Ash and Rose exchanged a glance, something sharp flickered between them, an instinct neither could name, and then they stepped out of the café. The bell above the door jingled mildly, a fragile sound in the heavy silence that had swallowed the street.
Behind the glass, Gen leaned forward in his chair, his old eyes narrowing as he looked out.
The air outside was thick with a quiet tension, the kind that pressed against the chest like invisible hands. The sunlight was soft, golden on the cobblestone, yet it felt cold.
Five men stood scattered across the middle of the street, the stench of unwashed clothes and gunpowder clinging to them. Their hats were wide-brimmed, felt, sun-beaten and stained. A couple had kerchiefs hanging loose around their necks. Their coats were heavy and scarred by wear, colors dulled to mud and ash and the edges already torn. One wore a navy shirt, its front mottled with old blood and oil; another, half-buttoned and dark, revealed a chest streaked with grime. Their boots were crusted, gaiters hanging in tatters. Each man gripped a muzzle-loading pistol, single-shot, the kind that spoke more of desperation than precision. By looking at them, anyone could tell they're bandits.
Every shopkeeper on the street had frozen mid-motion. Fruit-sellers and cobblers, bakers and children, they all stood still, eyes lowered, as if the very act of breathing might invite a bullet.
And in front of them, facing the bandits, stood approximately eighteen years old boy.
His clothes were clean once, now faded: a navy-blue shirt dulled by wear, a black waistcoat clinging close, and a dark overcoat that hung loose around his shoulders. His boots were polished but dusty, and his eyes calm, gleamed with something between mockery and defiance. He stood beside a fruit stall, one hand lazily resting on the edge. The woman behind it, plump and trembling in her layered dress and white chest cloth, stared at him with pale dread.
One of the bandits spat, the sound sharp against the stone, and shouted, "You whore's son! How dare you loot from us!"
The boy didn't even flinch. His lips curved into a subtle smile. He plucked an apple from the stall, held it close, and took a slow breath as if savoring its scent.
"Hey, aunty," he said lightly, without looking at her. "No need to be afraid. They're just filthy, weak people."
The woman's eyes trembled, her fingers clutched the fabric at her chest, her breath short. She looked up at him as if silently pleading for sense.
The boy turned his head slightly, his gaze catching hers, and sighed.
"Oh, right," he murmured, almost to himself. "I'm filthy too."
Aardh's voice came softly in Ash's mind like smoke. "Typical drama."
Then, suddenly...
The crack of the raw sound seemed to tear something inside Ash before it even reached his ears. He had been staring at the bandits, not really staring but studying the way their pistols trembled invisibly with the rhythm of their breathing, the way one's boot heel ground nervously against the stone. But then Ash felt something.
It wasn't sight exactly, but like a faded memory clawing its way back.
Ash saw it.
His father lying face-down on the ground, the dust painted red beneath him. His calloused and still hand stretched toward nothing.
Around him were bandits. Laughing, spitting, the same cheap pistols glinting under a pale sun. But one of them, one face stood out.
That same crooked grin. That same pissed narrow eyes and the same dull, grey coat with one missing button.
The very same man now standing some steps away from Ash.
A rush of nausea crawled through his chest. His breath hitched. His vision wavered for a second, past and present blending into one another like ink on wet paper.
Rose turned instantly. "What happened?" she asked in soft voice but it reached him through the ringing in his head. Ash blinked, his eyes stung, and before he could stop it, a tear escaped down his cheek.
"You got tears in your eyes?" she murmured, stepping closer. Her hand brushed gently against his cheek, grounding him for a heartbeat. Ash drew a long breath through his teeth, forcing composure back into his face. "It's… nothing," he whispered, though his heart was beating like something trying to escape. "What was that?" He thought at last.
And then...
Bang!
Another gunshot. Louder and nearer. The sound split through the street, scattering the birds perched above, their wings slicing the air. Ash's eyes snapped open.
Ash's head snapped toward the sound just in time to see the puff of white smoke bloom from the pistol's lips.
The bullet cut through the cold morning air with a sharp whizz and missed. Barely. The boy flinched back, his grin widening instead of faltering. "Ayo, calm down, you twat slut." His voice dripping with mockery.
The words struck like a match to dry hay.
Every one of the bandits snarled, curses tangled in their throats. "You ain't running anywhere, son of a bitch!" one shouted, his face twisted with rage. The shooter jerked his pistol back into the worn leather loop on his wrist and bolted forward. The rest followed, boots pounding the cobblestones, coats flapping like torn banners. But the boy only smiled, almost lazy in his defiance. His eyes darted left, right then caught something.
