After I finished talking with Luxian, his words echoed in my mind as if they had been etched there. I felt the need for some space... something to pull me away from all the weight that had overwhelmed me over the past few days.
Evening had fallen, and the sky of this world had taken on a dark gray hue, streaked with pale rays of dying sunlight. The air carried a cool breeze that tickled my face and reminded me of autumn in my former world. I took a deep breath, then walked slowly toward the inn.
When I reached its old wooden door, I was greeted by a warm aroma... a mix of cinnamon and hot dough, like two invisible arms embracing anyone who entered.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The innkeeper met me with a gentle smile—one that held a touch of kindness, as if she had grown used to seeing me silent and weary at this same time every evening.
She said, with a light-hearted tone,
"Looks like you're staying another night."
I nodded without a word. The exhaustion had settled into my bones, but it wasn't just physical… it was a deep, inner weariness that only a moment of genuine peace could heal.
She gave me a small smile and gestured inward with her hand.
"Go wash your hands then. I've made apple pies."
I didn't need a second invitation.
I went to the small sink in the corner. The water was cold, but it refreshed me. I looked at my tired hands beneath the stream and remembered how many days had passed using them to lift, hold, and endure—without ever really feeling like they were a part of me.
When I returned to the dining table, the little girl was there too. Sitting on her small wooden chair, she watched me with her wide eyes, her innocent face holding a thousand unspoken questions. I sat down quietly and glanced at the table.
There was a single apple pie... but it looked as though it could satisfy an entire world. The crust was golden, its edges crisp, and gentle steam rose from it, carrying the scent of apples, cinnamon, and melted butter. A small knife rested in the center, and another one lay in front of me.
I took a piece—slowly, as if afraid I'd ruin its beauty. And the moment it touched my mouth, something ignited inside me. Its sweetness was mild, slowly unfolding, with the cinnamon adding a warmth unlike anything I had tasted before. I felt like I was melting… like I was in a different world. A world with no fear, no shadows, no superpowers… just a pie, a quiet evening, and the comfort of a simple home.
I looked at the girl. She smiled softly at me, then returned to her eating. There was no need for words… in that moment, everything was clear.
I hadn't tasted anything like this since arriving in this world.
No—maybe I had never tasted anything like it in my entire life.
That apple pie… it was simply a small taste of home.
---
I sat there, quietly eating the apple pie, each bite bringing back small fragments of myself that had been lost in this strange world. Its flavor held something like longing… something that gently soothed the heart, just like my mother's hand would when she knew I was tired, even without me saying a word.
In a silent moment, I looked at the innkeeper—this woman whose real name I didn't even know—yet she treated me with unconditional kindness. She made food for me, worried when I didn't show up, and smiled at me despite my constant silence. For the first time, I felt… that this woman reminded me of my mother. She wasn't my mother, of course—no one could ever take her place—but there was something in her eyes, in her voice, in the warmth of her actions, that made me realize: mothers aren't always the ones who give birth to us.
And the little girl, who sat quietly eating her piece of pie beside me, had begun to remind me of my younger sister. She watched me with innocent eyes, then smiled for no apparent reason—just like my sister used to when she saw me worn out after a long day. Despite the difference in faces, in worlds, I felt she resembled her... in the way she sat, in her calmness, even in the way she chewed slowly, as if savoring every moment.
I hadn't known that something so simple—a table, a pie, a child, a woman—could bring back so many memories. Suddenly, I felt a weight in my chest. Not sadness, but gratitude. A silent gratitude for this moment that reminded me I wasn't completely alone.
When I finished eating, I placed my fork down, wiped my mouth slowly, then looked at the innkeeper and said quietly:
"Thank you... it was truly delicious."
She nodded with a smile, saying nothing.
I left the table quietly, leaving behind the warmth of the food and the tangled emotions, and climbed the wooden stairs leading to my room. The floor creaked softly beneath each step, and the sound of the wind gently caressed the windows outside. I reached the door, opened it, and stepped in.
The bed was just as I'd left it… simple, but it had a certain presence, as if it waited for me every night to whisper stories of rest after a long day. I took one last look at the room, then sat on the bed, slowly took off my shoes, and lay down.
I felt my body sink into the mattress, as if it had finally found a temporary embrace to rest in. I closed my eyes, and in my heart, a small wish quietly bloomed...
If only I could tell my mother and sister that I'm okay—even if just for a moment.