One of The Triple Peaks—Astrella.
On its slope stood an old cottage.
From the outside, the building looked small—almost unnoticeable. Its wooden walls had darkened under years of weather, with fine cracks spreading across the surface like veins ready to collapse if touched too roughly.
The roof was slightly warped, its edges no longer precise—like something that had endured far too long without repair.
It did not look like a place meant for living.
More like something left behind. Forgotten.
But that impression began to crumble the moment someone stepped inside.
—
The interior felt different.
Not simply larger than what the outside suggested—but arranged in a way that couldn't be easily explained.
Not truly orderly, not fully planned… yet still enough to create space to breathe for whoever lived here.
The air inside was warm—though faintly so. Not entirely comfortable… but clearly not abandoned.
And there was something else—
A subtle presence, almost imperceptible—as if the house itself was holding things within it. Sound, vibrations, even something without shape.
—
A main room stretched across the center, becoming the core of all activity.
It was spacious for a simple cottage.
The wooden floor had been smoothed by years of footsteps. Some parts were darker—marks of age and long use—but still solid, not as fragile as the exterior suggested.
That wood was not merely old.
It endured.
—
On one side of the main room, a simple bed had recently been placed.
Its wood was noticeably brighter than the surrounding furniture—older tables and chairs worn by time.
That contrast stood out clearly, as if the bed had appeared for something urgent… something not originally planned.
—
From the main room, the other parts of the house connected without any real separation.
There were no long corridors. No rigid barriers. Only a soft shift in function from one space to another—so subtle it was almost unnoticeable—like the house itself was growing according to the needs of its inhabitants.
—
Two bedrooms stood on opposite sides.
On one side—a more enclosed room. Its door was rarely opened. The surface looked just as aged as the rest, yet it carried a heavier silence.
Inside—
At one point on the wooden floor, something felt slightly different. Not something easily noticed. Just… not entirely still. As if something beneath it did not truly want to be found.
On the other side—a room that felt more alive.
The door was rarely fully shut. Through the gap, faint silhouettes of a desk, scattered notes, and various tools could be seen.
That space was not only used for rest, but also for work, preparation, and thought.
That was where many things began. And perhaps—where many things were decided.
—
Not far from the main room, there was a small chamber filled with the scent of medicine.
A bitter smell lingered immediately—dried leaves, boiled roots, and liquids that could not be easily identified. Old shelves lined the walls, filled with glass bottles, worn books, and ingredients arranged without any clear order.
That was where remedies were made.
Between knowledge… and something more instinctive.
—
The entire house looked old. Fragile, almost collapsing.
And yet—no part of it had truly given in.
The wood does not break. The structure does not waver. And any sound that occurs within it—never truly travels far.
As if the house was not only built to keep things out…But also to ensure that whatever happens inside…
Remains there.
It is here that countless remedies are prepared. The wooden table is etched with fine scratches—marks of work repeated over and over, without end.
Beside it, the workspace blends seamlessly, without any clear boundary.
It feels dense, as if every corner has been filled with something never truly finished.
Bookshelves line the walls; some neatly arranged, others slightly tilted, as though they've been taken and returned too many times without care.
Stacks of books and scattered papers fill the edges of the room, creating a sense of narrowness—
Yet alive.
—
At the back of the house, a simple kitchen stands beside the dining area.
The tools are not luxurious, but they are arranged with quiet order.
Signs of use are everywhere—a pot blackened underneath, a table lined with faint scratches, and the lingering scent of meals once cooked there.
Not far from it, the bathroom stands apart.
From the outside, its wooden walls appear thin—yet they hold firmly.
Sounds from within never truly disappear, but are dulled, as if cut short before they can travel far.
—
The entire house feels like… a place holding more life than it should.
And yet—
Strangely enough—
It does not reject it.
It continues to stand. To endure. To make room.
As if whatever happens inside…
Is never truly allowed to leave.
—
The faint scent of medicine lingers in the air, mingling with the damp aroma of old wood.
A scent that wasn't entirely pleasant—yet not unpleasant either.
It lingered. The smell of a place constantly in use. A place where someone worked, tended… and endured.
—
In that main room—
A young man lay.
Still.
Too still… for something that should still be breathing.
His body rested stiffly upon the bed, surrounded by loose white curtains that swayed gently whenever the mountain wind slipped inside.
He was striking in appearance—black hair falling in disarray, framing a pale face that seemed almost lifeless.
