“How long has Aico been living here, Death?”

“Not that long.”

“I see. How long is that? A year?”

“Less than, kid.”

“Oh. Then you know that Aico cannot control her magic?”

A laugh rang out, filling the air with infectious glee. I listened intently to the bits of conversation that came from the kitchen, where the clattering of pots and pans announced the preparation of a delicious feast. The tempting aroma of spices and sizzling ingredients floated toward me, captivating my senses and intensifying my excitement. I immersed myself in the symphony of laughter and food temptations, absorbing every instant of this lively gathering, with bated breath. During my brief venture into the forest, I happened to find graphite, which provided me with the means to express my creativity. With an abundance of paper readily available in Death's home, my sketches sprang to life, capturing the essence of the universe around me. The graphite flowed across the smooth surface with ease, each stroke a symphony of artistry. The sound of the pencil hitting the paper whispered secrets of imagination, while the physical joy of the graphite meeting the sheet spurred my attempts at creativity.

“You have a lot of questions, kid. Too much for your own good.”

“Did I say anything wrong?”

“Instead of that, Flynn, why don’t you tell us your reason for staying here in the lower? Stop prying on Aico’s life when we know very little of yours.” Asphalt said in the living room. He is probably laying down on the couch while gnawing on the rope I knotted last night. “It is a lot more unusual for an upper witch to choose to stay in the place they consider as the dump for defects.”

“If I do tell, would you let me ask about Aico?”

“Say, kid, why are you so interested in Aico, hm?” I can feel Death’s amusement from here. She isn’t even trying to hide it.

“Just because.”

“Okay. I won’t push any further but I felt something that shouldn’t be there.” Death said then chuckled.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing to think about. Don’t mind it. I’m just spitting nonsense.”

“Curiosity, it is. That’s what she felt. Too much curiosity.” Asphalt said. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“This is a dump full of defects, didn’t you tell me? Why else would they dump me here if not as a defect?”

“With your skill? I doubt it.”

“My skill is placed in the wrong place, wrong time, and wrong people. Like peanut butter and jelly combined into one sandwich.”

“Hey! That tastes hell good together!” Asphalt shouted.

“Exactly, some people don't like their combination. But with the right people, it is well-liked and receives the admiration it deserves.”

“I see your point, kid.”

The only sound in the room is the repetitive sound of knives slicing through ingredients on the cutting board. Asphalt's familiar chewing sound returns in the background, accompanied by the odd faint growl, as he enjoys biting on the tightly tied rope. The air is filled with a sense of calm, broken by these delicate sounds that provide life to the quiet of the moment.

“So… I can ask about Aico now?”

Death laughed before answering, “I don’t know why she can’t control her magic. Maybe she’s just a late bloomer.”

“Oh, okay. How old is she?”

“Shouldn’t you ask those questions to her yourself? Why am I being interrogated for things that don't even concern me.”

“Because she might not answer.”

“Did you try?”

“...you’ve got a point.” And then silence grew again. Their small chats are soothing. It’s peaceful and normal. Silent intervals are also not a cause of concern and are a lot more comfortable. At home, stillness causes a rush of fright since it frequently indicates that something has gone wrong. The silence is filled with deafening echoes of shouting and harsh criticisms from my parents, creating a tense and uneasy atmosphere. Each minute of silence becomes a fertile ground for nervousness, as the unspoken words suffocate any sense of serenity or calmness. The mere concept of "small chat" fills me with dread because it is synonymous with an attack of shouting and unending criticism from my parents. The air gets tense, and each statement feels like a piercing arrow aiming directly at my heart, leaving me quivering in fear. Fear of conversing becomes a daily companion, overshadowing any prospect of finding consolation or understanding within the walls of my own home. We'd never had a conversation like this before. Innocent and lighthearted. Not even with Kuro. It feels nice… and safe. “Is Aico still asleep? It’s almost lunch.”

“She sleeps in the morning, kid. That brat only goes out of her room when the food is ready, otherwise, she’s dead asleep on the bed. It’s like she’s never tasted sleep before. Leave her there, she’ll eventually go here herself.”

After a few strokes, the sketch is finished, capturing Death's captivating angle. The sun shines through her flowing hair, producing a dazzling glow that rivals the brilliance of her attractive smile. Her lashes, which are abundant and enticing, appear to send a message of unapproachability as if warning others not to disturb her peace. And her lips, full and sensuous, have a bewitching charm as if they have never been touched by anyone. The admiration and wonder in the room are obvious as every exquisite aspect of her face is rendered on canvas. My finger lingers in the direction the scar on her left cheek takes, reaching beneath her eye. It's a scar with gravity to it as if it holds the story of a battle fought and the pain endured. Its depth evokes a brutal confrontation, one that could only be inflicted by a weapon's sharp edge. I’ve witnessed how they manipulate liquid however, the shape it creates is uneven. Her scar is so consistent and can only be produced by a knife or something similar. 

Death, as described by the Cyclops, is a vision of great loneliness, leaving a heavy and sad effect. The weight of these words hangs in the air, producing a strong sense of melancholy, even though I have no understanding of her background or the exact events that have happened in this area. Notwithstanding the responsibilities she bears, her face stays undisturbed by them, radiating with vigor and life. It's as if she's never done the delicate dance of treading on eggshells while projecting resilience and strength.

I stood up and placed my work inside my room then locked it behind me. They were stirring in the pot when I went downstairs. 

“Hey, kid. ‘Sup.” I nodded at Death in response. “What happened with your hands? They’re dark. Did you not wash your hands last night? What did you touch, those nails are nasty.”

I forgot to wash my hands before going downstairs. Graphite from this place stains more than the ones on Earth and it is harder to remove on skin than on paper. 

“I’ll wash them right away,” I said as I walked to the restroom, closely followed by Flynn. I quickly locked the door, denying him entry. Several knocks rang through the door, serving as a subtle reminder of his presence on the other side. “What’s your problem?” I said out of irritation. 

“Why did you close the door?”

“Why are you following me?! Don’t you have any sense of privacy?”

“It’s not like you’re taking your clothes off. You’re just going to wash your hands.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing…”

“Then get lost. It’s weird.”

“I’m going to wash my hands too.”

“Wait before I finish.” I switched on the faucet, turning it up, hoping the flow of water would drown out his words. His unrelenting curiosity had taken over, pushing boundaries that should have remained untouched. I carefully opened the door after cleaning my hands, only to discover him calmly waiting outside, his curiosity unchanged. “You can use it now.” He went inside to wet his hands for a bit then went back outside right away. Didn’t he say that he’s washing his hands? He followed me anywhere I went so I decided to just go outside and sit under the tree. He did the same and stayed there silently. “What do you want?” I said.

“You’re not a life witch, are you?” He said without looking at me. I didn’t express any kind of expression since I never really told him that I am a life witch. He just assumed that I am one.

“What are you talking about?”

“How old are you?”

“36.”

“Liar. You’re the same age as I am, aren’t you?”

“Yes, so?”

“I’m 39.”

“Should it be exactly the same? What does it matter?” I’m turning thirteen in the next two weeks so 36 isn’t exactly the right age. I should have told him I’m 38 since my age here is thrice that of Earth’s.

“I can calculate someone’s age by the type of liquid activity made inside their body. Your core shows that you’re 38 but some show that you’re just twelve. It doesn’t make sense.” 

I see now why he’s so curious about me. He’s suspicious of my identity.

“You don’t trust me.”

“I want to but none of your words match. Not even your body matches anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re human.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I tried not to show him that I’m shocked by his speculation but it still shows traces of it.

He’s found me out?