The first threads of light crept timidly through the small window, brushing against the thin curtain and casting a soft, golden glow over the modest furnishings. In the corner of the room, where the small bed stood, Ace sat quietly, watching the scene slowly unfold around him. The warmth he felt was not solely from the fabric that covered him, but something deeper—something comforting in its own way.
He rose gently, cautious not to make a sound that might disturb his kind hostess. The night he had spent here was nothing like the others—far from the noise of engines and machines that had roared endlessly during his journey, far from the sting of cold air and watchful eyes. This tranquility felt like a haven after a long and grueling path.
With deliberate steps, he walked out of the room and down the creaking wooden floor. Sounds soon reached him from downstairs—soft yet rhythmic. Descending the stairs, he found her—Emilia—already awake, sitting at a wooden table surrounded by colorful fabrics, bathed in the scattered rays of morning light that danced like waves over a sea of color.
One hand held a measuring tape, the other a slender pencil sketching precise lines across a small notebook. Her eyes sparkled with a passion far greater than her years, her lips parted slightly, and the tip of her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth—a clear sign of deep focus. Her slender fingers moved with a skill that exceeded her age, as if she had been born to master this delicate craft.
She wore a simple morning dress of soft sky-blue fabric that swayed with her gentle movements, paired with a white apron embroidered with tiny flowers, adding an air of innocence and grace to her appearance. Ace recalled hearing her leave her room not long ago, but he hadn't realized she had been awake since then.
It dawned on him that she had probably been immersed in her work the entire time. He didn't want to interrupt her moment of quiet creation. Her dedication was evident, as though it was passion itself that had stirred her from sleep in these early hours—hours that most children her age would still spend lost in dreams.
He smiled faintly and retreated silently upstairs, where he sat by the street-facing window, resting his head on his hand as he watched the day begin. The shops were opening their doors, their owners lifting the shutters. One person dusted off the storefront, another neatly arranged crates of fruit, ensuring they caught the eye of passing customers.
Horse-drawn carts and other light wagons rolled by, carrying wooden barrels exuding the scent of various juices. Some carts bore sacks of white flour, fine dust puffing from them with every bump in the road.
This place was different—not just in appearance, but in its feeling, in its serenity and warmth, which stemmed not only from the sun's rays but from the lives within it, giving it the essence of home.
It wasn't long before the street began to fill with joyful noise—children's laughter and footsteps. A group of kids appeared, clutching small notebooks, some worn from use, others crisp and new. They were a mix of personalities; some walked quietly, whispering secrets, while others ran with glee, their laughter ringing freely.
The sight stirred a painful memory in Ace—a time when he would walk each morning to the train station, through quiet residential neighborhoods, the smell of rain-soaked earth mingling with the aroma of fresh bread from open windows. Those daily walks were more than routine; they were an unspoken escape, a search for something he wasn't sure he could find.
At those times, doors would open, and parents would bid their children farewell for school—some with warm smiles, others with quick kisses. Mothers' voices would float in the air with morning reminders: be careful on the road, don't forget your lunch, be kind to your teachers and friends.
Such scenes always stirred conflicting emotions in him—a deep longing for days gone by and a bitter ache that rattled the locked doors of his past, throwing them open to memories when he had once been part of that scene, before becoming no more than a distant observer.
After about half an hour of quiet sitting, broken only by the street's morning sounds, he heard light footsteps. His eyes lifted to the door, which creaked open slowly, revealing the young girl. Her golden locks fluttered gently in the cool breeze flowing through the window.
Her cheeks were flushed like dewy blossoms, her eyes carrying a mix of fatigue and contentment. She stood at the threshold for a moment, surprised by the chill, then stepped toward Ace, rubbing her arms with her palms to warm herself. She approached with a shy smile on her lips and a look of genuine care in her eyes, then said sweetly:
"I see you woke up early, Mister Ace. How was your night? Did you get enough rest?"
