I'm officially one.
It wasn't a crazy birthday. There were no clowns, no bouncy castles, and definitely no store-bought sheet cake with a single candle being blown out while relatives sang off-key. Instead, my parents just stayed home. They spent the entire morning holding me, playing with me on the rug, and letting me nap.
It was quiet, warm, and surprisingly nice.
I've started to pick up the basic language a bit better, automatically translating them in my head. If i didnt understand something I would just infer what they meant.
I'm currently sitting in my mother's lap, facing her. The fire crackles nearby, casting a warm, orange glow over us, fighting back the winter chill pressing against the frosted windows.
Sylvia gently pinches my cheeks, her face hovering just inches from mine. "How's my little Percy doing?"
Her smile is bright and compassionate, but there is a spark of excitement in her eyes today. A mischievous glint.
"You've been stuck inside all winter, haven't you? Well, today is special. Today, I'm going to take you to town for the first time."
Town.
My ears perked up. Finally, I've been staring at these four walls for twelve months. I've memorized every knot in the ceiling beams and every crack in the stone hearth. I needed to see the world. I needed to know where I actually was.
I let out a happy gurgle, waving my hands.
An hour passed, and the preparation began. This, I quickly realized, was the price of admission.
Since it was the dead of winter, Sylvia wasn't taking any chances. She laid me out on the changing table like I was a piece of equipment she was prepping for a blizzard expedition.
First came the linen undergarments, wrapped tight. Then, a pair of thick, scratchy wool leggings that went all the way up to my chest. Then a small tunic. Then another tunic, this one knitted.
"We have to keep you warm," Sylvia cooed, ignoring my squirming protest.
She finished the ensemble by wrestling me into a coat that felt like it was stuffed with the feathers of an entire flock of geese. She wrapped a knitted scarf around my neck three times, until my chin was buried, and pulled a wool hat down over my ears.
I couldn't move. I lay there, arms stuck out at forty-five-degree angles, legs splayed. I felt like a marshmallow. I felt like a starfish.
My dignity, I thought, staring up at the ceiling. I used to be an ace pitcher. I used to look cool in a uniform. Now I look like a festive potato.
She hoisted me onto her hip, securing me in a leather sling. "Ready for the great expedition?"
She walked to the front of the cottage. She reached out and unlatched the heavy iron bolt of the front door. With a firm push, the oak groaned on its iron hinges, swinging outward.
The moment the seal was broken, the world changed.
The rush of air was instant crisp, biting, and smelling of pine needles and frozen earth. It was a shock to my system compared to the cozy, wood-smoke warmth of the hearth.
Sylvia stepped over the threshold, her boots crunching loudly onto the front step.
The world was white.
Snow covered everything. It blanketed the thatched roof of our cottage, weighed down the thick branches of the oak trees, and smoothed out the rolling hills in the distance until they looked like dunes of sugar. It glittered under the pale afternoon sun like crushed diamonds. My breath puffed out in a tiny white cloud in front of my face.
I stared at it, mesmerized. In Tokyo, snow was a nuisance. There was grey slush on the sidewalk, delayed trains, and wet socks. Here, it was pristine. It was vast.
Sylvia adjusted the sling so I'm snug against her chest, sharing her body heat. She closed the door behind us and locked it, the heavy thunk of the key echoing in the silence.
We made our way across the yard to the rustic wooden fence. The gate creaked as she pushed it open, and we stepped out onto the main dirt path.
She pointed a gloved hand down the road. "Look, Percy. The world is a big place."
I followed her finger.
The path stretched out before us, a ribbon of packed dirt and ice cutting through the snow. But what struck me wasn't the view; it was the sound.
Or rather, the lack of it.
There was no distant hum of traffic. No sirens wailing in the background. No drone of airplanes overhead. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind sighing through the trees and the crunch of Sylvia's boots. It felt heavy, ancient, and incredibly peaceful.
As we walked, I analyzed everything.
The architecture was distinctly European, or at least, High Fantasy European. The cottages we passed weren't the modern prefabs of Japan. They were built to last. Stone foundations that looked like they had been pulled from the riverbed, heavy timber framing stained dark against the white plaster walls. The roofs were steep to shed the heavy snow, covered in slate tiles or thick, layered thatch.
This wasn't a tourist village. It was functional. I saw a woodpile stacked with obsessive precision next to a house, an axe embedded in a stump nearby. I saw a well with a frozen bucket hanging from the rope.
We arrived at a fork in the road. One way led deeper into the farmlands where I could see smoke curling from distant chimneys. Sylvia took the right path, heading toward a cluster of buildings in the distance.
She adjusted my hat, pulling it tighter over my ears. "We are going to the Village of Brent. We need to pick up some flour and maybe see if your father is busy."
As we crossed the invisible line from the outskirts into the village proper, the atmosphere shifted. It felt lived-in.
To my left, I saw a building with a sign shaped like a loaf of bread hanging above the door. The smell wafting from it was heavenly yeast and warm dough battling the cold air. That must be the bakery.
Further down, I heard the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of metal on metal. I craned my neck, peering over the thick wool of my scarf. It was an open-air structure where a burly man was hammering a glowing orange piece of iron on an anvil.
The Blacksmith.
Sparks flew into the cold air, fizzling out before they hit the snow. It wasn't a machine stamping out parts. It was a man, using his muscle and his sweat to shape metal.
"It's busy today, even with the cold," Sylvia murmured.
She weaved through a small crowd of villagers. They were dressed in heavy furs and wool cloaks, their breath misting as they chatted and bartered. They looked sturdy. Healthy. These weren't the overworked salarymen of Tokyo; these were people who worked with the land.
"And look there, Percy." She stopped, her voice swelling with pride. "That is the most important building in town."
She pointed to a large structure at the end of the main street.