The snow outside had been falling for over ten days, each flake dancing erratically as it drifted down. It settled on windowpanes, eaves, and every surface that could hold it, piling up until, at last, it would come crashing down in a sudden avalanche.
Half-buried by snow, a humble wooden cottage sat along the stony path of a hillside. Inside, there was nothing extraordinary: a study, a living room, a dining area, and three small bedrooms. All warmth came from the fireplace in the study, whose glow melted the ice on the windows and fought off the creeping cold and dampness as best it could.
The study itself basked in a cozy, dry tranquility.
While his mother busied herself preparing dinner, the little boy quietly tiptoed past the old man dozing nearby. He climbed onto a short stool, and though he was still too small, he stretched his arms as far as they would go, reaching for a dark gray leather-bound book on the top shelf.
In an instant, the stool wobbled, and he lost his balance. Panicked, he grabbed at anything to stop his fall, but as expected, nothing except the books in front of him was within reach.
A whole row of books came crashing down with him. Just as the noise was about to erupt, a gust of wind seemed to blow from behind him, and before the thunderous crash could fully sound, a pair of large hands swooped over his head, shoving most of the books back onto the shelf. A few still hit the floor, but luckily none struck the boy.
The old man lifted the boy from the ground.
The child trembled, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Hearing the commotion, his mother rushed in from the kitchen. She and the woman who followed her first looked stricken with worry, then their gazes sharpened into reproach.
If the old man hadn't acted, the consequences would have been unthinkable.
She left the punishment entirely to him, then returned to the kitchen with the other woman.
"Elunia, do you see what could have happened?" the old man's voice, rough with age, asked.
The boy watched as the old man—with his unusual features—pointed a sharp index finger at him. The coldness in the old man's eyes and his stern aura made the boy's tears threaten to spill over. When the child said nothing, the old man set him down, then bent to pick up the fallen books.
He turned back to the pouting boy—at least the tears were gone now. Looking away, he said, "Elunia, I'm glad you're curious about them… but these books are the most precious things we have, besides you. I'd hate to see our treasures crush our little treasure."
"But… but…"
The old man held up a hand to cut off the child's protest. He stared at the thick leather-bound books on the shelf, then pulled a pipe from his sleeve. Seconds later, a cloud of white smoke curled from his lips. He turned back to the boy, knelt down, and studied him for a moment before a smile tugged at his mouth.
"Come now, tell me why you did it."
"Because… because you promised," the boy mumbled, pointing to the only deep blue leather book on the shelf. "You never finished the story last time!"
"Oh?"
The old man remembered every book here clearly. It seemed he did recall making that promise to the boy. He burst into laughter, and thick white smoke quickly surrounded him. He put down his pipe, lifted the boy into his arms, and together they reached for the book.
They settled by the fireplace, squeezing into the large armchair together.
"I suppose I owe you an apology," the old man said. "Old age must have addled my memory."
He took the boy's hand and pressed it against the book's cover. The rough leather left a rugged yet warm sensation on the child's fingertips. "Elunia, can you feel its weight?" When the boy nodded eagerly, he continued, "I think a smart boy like you knows what I mean. But before we start, this isn't like the books your father buys you. How did you know this was the one? The title's in words you haven't learned yet."
"I do know!" the boy said, tracing the title. He pronounced its phonetics clearly and correctly. "Father taught me. It's the Tales of Arthur!"
"Ha! You little rascal, you never cease to surprise me!" the old man chuckled proudly. He moved the boy's hand aside and opened the first page. "Even though the stories in here feel like yesterday, old memories still make me forget some details. Maybe you've given me the push to revisit them."
"You were there too? Really?" The boy's eyes grew wide, shining with curiosity and anticipation.
The old man grunted and nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. "I was. To those who come after us, it might just be a story, but to us, it was an unerasable truth."
He pulled over a small wooden bookshelf, built for the boy by his father, sturdy and well-made, and set the book on it. He wet his thumb with his tongue to turn the pages more easily, leaving faint dark smudges on the leather edges.
But when he turned to the next page, a yellowed photograph tucked inside seemed to cast a spell over him. His gaze lingered on it, and unbidden, tears welled in his eyes. His throat tightened, and warm breath caught there.
"What's wrong?"
In the firelight, the boy's eyes looked especially bright and clear. He gently wiped away the old man's tears with his small hand, then looked up at him, worried.
