On a midsummer night, cicadas chirped incessantly, their shrill cries a final, desperate song. They knew their time was short—after six or seven years as larvae lurking in darkness beneath tree roots and soil, sipping sap while fearing predators, every day had passed numbly like walking blind. By the time they emerged as adults, old age was already upon them. In mere days, their end would come. Each raucous cry echoed like the lament of the dying...

Chirp—chirp—chiiiiirp—

“How lovely their wings are…” Allen plucked cicadas one by one from the parasol tree. Using plant-based glue, she carefully arranged them on a sheet of golden-yellow parchment. Peering through a hand-ground crystal lens—she’d read in the library that shaped crystals could magnify objects—she traced their delicate structures. Boredom had driven her to craft this lens herself after finishing the endless book-sorting with Caliana’s help. Though clumsy at first, after two weeks of trial and error, she’d succeeded. Caliana had been utterly amazed by the “magic” tool, and Allen had swelled with pride showing it off.

“Hmm… like this… and this…” Allen sketched the insect’s outline with a fine charcoal pencil, propping it gently on a wooden stick to avoid harm. She studied every minute detail under the lens, hunting for shared features.

“All done!” she murmured to herself. Her leather-bound journal already brimmed with sketches of insects and plants. Drawing had been her childhood escape—books and art her only companions. Though her hands felt stiff from disuse, the skill remained.

She returned the cicadas to the tree, tucked the journal under her arm, and decided to wander the garden at dusk. Painting was just a whim; she couldn’t do it endlessly. But these cicadas were beautiful. She’d preserved them forever in her pages.

“La-la-la~” Humming a nameless tune, Allen skipped down the garden path. This life was peaceful, free, and paid well—more than enough for her needs. *It’s not so bad*, she thought. *Too quiet, though. Too predictable.*

“Watch out! Danger!” A shout cut through the air. A dark shape hurtled toward her—a ball kicked from a game nearby. Allen registered it too late.

*Thud.*

The impact knocked her sprawling. Her journal flew from its leather case, pages scattering like snowflakes. The charcoal snapped on the stone path. The offending ball rolled to a stop against her boot.

“Ah! I’m so sorry!” A man hurried over.

“M’fine…” Allen mumbled, dazed, scrambling to gather the pages. He knelt to help.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing up—then froze. It was Charlotte, her second-eldest brother.

*Hss—* She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Does it hurt?” Charlotte asked, mistaking her reaction for pain.

“No! Not at all…” Allen forced a reply. Unlike her eldest brother, Charlotte had never truly broken her. He’d even secretly bought her drawings—their main source of pocket money back then. Their relationship hadn’t shattered completely… until he’d stood beside their eldest brother, whispering schemes. The wine cellar incident at age eight had sealed her silence. She’d shut herself away for years after that. They hadn’t spoken since.

“You draw too?” Charlotte smiled warmly, sunlight in his eyes—the picture of a kind elder brother. To Allen, it was pure horror. She remembered that exact smile as he’d shut the cellar door.

“Y-yes…” she answered coldly, avoiding his gaze.

“Ah… I envy people like you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“People like us?”

“Never mind. Just… a friend who’s gone. You reminded me of him.” His smile returned, smooth as glass.

*Me*, Allen realized. *He means me.* She wanted to ask what he truly thought—but he cut her off.

“Charlotte.” He offered his hand.

Allen took it cautiously. His grip felt slimy and cold as a dead fish, raising goosebumps on her skin.

“Lotus,” she whispered, still unable to meet his eyes.

She stacked the pages, slipped them into the case, and Charlotte retrieved his ball.

“Want to join our game?” he asked, awkwardness thickening the air.

Silence stretched.

“Sure,” Allen heard herself say.

*Before, I begged to play. They refused. Now? Why not?*

Today, she wore practical hunting attire: black suspender shorts ending mid-calf over a white ruffled blouse, a crystal brooch glinting at the collar, and knee-high boots. Perfect for running.

…

Allen had dominated ball games at school—nicknamed “little demon” for her ferocity. She needed no coaching. Her mind raced like a pro athlete’s, but her body lagged. Her calves burned; a dull ache pulsed in her tendons. Yet after a while, the pain faded into rhythm.

“You’re incredible!” Charlotte called out, watching her weave past imaginary opponents, placing shots with uncanny precision. Her technique outshone his—but her kicks lacked power. The ball rolled weakly, forcing her to chase it. She stumbled over pebbles, fell, then sprang up instantly, dirt smudging her white blouse.

She’d trained so hard back then, fueled by pride: *If you won’t include me, I’ll master it alone.*

This game was her chance to prove she was stronger than Charlotte. She ignored his words, focused only on the ball.

*Just a stubborn child*, Charlotte thought, watching her fall and rise again, pretending it didn’t hurt. Her blouse was ruined.

Finally, Allen collapsed onto a stone bench, head bowed.

“You…” Charlotte began.

“—My clothes are filthy,” she snapped, cutting him off.

“It’s alright. I’ll—” He stopped short.

Two drops fell from her lowered face, darkening the stone. Allen was crying.

The pain hit her all at once—aching muscles, grit in her hair. She’d gained nothing. Charlotte had just trailed behind her like she was a child playing pretend. She’d won nothing at all.