"Mom! I'm going out to get some groceries!" I called, trying to keep my voice bright.
Mom appeared in the doorway almost instantly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes, warm as usual, softened as she looked at me, but there was something in them today—a faint hesitation I couldn't place.
"Remember to get some orvax," she said. "We're having orvax stew tonight. You're preparing dinner tonight, right?"
I nodded, gripping the small leather pouch at my side.
"Good," she said, digging into her pocket. She pulled out a few coins, roughened by use, and handed them to me. "This should be enough."
I took them, feeling the weight of the metal in my palm. Gold coins, warm to the touch, familiar and grounding. My mother's smile flickered in that tiny way it sometimes did—like she was both smiling and worrying at the same time.
"Be careful out there," she added softly.
"Ok," I said.
The door closed behind me with a quiet thud, cutting off the warmth of home. Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of morning dew, wet earth, and wood smoke drifting from chimneys. The sun had barely climbed past the rooftops, casting a pale, golden light across the village streets.
The cobblestones were cold under my feet, rough edges pressing lightly through my shoes. I walked past the familiar path by the smithy first. The rhythmic hammering of iron against the anvil usually greeted me like a comforting heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Today, it felt different—too measured, almost tense. I shook my head. Don't read too much into it, Hoshikawa. Just groceries. It's just another day.
Children's laughter echoed faintly from the alleyways, but it didn't reach the corners of the market yet. The sound was stilted, clipped. A boy stumbled over a stone and his laugh came out half-hearted. A girl skipping ahead of him turned sharply, tugging a scarf over her mouth, glancing around nervously. Something was…off.
I pulled my coat tighter and adjusted the pouch on my side. The coins jingled faintly, a small comfort in the otherwise quiet streets. My fingers brushed them absentmindedly, feeling their familiar edges. Warmth spread from my hand to my chest, and for a moment, the world felt normal again.
As I passed Mrs. Fenwick's bakery, the sweet, yeasty aroma of fresh bread rolled over me. The fogged windows steamed gently, and I could see her moving behind the counter, dusting flour from her apron and humming softly.
"Morning, Hoshikawa!" she called. "Fresh buns today—honey glaze, just out of the oven!"
"Morning, Mrs. Fenwick," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. I inhaled deeply; the sweet smell made my stomach growl. She chuckled softly.
"You look like you need a little sweetness," she said, handing me one of the buns. "On the house. Consider it an early morning boost."
I hesitated, the warmth of her gesture making my chest feel heavy. "Thank you, Mrs. Fenwick," I said, taking the bun. Its softness almost melted against my fingertips, warm and fragrant, and I bit into it, letting the sweetness calm me for just a moment.
The walk toward the market was longer than usual, or maybe I simply felt it that way. Every familiar corner—the fountain in the center of the village, the little well where children would drop coins for wishes, the alley where the stray cats liked to hide—seemed slightly…different. The sunlight hit each stone differently, shadows stretched longer, and the wind carried faint whispers I couldn't understand.
A merchant's cart rattled in the distance, wheels squeaking, breaking the silence. I slowed my pace slightly, taking in the details. A pile of bright red apples gleamed in the morning light. A bundle of fresh herbs sent a sharp, fragrant scent into the air, almost dizzying in its strength. I could hear the low murmur of vendors arranging their wares, calling out greetings, haggling with early buyers.
And yet…something felt off.
People's movements were deliberate, almost cautious. Conversations trailed off when I approached. A child held tightly to a mother's skirt, peeking at me with wide, uncertain eyes. A man brushing dust off a crate paused mid-motion, glancing over his shoulder quickly before pretending he hadn't noticed me. It was subtle, nothing I could point to specifically—but I felt it in the pit of my stomach, a twisting knot that grew heavier with every step.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss the unease. Just nerves. You're overthinking. It's just a morning trip to the market.
The familiar scents of spices and vegetables reached me next. Bundles of thyme, rosemary, and parsley lined the first stall, neatly tied with string. Their sharp, earthy fragrance was almost overwhelming, and I bent to examine each bundle carefully, feeling the stems, brushing the leaves with my fingers. Everything seemed so ordinary, so…perfectly mundane.
A few steps later, I passed the fishmonger. The morning catch glistened in the sunlight, silver scales reflecting like shards of glass. The air here carried the faint tang of saltwater, and I wrinkled my nose slightly. A small boy nearby tripped on a crate, scattering a few fish onto the stone. The boy froze, eyes wide, and I bent down to help him gather them.
"Th-thank you, sir," he stammered, clutching the remaining fish like a shield.
"You're welcome," I said gently, handing him one particularly large fish. He nodded quickly and ran off, leaving me with an odd sense of unease. Even here, in the chaos of the market, there was something…wrong.
I pressed on, the market gradually opening up ahead. Stalls overflowed with produce: bright oranges, yellow squash, purple eggplants, and red peppers glinting in the sunlight. Baskets of bread, jars of honey, and rows of glistening cheeses filled the air with mingling aromas that made my stomach growl again.
I paused briefly at a stall, examining a bundle of garlic. The cloves were tight, firm, and fragrant, almost pungent enough to make my eyes water. I ran my fingers over the bulbs, feeling their weight, their texture, and for a moment, I let myself forget the subtle tension in the streets. The rhythm of the market, the familiar smells, the routine motions—they reminded me of home, of comfort.
And yet, even as I moved from stall to stall, a small, persistent sense of unease lingered at the back of my mind. A shadow in the corner of a shop window. A too-quick glance from a passerby. The sudden hush when a cart rolled by. My stomach tightened. Something was coming.
I took a deep breath, pushing the feeling down, focusing instead on the task at hand: gather the ingredients, stay aware, and get home. The day had begun normally enough. Surely, it would end the same way.
I clutched the coins in my pouch, the warmth of them spreading through my hand, grounding me. The sun rose higher in the sky, the market came to life in full force, and I continued my careful, deliberate walk, stepping deeper into the heart of the village.
I walked deeper into the market, each step bringing me further from the quiet streets near home and closer to the heart of the bustling crowd. Sunlight slanted between the stalls, illuminating motes of dust dancing lazily in the air. The colors of the market—red apples, yellow squashes, purple cabbages—were vibrant, almost jarring against the golden light. My chest felt tight as I scanned everything, each movement of the crowd, each flutter of cloth, each call from a vendor ringing louder than usual in my ears.
A woman rearranging her basket of herbs caught my eye. Her movements were precise, practiced, and perfectly ordinary. And yet, I froze. Why did she move that way? Was she trying to hide something? I shook my head. No. Of course not. She's just…organizing her wares.
I moved to the next stall. Lemons glimmered in the sun, piled high in a wicker basket. Their tangy scent was sharp in my nostrils, making me flinch slightly as I inhaled too deeply. A young girl ran past me, laughing, holding a ribbon that flapped wildly behind her. My heart skipped. She nearly knocked me over—was it intentional?
I caught my breath and shook my head again. No. Of course not. She's a child. She's just…playing.
I picked up a lemon, turning it over in my hands. It was smooth, heavier than I expected, the rind dimpled with tiny imperfections. The bright yellow contrasted sharply against the deep green leaves of the nearby herbs, and for a moment, I felt grounded. It was…real. Ordinary. Safe.
I moved to a spice stall. Jars of cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and dried chilies sat in neat rows, their scents mingling into a dizzying cloud that made me sneeze. The vendor, a stout man with a kind face, looked up at me and smiled.
"Ah, