"W-who are you?"

"Oh, really." Her eyes seemed to well up with tears. "Have you forgotten me already, Boka? I'm Cynthia."

"Cynthia..." He had no memory of her. "I can't recall."

"It's fine, it's fine. I was so happy I forgot—you were only three when Uncle took you away."

"You... know me?" Boka asked. "What's our relationship?"

"Still don't get it?" Aisha cut in coldly. "This woman is your uncle's daughter."

"So she's my sis—"

Boka's mind hadn't caught up yet.

Cynthia's actions drew attention from nearby shopkeepers. Famous for her beauty on this street, customers and owners all recognized her.

"Cynthia! Finally cheating on your husband with a man?" A fat fruit vendor shouted lewdly from afar.

"Yes," Cynthia smiled back. "Please don't tell my husband, okay?"

"Damn it! Just this kid?" The man looked utterly crushed.

"Let's go." She took Boka's hand. "Come home with me."

When Cynthia led Boka back to the grocery store, her husband Baird had tidied up. Sipping homegrown tea, he played word games with his daughter Dorin. Seeing his wife enter with a youth ten years younger, Baird dropped his cup in shock.

"You... you really were cheating..." he muttered.

Baird was slender, wearing a monocle, refined-looking. A former Pharmacy Medical College teacher, he quit after marrying his student. Now he ran his wife's inherited shop but still taught three days monthly at the National Library annex.

Cynthia spent ages clearing the misunderstanding: Boka was her uncle's son, separated twenty years, now returned.

"Oh, oh I see." Baird poured tea hastily, face still panicked and apologetic.

"Mom, who are this uncle and sister?" Dorin tugged Cynthia's sleeve.

"He's your uncle, child."

Dorin grinned at Boka, radiating innocent charm.

Boka scratched his head. He wasn't used to kids.

Only then did Cynthia notice Aisha. Too excited earlier, she'd missed the silent girl despite her speaking.

"Boka, who's this child?"

Boka pursed his lips, hand on Aisha's head. "Her name is Aisha."

"Ah!" Cynthia clasped her hands. "Did Auntie have another daughter?"

Boka shook his head. "No. I adopted her."

"Eh? Really? Such a lovely girl." Cynthia smiled warmly. "Hello."

Aisha hid her right hand behind her back, concealing her missing palm.

"Hello, Cynthia."

Aisha Lasette—even her rare smile surfaced.

That night, Boka chatted long with the Bairds about the twenty-year gap. After his father's exile, no letters reached Albion relatives. Seven years ago, a deadly epidemic slashed the capital's population by a third. The Bloomer family perished except Cynthia, then at the academy. Investigations blamed Nellos aggression, sparking the kingdom's Seventh Great War.

Boka stayed silent, dazed. Blood relatives dead, yet no grief—no memories, no meetings. Only a hollow loss. Unlike Cynthia, who wept for her aunt and uncle. Boka felt like an outsider again, belonging nowhere, stranded here for unknown reasons.

The Bairds lived above their shop. Boka and Aisha slept in the guest room. Exhausted from walking and travel, they fell into deep sleep fast.

Next day, Boka woke at noon. Sunlight blazed with early summer's warmth. Aisha was already up. Food scents drifted upstairs as he opened his door.

"Uncle's awake!" Dorin stood there. "Mom sent me to wake the sleepyhead for lunch!"

"Oh." Boka scratched his head. Used to Aisha's silence and sarcasm, he struggled with cheerful kids like Dorin.

Downstairs, Aisha sat at the table. Cynthia served sliced mutton. Lunch overflowed: vegetables, meats, fruits—a luxury for commoners.

"Ah, Boka! Sit down." Cynthia smiled.

"G-good." He tensed. "Where's Mr. Baird?"

The shop bustled outside, but Baird was absent. Sitting first felt rude.

"He's teaching at the National Library—it's weekend," Cynthia said. "Don't hold back. Eat."

Mountain life meant simple meals. This feast overwhelmed Boka. Aisha, though, stuffed her mouth greedily, scaring Dorin near tears.

Cynthia cut a large mutton piece onto Boka's plate.

"Thanks..." He bit it. "I-I'll pay for meals."

Cynthia's face darkened. She flicked his forehead sharply.

"Ah!"

"Don't say that. This is your home."

"Oh..."

"You'll stay long-term, right?"

"Y-yes."

Boka's father's shop and Cynthia's inherited property were adjacent houses. He'd follow his father's will to run 26 Mire Street, settling in the capital with Aisha.

The mutton spices felt familiar.

"Traveling merchants' spices?"

"Oh! How'd you know?" Cynthia said. "They sell in South District. Our neighbor bought some, gave me extras."

"I came in with them."

"Eh?!" She blinked. "Avoid traveling with them. Bad rumors—they're unfriendly except to buyers."

"It was fine..." Boka recalled caring for Albert's horses early on.

Unlike Aisha—who crammed food while stealing his fried rice yesterday—Boka ate politely but awkwardly. Cynthia kept serving him while juggling customers, making him deeply apologetic.

After lunch, Boka left. He had to resolve his father's confiscated and frozen assets, like Shop 26. During sealing, no profit was allowed until restrictions lifted. Today, he needed the Criminal Adjudication Office for his birth certificate and property notarization to get the injunction expiration notice.

Aisha, stuffed full, lounged lazily with no urge to join. Cynthia drew him a detailed map to avoid yesterday's wandering.

Even after lifting restrictions, reopening would take time. Yesterday, Cynthia said startup costs were 5000 nels—taxes, deposits, national fees—possibly more. With only five copper coins, it felt astronomical. He refused her offer; that sum might be their yearly income. First, he needed a job and to rent the shop for storage.

The Criminal Adjudication Office was two streets away. A large three-story building stood there, guarded by soldiers. Boka avoided asking them, remembering Cynthia's warning. Crowds of commoners flowed in—all capital cases were judged here. He struggled to find someone directing him to the notary upstairs.

Ascending, his shyness made him uneasy. But the long second-floor queue eased his nerves slightly.

Signing the notice took little time. Yet queuing consumed his whole afternoon. When finally called, the exhausted clerk took his papers and asked only two questions.

"What crime did your father commit?"

"Smuggling cloth."

"Your name?"

"Boka Bloomer."

"Sign here."

Done in minutes, Boka sensed the staff just wanted to leave. Still, he'd taken a step forward.