes told another story—a thirst not of the body, but of curiosity, a hunger for experience. Ace studied her expression, then extended the bottle and asked,
"Would you like to try it?"
She stepped back, fingers intertwined, and asked cautiously,
"R-Really? I can?"
He smiled and warned her not to expect too much—after all, water was still just water. She took the bottle carefully, as though holding something fragile. Feeling the smooth plastic, unfamiliar to her, she pressed it gently, the soft crackle signaling its fragility.
She raised it to her lips and took a tiny sip—just enough to wet her tongue. Immediately, her eyes widened in awe. She stared at the bottle in amazement and exclaimed,
"Pure!"
She turned to Ace and added,
"I've never tasted water this clean before!"
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and asked,
"What do you mean?"
She didn't answer at first. Instead, she returned the bottle, then walked to a corner of the shop where a large wooden barrel stood with a small spout. She filled a wooden cup and brought it to him, saying with slightly less enthusiasm,
"I was going to offer you some water, but now… I feel embarrassed by how plain it is compared to yours."
Ace looked at the cup, then back at her. There was an unspoken apology in her expression—as if she realized that what was normal to her might not be so for others. He smiled but said nothing, taking the cup and sipping slowly. The water tasted metallic, raw—like old water. It wasn't icy, nor tepid, but carried the room's warmth. He finished it in one go and commented,
"The alkalinity of this water is a bit high, so it has a slightly different taste."
She tilted her head, curious, and repeated softly,
"Alkalinity?"
Ace realized the explanation might be too complex, so he waved it off and said,
"Don't worry about it. It's not that important." Then, shifting his tone, he asked,
"Shall we go on that tour now?"
She tilted her head playfully and replied in a soft voice,
"What's the rush? Why don't we sit and have a snack first?"
Her tone was gentle, filled with kindness. Ace looked at her for a few moments, his eyes shimmering with something deeper than impatience. He thanked her quietly, his voice tinged with both appreciation and hesitation,
"Thank you for your hospitality, but I…"
He paused, as if words had failed him midway. A trace of discomfort passed across his face—subtle, but noticeable to one with a keen eye. He tried to suppress the emotions leaking through his expression, pressing his lips together as if to keep something buried inside. Yet Emilia, with surprising perception, caught that fleeting moment in its entirety. He finally whispered,
"I'm kind of… in a hurry."
The little girl slowly closed her eyelids, again and again, her thick lashes moving in harmony. She was trying to understand, to analyze, to interpret that deep look that had momentarily appeared on his face. But she quickly withdrew from her contemplation—she understood, with the silent wisdom of those who have matured, that behind every urgency lies a story, behind every fleeting glance hides a concealed concern, and behind every polite apology, there's an untold struggle.
At that moment, Emilia tilted her head once more, and a small smile formed on her face—a smile that carried a hint of understanding, neither forced nor insincere. Then she said in a soft voice, tinged with a tone of reconciliation:
"Alright, as you wish. Let's go."