The laundry man. Out Lovable Ren.
He was standing by his rickety wooden cart again, the same from this morning, hands still gripping its handles, knuckles pale, eyes wide. The boy ran straight toward him.
"Hey, No— no,ma—" the laundry man began, but the boy was already leaping, his boots landing on the edge of the cart with a thud that rattled the metal wheels. Apples rolled out, cloth spilled, buttons scattered.
In one fluid motion, the boy snatched a dark coat from the pile, swung it over his shoulder even though he was already wearing one, and sprinted off down the a little fog-blurred street.
The bandits thundered after him, shouting curses that felt like their soul wants to curse.
The laundry man stood frozen, watching as the boy glanced back mid-run, winked, and vanished into the curling mist.
"How magnificent," the laundry man muttered, his brow twitching with both irritation and awe. He raised a hand half-heartedly, as though to protest. "At least give the coat ba—"
But his voice was drowned by the sharp slam of a wooden door behind him.
From the very building where Ash rented his room, Ada Nett, the landlady, came storming out like a tempest in a nightgown. Her hair, poorly tied in a bun, wobbled with every furious step.
In her hands gleamed a Spirit Caller. Its brass body polished to a shine. The device's small rotary dial ticked subtly as her thumb twisted it, letters and numbers glinting under the sun. Two speaker horns jutted from its sides, making it similar and different from the modern world at the same time.
Actually, the spirit caller was not a regular telephone. It worked on soul. Every person has a separate soul, this spirit caller used to connect those soul frequencies through which they could talk to each other. Each person had a unique soul code that could be dialed to communicate with that person, but the range was very short. For example, soul code of Aethelgard Bellstone constabulary was B4g87F. Calling from one country to another was almost impossible. People could only communicate within the city. And the interesting thing is that the police use posters to tell people about their spirit caller's soul code, in case no one knows about it.
Ada Nett adjusted her spectacles sharply, her eyes blazing behind the lenses. "You idiots!" she roared, her voice cutting across the street. "Bandits broke out in the Bellstone District and none of you called the police?!"
Ada Nett twisted the brass dial with practiced irritation, the Spirit Caller ticking softly as letters and numbers clicked beneath her fingers. She lifted the handset to her ear, her lips pressed in a thin line. A subtle hum filled her ear, 'hummm… hummm…' the soft vibration of the connection.
Ash watched her, quiet, his thoughts drifting. "This world even got telephones."
Aardh's voice rippled through his mind, light and curious. "Sounds cool."
Ash's gaze clicked toward Rose, who was still beside him. He took a small step back, his eyes drawn again to the strange brass device gleaming under Ada's grip. The woman stood upright now, impatience written all over her face. "Hello! Aethelgard Constabulary?" she said into the receiver. "Yes—yes, where the hell are you? Bandits literally broke out here!"
A pause. She rolled her eyes and sighed through her nose.
"Yeah! Yeah, in Bellstone District… I'm Ada Nett—yes, that Ada Nett! Please come quickly!"
And with that, she slammed the handset down, the sharp clack echoing against the nearby walls.
For a second, the street went still again.
Some of the onlookers glanced toward her, others shrugged and turned back to their work, pretending the world hadn't just nearly erupted in bloodshed.
Ada adjusted her spectacles with an annoyed huff. "What's wrong with these idiots," she muttered, shaking her head as she marched back into the building, the heels of her shoes tapping the stone floor in small beats.
Ash's eyes followed her until she vanished inside. Then he turned to Rose. She was watching him, brows slightly furrowed. "Didn't know they'd appear so suddenly… and fire guns," she murmured, her tone carrying a trace of disbelief and weariness. She let out a sigh and shook her head, turning toward the café's door. "Aye, sorry, Grandpa—let's make your coffee," she called as she walked back in.
Ash didn't move.
He stood there, gaze fixed on the damp cobblestone where the bandits had stood moments ago. His mind drifted again, unbidden flashes rising from the depths.
The sound of fire.
The echo of steel.
Rain Elliott's lifeless body, dust clinging to his skin. The same man's face among the bandits.
Aardh's voice whispered faintly, distant now, as if from behind a curtain. "You're thinking about your scattered vision, aren't you?"
Ash didn't reply. "You experienced the memory too?" He said at last. "Well yeah. Bizarre." Aardh said.
The boy, the bandits, Rain Elliott
each image tangled together in his mind, like old threads tightening. The wind passed, brushing his hair across his eyes, and the world fell silent again.