There was a purity in her gaze, as if her morning joy wouldn't be complete without knowing her guest had slept well. For a moment, Ace felt wrapped in a warmth he hadn't known in a long time—not just comfort, but heartfelt hospitality. He smiled and replied gently:
"Thank you again for hosting me. I haven't had such a peaceful, warm night in a long while."
His words were genuine, simple, yet they carried more than they said. Emilia saw it in his eyes, gleaming with gratitude. Her own smile widened slightly, and she tilted her head thoughtfully before asking:
"That's wonderful! Should I make you some breakfast?"
Her small fingers played with the edge of her embroidered apron, as if trying to distract herself from the nervous energy of hosting a guest—perhaps for the first time. Ace noticed it and, for the first time, felt a quiet sense of fondness for the girl. He answered sincerely:
"You're too kind."
She quickly replied with a bright smile:
"Oh, don't worry! I'll make you a delicious breakfast. I was so excited to start taking your measurements and designing your clothes, I forgot to eat myself!"
Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm—spontaneous and genuine, as if her feelings spoke before her mind could catch up. Without waiting, she turned and disappeared into the small kitchen, where ceramic mugs and colorful plates lined the wooden shelves, reflecting the warmth of the space.
Soon, the kitchen was alive with movement: the clatter of utensils, the rhythmic slicing of bread on the cutting board, the stacking of dishes—all forming a cozy domestic symphony.
From her lips came a soft hum, a familiar melody from days past. Meanwhile, Ace continued to watch the street come alive—people filling the roads, some strolling, others rushing as though late for urgent appointments.
Nothing in the view seemed particularly unusual—until he saw them: individuals dressed unlike any others. His brows lifted, eyes widening in curiosity. They were men and women clad in long robes, wearing tall, pointed hats—some adorned with feathers, others with bells or shimmering gems. Their shoes were long and curled, and each carried a staff—some topped with glowing stones that shifted colors with every glance, others plain wooden rods.
Curiously, they bore no swords, daggers, bows, or spears. Instead, thick tomes hung at their waists, bound with tight leather straps, as if guarding secrets not meant for common knowledge.
As they disappeared from view, Emilia emerged from the kitchen holding a wooden tray. The scent of melted butter and fresh pastries floated through the air. Toasted bread steamed invitingly; golden-edged eggs sizzled beside rich, red-tinged bacon, arranged as if part of a culinary painting. After setting the table, she looked up at Ace and said warmly:
"Mister Ace, please, I hope you enjoy the breakfast."
He rose and began to take his seat, but paused, then quietly walked toward the grandmother's room. Emilia was puzzled. Moments later, he returned, holding a box she immediately recognized—the angelic candy box. He asked her for an extra plate. She nodded and hurried to the kitchen, returning with a wooden dish.
Ace arranged all five pieces of candy on the plate. They both sat down—Emilia gazing at the glistening sweets, Ace admiring the hearty meal. He thanked her for her care and picked up a warm slice of bread, and they began to eat.
Emilia longed to reach for a piece of candy but remembered the etiquette: dessert comes after the main course. She hesitated, but Ace noticed her silent yearning. Understanding that no child should have to deny herself a simple joy, he picked up a piece and offered her one too. That small gesture released her from the bonds of politeness and allowed her to accept his kindness freely.
She reached out eagerly, took a piece, and bit into it. The delight that spread across her face confirmed that this candy was unlike anything she had ever tasted—worthy, perhaps, of royal banquet halls.
A sudden idea sparked in her mind: what if they sold this candy in town? Success was almost guaranteed. But she held back from voicing the thought, knowing that even the most promising ventures take time—and time was not a luxury Ace had.
As he ate quietly, his thoughts drifted back to the strange figures he'd seen. His curiosity overcame his appetite. He looked up and asked:
"Emilia, I saw a group passing by—they wore long, unusual robes and carried carved staffs and strange-looking books. Do you know anything about them?"
She didn't react immediately, still chewing a bite of candy. After swallowing, she replied simply:
"They're mages."