Without the bandages wrapped around most of his body, he would have looked no different from a corpse
The air in the room was damp.
The scent of medicine, faint traces of blood, and old wood blended into one.
He had been treated here for several weeks.
And during that time—
The disturbances had never truly ceased.
At times, there were muffled impacts—as if something was being struck, yet never fully breaking.
At times, screams that were not entirely human, yet not entirely unfamiliar. At times… something that couldn't even be described with words—
Something that was felt. Not heard.
—
And the house—remained silent. Holding everything within.
—
"Auntie, is this young man still alive?" the blonde girl asked.
She gently touched his cheek. The hem of her red polka-dot dress shifted softly in the wind. A few strands of her blonde hair lifted as well—its tie slightly loosened.
Her touch was light. As if afraid that even the slightest pressure… might cause him to break.
"Of course he's alive… he's even almost destroyed our house several times already," the pink-haired woman replied flatly.
The pink-haired woman stood there in a loose white coat, draped over a pale purple dress beneath. Closing her tired green eyes, she continued, "Rurika, stop calling me Aunt."
"But… it's already been almost four weeks…" Rurika said quietly. "He still hasn't woken up…"
"And yet… his wounds have already healed."
Her hand remained on the young man's cheek. His skin felt cold.
[Was my treatment wrong…?] Rurika thought.
[Or… did I find him too late?] For a moment— [If I had been faster back then… would he not have ended up like this?]
Her gaze lowered.
—
"If he doesn't wake up, I'll make him wake up. Either way, he keeps disturbing my sleep," the woman muttered under her breath.
Her hand lifted, rubbing at her throbbing temple. The motion was slow—like someone not only exhausted, but also irritated by something she couldn't fully ignore.
Her gaze shifted briefly toward the young man on the bed. Only for a moment. But long enough to show that what she said… wasn't just a casual complaint.
—
"Auntie…?" Rurika raised her face, looking at her hesitantly.
There was a small pause before she spoke again—As if she herself wasn't sure whether she should ask… or remain silent.
Her fingers still rested on the young man's cheek. The cold hadn't changed. And because of that—the worry in her eyes deepened.
—
"Haah…" She sighed softly. "Honestly… how do you always end up picking up troublesome things like this?"
It was a long sigh—not just from fatigue, but like someone who had faced things like this far too many times… and still never truly gotten used to it.
Her gaze lowered toward Rurika. For a long moment. Then it hardened slightly—
not out of hatred, but because she knew… the world outside would never be as kind as her little girl. She was far too gentle for a place like that.
Her hand lifted—then—
A small pinch touched Rurika's cheek. Not hard. Not painful—just enough to be the only release she allowed herself.
"At least… look at what you're bringing home before deciding to save it," she muttered softly, almost as if speaking to herself.
"Owie… how can Auntie say that? Auntie was clearly happy when you first saw his face," Rurika protested, rubbing her cheek.
"Ahem… that doesn't change the fact that he's dangerous, Rurika," the pink-haired woman said, clearing her throat.
"Auntie says that, but you were totally staring when you saw him. Your eyes even looked weird," Rurika shot back, puffing her cheeks.
"Uhuk—that was for checking his condition!" the woman replied, trying to justify herself.
"Really…?" Rurika narrowed her eyes in suspicion. But only for a moment.
—
Rurika turned back to the young man, her gaze lingering this time—quieter, softer.
"It's been almost four weeks… and he still hasn't woken up."
"His wounds have already healed…" Her voice softened. There was something in her eyes—not just worry, but… guilt.
—
For a moment, the room fell silent again. Only the sound of wind. And the faint, almost inaudible breathing from the body lying there.
—
"He'll wake up. Probably soon," the pink-haired woman finally said.
And then, suddenly—
"Ah! This is bad… it's already time. Keep an eye on him! If he wakes up, don't let him escape!" the woman said hurriedly.
"I have a meeting with that perverted village chief." She straightened her white coat, already preparing to leave."I need to head to Asti Village. They can't wait any "I need to head to Asti Village. They can't wait any longer."
"Alright…" Rurika nodded softly. She understood—there were many patients in that small village who needed her aunt's care.
She remained there, standing beside the bed—even after the woman left. Her eyes never truly left the young man.
As if… she was waiting for something. Or afraid that something might happen.
The curtain beside the bed shifted slightly.
Even though… the wind had stopped long ago.
And that breathing—
suddenly sounded… a little deeper.