|Tom's Farm| 24.03.1178|
Naomi:
"Wakey wakey, Naomi."
A soft and soothing voice tickles my ear like a gentle breeze.
My lips curl into a smile.
That voice. The smell of freshly baked bread—this is home. How I loved it. Mom sits on the edge of my bed.
"Did you sleep well, Naomi?" she asks, her voice soft enough for me to use it as a pillow.
I nod with a toothy grin.
"Yes, Mom."
We walk downstairs, where I see my father sitting on the couch. He waves when he sees me.
"Hello, sweetheart," he says with a smile as bright as mine. I rush toward him, and he lifts me into his arms.
Mom chuckles.
"Aww, seems like our little sunshine is happy to see you again, Hayato," she says to my father, who nods.
"It does seem so," he replies, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
I pout.
"Are you making fun of me now?"
They laugh even more, and Daddy sets me down again.
Mom disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate of ovpaws—my favorite sweets.
My eyes sparkle as she places the plate on the table in front of me.
"Ah ah, Naomi, not so fast. There's something we need to do first, remember?" she says with a sweet but firm tone.
She probably noticed the drool forming as I hungrily stared at the ovpaws.
I sigh but obey.
"I, Naomi, thank our Lord, Savior, and the one and only Omnipotence, Tempus Elkador."
I look at Mom for approval, which she gives—and then I dig in.
The sweet, soft dough—something only my mom can make this well—fills me with joy, just like always.
As I scarf down the plate in seconds, I hear Daddy stand and walk toward the door.
"Daddy, where are you going?" I ask, my mouth full of ovpaws.
He smiles.
"I want to work on the secret project again," he says with a wink, which makes me grin mischievously.
"Ahh, I see. The secret project, huh," I say, my voice exaggerated. Okay, I admit it—I'm not a good actress.
Daddy's secret project is a gift for Mom that only he and I know about.
He chuckles at my poor performance and nods.
"Yes. Want to help me?"
I let out a happy sound, quickly finish eating, and rush to his side.
Mom watches us with a smile, her tail wagging softly as her gaze follows us.
After a short walk—just four minutes—we reach our destination.
Daddy's gift is a ring he's making out of gold nuggets he found in the river.
He walks over to a table near the food storage hut and pours the nuggets from a small bag.
I climb onto a chair to get a better view but keep a safe distance from his hands. Now the fun part begins.
Daddy forms hand signs to cast magic and melt the gold.
"Careful, I'm using Khelfnir," he warns as a blue flame erupts in an explosion like fire ball.
The nuggets melt quickly, and Daddy releases the hand signs, making the flame disappear.
He lets the molten gold rest a moment, then forms his hands again. I recognize the signs—Mæspęso, a telekinesis spell. With gentle gestures, he shapes the ring.
"Aaaand here we have it," he says with a big smile.
But I don't respond. The ring sparkles, glowing so beautifully it nearly hypnotizes me. I reach out and—
"Naomi, what are you doing?!" Daddy yells—but it's too late.
A sharp pain shoots through my fingers as they touch the still-hot metal.
"Arghhhh!" I scream.
…
Cold water runs over my fingers, easing the pain. Daddy had brought me back inside after the accident. Mommy strokes my hair—soothing as always.
"Does it still hurt, dear?" she asks, her voice soft as ever. How can anyone sound this gentle?
"Yes, Mommy," I sniffle.
I'd cried a lot, and my cheeks were sticky and shiny.
"How did that happen?"
Silence. I feel nervous.
"Um… uh… a secret," I say, thinking maybe she'll buy it. She just chuckles.
"A secret, huh? Well then, I won't ask again." She winks, and I giggle.
"Mom, why do you and Daddy give each other gifts?"
I totally blow the secret—but I really want to know.
Mom smiles, crouches down, and strokes my hair. Her eyes meet mine.
"Because we're family." She kisses my forehead.
"You understand?" she asks with a warm smile.
It was a corny, shallow answer. No real lesson. It didn't even answer my question.
---
I open my eyes. The morning sun glows through the window, bathing the room in soft yellow. I cough a little—my throat dry from the oil's effects.
I rub my face with both hands, trying to shake off the dizziness as I cough again.
> > What kind of fever dream was that… << I think, letting out a soft chuckle.
My eyes shift to the cuckoo clock. 8 a.m.
I quickly get up and start dressing. Since we now have a guest on the farm, it's probably not ideal to walk around in my nightgown all day.
And honestly—I don't want Yuki to see me in such clothes anymore.
As I pull on beige pants and a blue checkered shirt, my thoughts drift back to the dream.
Sure, I was high. You're not supposed to read too much into dreams when you're high.
But even though I try not to, a question rises in my mind:
Where do I actually come from?
A simple question, considering my race—and the fact that Tom found me at age three in a whisker basket near the Grand River of Malistia.
Now that I think about it, it bothers me a little that I never asked before.
I mean, in a way it's a blessing. I never had to think too much about it. And realistically, I'll probably never find the answer—so why dwell on it? That would only lead to isolation and an existential crisis.
But still—why did I never ask such an important question?
I walk downstairs. My eyes drift to the couch, where Yuki is still asleep.
Maybe I judged him a bit too harshly. Sure, his weird reactions and seeming indifference to almost dying were… off-putting.
But now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. He's in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Of course he'd question why someone would save him. For all he knows, we could be serial killers.
I guess I was just too annoyed earlier. Probably from the sleepless night, frustration over my failed spell, and the overall stress of being in this situation for the first time.
I step outside and head to the back wall, where a faucet and several sacks of karabol feed rest. With a soft thud, I lift one sack and swing it over my shoulder, heading to the stall on the east side of the farm.
As I open the gates, the smell of hay and musk greets me instantly.
The familiar chortles of the giant birds—each around two meters tall—fill the air as they rise.
Their blue and purple feathers rustle gently as I approach.
Since karabols are easy to tame, they're not caged or chained. They can leave the farm—but because of our bond, they always return in the morning.
One of the oldest animals, Kiara, stretches her long neck toward me, her flat, expressive eyes begging for the food.
I spot the faint greenish mark on her neck. Kiara's one of the few karabols we'll sell to the military—just five of them, since the rest are still too young.
I smile softly and begin filling their bowls, which immediately draws more attention—and a bit of playful hair-pulling.