The young man stood mesmerized by the warmth she exuded. But then, another detail about her caught his attention—the enormous, tattered backpack she carried on her narrow shoulders. Covered in patches of various colors—some vibrant, others faded—it looked as though it had seen many years of use.
The entire image suggested it was more than just a backpack—it was like a portable archive of untold stories. He wondered how such a delicate girl could carry something so large. It seemed as though her entire life was packed into it, her only home the contents strapped to her back.
"Excuse me, are you talking to me?" he asked, noticing her eyes studying him intently, as if trying to read something in his appearance. She replied:
"Yes, sir! I just wanted to ask if the spot behind you is taken by someone?"
Despite the simplicity of her question, he felt she was inquiring about more than just a place in line. He blinked twice, trying to process her words, then replied hesitantly, feeling the weight of her unblinking gaze:
"Uh… no… I don't think so. I just arrived and stood behind this man. He didn't seem to mind."
Upon hearing that, her lips spread into a wider, warmer smile—more than just polite. It was a mix of gratitude and reassurance, as if his words had brought her unexpected comfort. She nodded lightly and said brightly:
"I see! Thank you, sir."
Yet her eyes didn't stop scanning him, as if trying to absorb every detail in a single glance. He felt a twinge of self-consciousness but masked it with a neutral nod. He glanced down at his clothes, barely better than rags, then looked back at her. She stood there in her beautiful dress and crimson scarf, as if she belonged to a different world than his. Yet somehow, he felt an inexplicable connection to her—something he couldn't define.
As he turned away, he felt her gaze still on him, filled with unspoken questions. The moment was strange—both unsettling and oddly compelling. He tried to ignore it, to refocus on what had occupied his mind before. He tilted his body slightly and scanned the distant, animated faces, attempting to understand how these people communicated.
The line buzzed with overlapping voices—some loud and sharp, others barely audible. He strained to catch bits of conversation, to grasp fragments that might help him understand, but the noise was overwhelming, and the distance made it harder.
He realized he couldn't rely on words alone—but also on body language. He studied facial expressions, noting gestures that might convey what mouths did not.
Suddenly, a realization hit him. A cynical smile crept across his face as he looked up at the sky—gazing at its infinite expanse as if seeing it for the first time. He realized the truth had been in front of him all along. It felt as though a layer of gray mist had lifted from his mind—as if he had lived inside a translucent shell, and now he could finally see from the outside.
He turned and looked again at the little girl, who returned his gaze with a curious smile, full of innocent wonder and subtle caution. He studied her face as if seeing it anew. Silence lingered between them, charged with questions, until she broke it with a tremble in her voice—a reflection of her unease beneath the friendly smile:
"U-um, sir… is something wrong?"
"No…" he paused, then turned toward her and added,
"But… we're speaking the same language, aren't we?"
Her mind seemed to echo his words, trying to grasp their meaning. For a moment, she appeared to be searching for clarity, like a blind person feeling through darkness. Then finally, she replied with a puzzled tone:
"Yes… we are?"
Silence returned, but this time it carried tension and awe. He pondered—how could he converse so easily with the people here? How did they all speak one language? A childlike astonishment filled his eyes as his thoughts scrambled to make sense of this new awareness.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice echoed from deep within his memories. Familiar words, spoken long ago, resurfaced—phrases his subconscious had never forgotten. They seemed, in that moment, to tie the scattered pieces of the puzzle together.
And yet, amid this sudden clarity, a cold sadness crept into his heart—a heavy sorrow mixed with regret. How could he have forgotten those words for so long? How had he allowed his memory to let them fade? It felt like an unintended betrayal of the dearly departed soul who once spoke them.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breath slow. Then, a faint smile appeared on his lips—one tinged with buried regret—before he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible:
"I can't believe I forgot that."
Across from him, the little girl tilted her head, her delicate features marked by a curious expression. She seemed to be trying to dive into his thoughts, attempting to read the story unfolding behind his eyes, awaiting an explanation for what was occupying his mind. When he noticed her confusion, he realized he might have appeared odd to her. He cleared his throat gently, then offered her a kind smile and said:
"Sorry, I must have seemed strange."
His words were simple, yet they brought a sense of ease to the girl. She placed a hand near her mouth, as if to stifle a hesitant giggle, then closed her eyes and said:
"No need to apologize. We all do strange things sometimes."
Her voice carried a light note of playfulness, as if she were sharing a secret with the young man. Suddenly, the calm atmosphere around them shifted. Loud voices rose from the front of the line, mingled with scattered murmurs. The young man turned, and the girl leaned slightly as if both were drawn toward the commotion.
There, at the gate, There was what looked like a little child with messy green hair was writhing in the grip of one of the guards, struggling wildly to break free in a manner that showed no trace of respect. Near the gate, stood a small donkey, braying in distress amid the chaos. Observing the distant scene, the girl shrugged, then offered a sideways smirk tinged with sarcasm and said:
"Looks like the line's going to be delayed for a while."
While the young man was still staring, taken aback by the scene, the girl took the opportunity to study him again—this time more closely, more attentively. Her eyes, which had sparkled moments ago with childlike energy, now glinted with a curiosity that could not be concealed. She looked him over from head to toe, then, without warning, asked:
"Excuse me, sir... are you from a foreign land?"
He turned to her, raising his eyebrows, surprised by the unexpected question. But he quickly formed a faint smile and asked in his calm voice:
"Why would you think that?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if gathering her words carefully, then replied with childlike enthusiasm:
"Well, it's just that there aren't many people with black hair around here. But actually, that's not what caught my attention—it's your clothes!"
His eyes lit up for a moment. He glanced down at his attire as though seeing it for the first time. His brow furrowed slightly, as if her observation had stirred a kind of unease. The girl noticed this clearly and grew flustered in turn. She raised her small hands in a quick motion, waving them before her as she said:
"I'm sorry, dear sir! I didn't mean to offend or anything like that! What I meant was—the design of your clothes… it's unlike anything I've ever seen."
Her words poured out quickly, eager to explain herself before being misunderstood. Her wide eyes watched him carefully, searching his face for any sign of offense. But to her relief, he didn't seem angry or upset at all. Instead, that same calm smile returned to his lips, as if meant to reassure her—or perhaps to conceal his own thoughts.
"Indeed, I come from a distant land," he said softly. Then, as though trying to gently halt her growing curiosity, he added with measured tone:
"And before you ask, I can't tell you its name or location… for personal reasons."
His words carried a veil of mystery that only deepened the girl's curiosity. Yet this time, she didn't ask further. She simply looked at him, as though trying to read in his features a story he wasn't willing to share. Her delicate eyebrows rose briefly before lowering again, a flicker of disappointment passing over her expression. Her hazel eyes sparkled with unspoken questions, but when she finally spoke again, her voice was more subdued:
"And do people in your country wear clothes like that?"
"Yes, there are garments similar in style. In fact, what I'm wearing now is quite simple—or at least it was, before I had an accident that ruined it."