"...."
Lilia kept staring at my outstretched hand for what felt like an eternity.
In her shimmering eyes, a faint flame flickered.
I could see the conflict within her gaze… between the desire to trust and connect, and the weight of fear.
Don't back away now, little one, I whispered in my mind, maintaining my faint smile and my patiently extended hand.
I'm afraid of this too—maybe even more than you. But… this might be my only chance to escape this hell.
Then, very slowly—like a flower blooming at the break of dawn—her small, trembling hand began to rise.
It hesitated halfway, then, as if gathering every last bit of courage she had, it moved toward mine.
"Mm…" she nodded softly.
Wow… a real touch.
Her fingers were warm and alive as they pressed against my palm.
There was none of the coldness I had read about ghosts, no sense of anything intangible.
Was she… not a ghost?
Or did she become physical inside the painting?
Even so, something in the room seemed to change.
As if the tension had eased slightly… as if the shadows had taken a small step back.
"I… I haven't had a friend… for a very long time," Lilia whispered, her voice still carrying that deep sadness.
"Well," I said, trying to make my smile warmer,
"here I am. Adam… your new friend."
I slowly withdrew my hand and sat more comfortably on the wooden floor, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.
"And now, Lilia… since we're friends, could you tell me a little about this place? About this room? And… that box?"
I nodded toward the old wooden box still resting beneath the bed.
Lilia looked at it, and that shadow of fear returned, casting itself across her innocent face.
"That… that's my secret box," she said softly.
"My mother told me never to open it unless… unless I'm ready to see the truth."
The truth? I thought.
What kind of truth could terrify a child this much?
"And are you… ready now, Lilia?" I asked gently.
She shook her head quickly, her eyes widening slightly.
Her gaze turned hollow and cold.
"No! No, I don't think so. I… I'm scared. Scared of what I might find inside. Scared it might be… something very bad."
So the box is still sealed because of her fear, I concluded.
But the [Narrative Architect's Blueprint] skill suggested that understanding the pain, secret, or unfulfilled desire of this memory target… was key.
Perhaps whatever lay inside the box was the key to that understanding.
"I understand that you're afraid, Lilia," I said calmly, recalling the rules my skill had revealed.
"Sometimes, the things we fear are far worse in our imagination than they are in reality… And maybe if we face it together, it won't be so bad."
She fell silent, staring at her torn doll.
Then she lifted her head and looked at me, a silent question in her eyes.
"Do… do you really think what's inside could help me?" she asked.
"I don't know for sure," I admitted honestly.
"But I do know that staying here, in this room, feeling lonely and afraid… isn't a solution. And this box might hold the answers you're looking for."
I felt like I was deceiving a child somehow.
"But… the lock," Lilia said, pointing at the rusty brass clasp on the box.
"It's closed. And I… I don't remember where the key is."
"Don't worry about the key…"
I thought briefly of some horror stories from the novel.
"Sometimes, real keys aren't made of metal… Sometimes… they're made of memories."
Lilia looked at me in confusion.
Then at the old wooden box beneath the bed.
Then back at me, her large brown eyes filled with hesitation and uncertainty.
What a cute child…
For a moment, it seemed like she might start crying again—or disappear as if she had never existed.
"Haa…" But then she took a deep breath.
And in a soft, trembling yet strangely clear voice—like a tiny crystal bell ringing in perfect silence—she began to sing.
"Mm… hmm hmm hmm…" she hummed quietly.
At first, the melody wasn't clear or direct. It was simple and sorrowful, rising and falling like a long sigh—
a tune carrying all the longing, loneliness, and pain she felt.
Then the words began to form, slipping from her pale lips:
"A lonely… star… weeping in the sky…"
"Its light… is fading… and the night… is long…"
Simple, childlike words… I thought as I listened, feeling something strange and uneasy forming in my chest.
It might be easy to turn back.
Lilia continued singing, her small hands tightening around her torn doll as if drawing strength or comfort from it.
"A silver mask… a stranger's face…"
"Hiding secrets… in silent grace…"
The melody shifted slightly, growing a little stronger.
"A distant dawn… the sun won't rise…"
"Silence reigns… and darkness thrives…"
Is this really a children's song?