"Ah, thank you," the old man said, forcing a smile. He brushed away the tears that still glistened in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said, "This photo was never shared with anyone. Only a few of us knew it existed. You're very lucky to be one of them."
The boy's face lit up with pride, then he leaned in excitedly to look at the photo.
The old man ran his sharp finger over each figure in the picture. "You're part of this piece of history now. When you learn more words later, all their stories are on the shelf you just knocked over. I won't stop you from reading them."
The boy nodded, then turned his attention back to the center of the group, following the old man's finger. "Those are your father and mother. And the hero of the story you want to hear is…"
He pointed at the tallest figure in the crowd, turning to the old man excitedly. "Wow! Is that Arthur himself?"
The old man laughed and shook his head. "Ha, sorry! you guessed wrong. That one next to him is Arthur."
The boy frowned and studied the photo again. "But he looks more like the hero…"
The old man roared with laughter. "Ha! If that fellow knew you liked him so much, he'd scoop you up and smother you with hugs!" He stroked the boy's hair, his eyes softening with affection. "Actually, anyone who knew Arthur could feel a sense of trust that this photo can't capture. But now—before your father comes back, we should hurry to where we left off last time. Otherwise, he'll be nagging you to go to bed."
"Of course! Hurry, hurry!" The boy bounced in his seat, tapping his legs eagerly.
The old man flipped through the pages, each one feeling familiar. He seemed to have forgotten where he'd stopped earlier, so he grinned and said, "Sorry, Elunia. Do you remember where we left off?"
"Akma Ruins!"
"Oh—right, the Akma Ruins!" The old man winked at him. "I envy your memory!"
The old man stared at the page, his gaze drifting as his thoughts wandered. It was as if he'd been transported back to that day, when Arthur sat before him, telling his story. In those fragmented memories, the wind in the ruins howled cold and low, faint lights flickered between the broken walls—and he could almost hear Arthur's ragged breathing…
Saya Planet, Akma Ruins
That day, Saya's sky was covered in thick, dark clouds, so dense that even the light from the second moon couldn't pierce through. It was midnight, and the gloomy ruins had never been so lively: beams of light swayed through the air, scanning every corner.
Behind a crumbling pillar, two men hid, gasping for breath. They'd run all the way here from a distant base, their chests heaving—but their pursuers, like hounds, had chased them for over ten kilometers and showed no sign of stopping.
Just a few hundred meters ahead, a ship waited for them. But the pursuers were closing in fast; in the blink of an eye, they'd reached the ruins. With the enemy's intense search all around, even the simple act of dashing to the ship, lowering the ramp, and boarding it—something that should have taken only minutes—felt endless.
"Hu… hu!" Arthur pressed his back against the pillar, pointing toward the ship to the left. "Zack, when I signal, run straight for it!"
"What about you?"
Zack clutched a satchel in one hand and a gun in the other. He peeked out from behind the pillar to survey the area.
"I'm getting on the ship, obviously!" Arthur bit his lip, still panting. "I'll draw their fire. You—go start the ship!" He pulled a magazine from his waist and clicked it into his gun.
"Now? Are you insane?" Zack ducked back as a beam of light swept toward them, then turned to Arthur. "They all know we're here! Every turret in the airport is waiting to pick us off!"
"Got a better plan?" When Zack fell silent, Arthur's expression turned impatient. "What you're doing right now is suicide. Give me your cloak!"
"What for?"
"Quit stalling! You'll see our way out when you start the ship! Go!"
"Fine!" Zack glared at him, yanking off his cloak with a scowl. "One last time! I'm trusting you!"
Zack had no idea what Arthur was planning, but right now, nothing mattered more than escaping. He peeked out from behind the pillar, fired a few shots at the enemy, then spun around and ran for the ship.
Arthur grabbed Zack's cloak and darted out from behind the pillar. He spun as he ran, firing through the cloak to hide his movements, then rolled on the ground, stuffing stones into the fabric before flinging it into the air. Instantly, all the searchlights locked onto the fluttering cloak, while Arthur pushed off the ground and sprinted toward the ship, where Zack had gone.
The trick worked: the beams of light drifted farther and farther from the ship.
Zack reached the ship's side, quickly flipping the external airlock switch. A hissing sound filled the air, followed by the soft whir of machinery, and the rear ramp slowly lowered.