I realized that being conscious of one's surroundings could be very bothersome. You start to experience tribulations; unfortunate events like kidnapping; and meeting people who will shoot you by mistake, particularly at your talocrural region which is commonly known as your ankle. 

Now I was not pinpointing any dead pigtail woman. If someone knew a woman with these characteristics that I was mentioning, it would be just a mere coincidence. I knew no grudge in my core and did not even know what it would feel like. 

Setting aside the dead pigtail woman buried under an innumerable number of rocks, being unconscious wouldn't lead someone into meeting a perverse old man in the appearance of a harmless chieftain. 

You would prefer to sleep forever. 

My morning started peacefully as it should be. The birds were tweeting, Squawkey was squawking, and I felt a warm and thin body sprawled on top of me. 

Saint's breathing was more settled than before and he wasn't as pale. The medicine made him recover but I doubt that it came from any of the villagers. I held up the blue feather from before and twirled it between my fingertips. 

Whoever gave it either had blue wings or had a bird with blue feathers. The problem was—  I did not recall meeting anyone with any of those. 

I waited for Saint to wake up despite the growing numbness of my limbs. This must be his first slumber wherein he didn't experience breathing difficulties or the sense of doom from nearly dying. It would be rude of me to disturb him. 

Maybe I should take him away while he rested? He wouldn't be struggling or complaining if I borrowed him from the village for a while. I will return him once the villagers migrate to another flourishing area. 

‘That is considered as abduction, nephew…’  the voice in my head pointed out.

"Define kidnapping, fine gentleman?" 

‘It is taking someone away by force,’ he replied.

"It will not be considered as kidnapping if I ask him politely, no?" 

‘...’

Saint began to stir in his sleep. I found him opening his crimson-stained eyes that had the slightest slit in the middle. They widened in embarrassment. 

"I-I-I-I-I'm sorry! I am sorry for sleeping on top of you! You must have felt great exhaustion when I should have served you with greater hospitality for what you have done for me!" he blurted out. 

He sat on his knees with his hands curled on top of his thighs. His face was as red as his hair. I couldn't help but give in to the urge of patting him on his head. I hooked the blue feather to my crown in remembrance of the person who saved his life. 

As I stroked his head, Saint visibly relaxed but the pinkness of his cheeks remained. 

"You are in no condition to serve hospitality to anyone. What you should prioritize is your health and well-being. Do not mind me. I...have been pampered long enough."

He became teary-eyed; his shaky hands came up to cover his face.

 "Why...are you so kind to someone like me? I am scared. I am not used to this."

I dropped my hand to my side; a flash of disappointment sprouted on his expression. 

"I am doing this because being battered and ridiculed shouldn't be things to get used to," I answered. 

His eyes shut tightly and as tightly as they were shut, his tears passed through.

"But...this is what I am given. This is where I was born. My fate is already written. It is inescapable."

I placed my hand over his trembling fist. 

"If you are given something and you do not like it, why must you accept it? If the place you are given life in starts to harm you, why must you stay and let it threaten you? Fate can be rewritten; it can be changed. You just have to believe and make those changes yourself. That pen cannot write by itself. You cannot escape if you do not start running. If anyone can change your fate, it will be you, Saint."

He met with my gaze. 

"But to reject a gift is ungratefulness. To leave one's home for a better one is selfishness. Fate cannot be rewritten if it is written by God. If I escape, where will I go? I am weak to make those changes. I cannot do it. I am sorry. I am not good enough. I was made to fail. I was made to be hated. I was made to be alone—" 

"Stop," I silenced him. 

My heartbeat sped; my head felt like it was placed over a fire. 

"Do you know what your true weakness is?" I asked him. "Your weakness is having a strong belief and faith for those weaknesses. It's recognizing all your faults despite the good that you do. You take the side of your limitations and let your strengths go unnoticed. You use your weaknesses as an excuse to stop trying.  You cower in the dark because... you fear the light," I scolded him with the last bits of my words trailing away. 

Saint slammed his fists on the floor. He glared at me with those eyes filled with hurt. 

"What do you know? How can you understand me? You were born with strength. You will never...never know how it feels!" he shouted at me.

He darted out of the shrine, leaving the birds to fill the jar of silence. 

‘Let him be a nephew. Give him time.’

"What if he...hurts himself? I need to protect him until he can stand on his own."

‘Have Squawkey follow him. He will be your eye.’

I see.

Squawkey soared down, pecking my hand lightly.

 "Will you follow him?" I asked.

Squawkey screeched and flew off to carry out the task that I had given him...probably.

"I forgot that the bird had no eye..." I deadpanned.