It sounds more like something from a dark fantasy game.
She paused for a moment, as if trying to remember the fading words…
Then continued, her voice softer, deeper.
"Wandering spirits… in unknown skies…"
"Searching for light… where no path lies…"
Wandering spirits… searching for light in an abandoned path?
Wow… it's becoming more poetic than a simple children's song.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, her voice rose—stronger, steadier:
"A final prayer… the echo stays…"
Then it dropped again.
"And a lonely priest… who defies the dark…"
A final prayer? A defiant priest?
A chill ran through my body again—a cold, unsettling one.
Damn… ghost children's songs are something else.
"And the fading star… alone above…"
"Waits for a traveler… to bring back the lullaby…"
"..."
The song ended, and silence once again settled over the small room.
Lilia stared blankly ahead, new tears gathering in her eyes, as if the song had awakened painful memories she had tried to forget.
I looked at her… at the old wooden box beneath the bed, still tightly sealed… and at the painting on the wall, quiet and still.
"N… nothing happened," Lilia said softly.
She looked at me with innocent eyes.
Damn… my chest tightened for a moment.
My attempt to make her dig into her memories—to recall something old… something disturbing or frightening… had worked.
But with no result.
I had made a child cry… without even achieving what I wanted.
And yet, she still believed in me so innocently.
"The song… didn't help open the box."
Of course it didn't, I thought bitterly.
Since when were things ever that easy?
"It's okay, Lilia," I said, trying to sound reassuring despite the growing frustration inside me.
"It was just an idea. There must be another way to open this box."
I examined the wooden box closely again.
It was old, seemingly handmade with simple craftsmanship.
There was no visible keyhole, and the small brass lock was tightly shut, unlikely to yield to brute force—especially with my overwhelming F-rank physical strength.
I tried shaking it slightly, but it was heavy, filled with something that made no sound.
I looked around the room again, my eyes searching for anything out of place—any small detail I might have missed amid this quiet horror.
The wooden bed. The dusty desk. The porcelain doll with empty glass eyes that seemed to stare into my soul…
The painting of Lilia on the wall, silent and still as a grave…
The doll… the porcelain doll…
A thought suddenly struck me.
It stared into the void with an innocent yet unsettling expression.
But… there was something else.
The teddy bear Lilia was holding—it was torn, missing one eye.
"Lilia," I said slowly, looking at the bear she was clutching tightly.
"This doll… was it always broken like this? Did it lose something?"
"Mm…"
She looked at it sadly, running her small fingers over the empty space where the other eye should have been.
"Yes…" she whispered softly.
"It lost its other glass eye. It was… blue and shiny, like a tiny piece of the clear sky."
"It fell somewhere in this room a long time ago, and I could never find it. I cried a lot because of it… It was… it was my last gift from—"
She stopped, unable to finish, as fresh tears welled up in her eyes.
A blue, shiny glass eye… a missing piece screaming in its absence… a final gift?
The pieces of the puzzle began to come together in my mind—suddenly, vividly.
Could it be…?
"Could this be the 'missing piece' we need to find?" I murmured, feeling a faint pulse of excitement mixed with fear that I might be wrong again.
I began searching the small room quickly and carefully—under the bed again, behind the cracked desk, among the old dusty books that were nearly crumbling into dust.
I was looking for something small.
Something shiny.
Something that could be… a lost blue glass doll eye.
Noor, Leo, and Sam, still out in the hallway, were probably growing more anxious with every passing minute as I remained trapped inside this painted world.
But I had no time to think about them now.
I was on the verge of discovering something—something that might be the key to all of this.
And then… I saw it.
Hidden in a small, deep crack in the worn wooden floor—
near the legs of the desk—there was a tiny piece of glass, glinting with a faint but distinct blue shine under the dull gray light filtering through the window.
It was a doll's eye.
Blue. Shiny. Small.
I picked it up carefully, feeling its smooth coldness in my hand.
Could this be the missing piece the [Narrative Architect's Blueprint] had pointed to?
And did it have something to do with the locked wooden box… or the painting itself?
I looked at Lilia, who was watching me with anticipation in her eyes.
It was time to test this.
My heart began to pound.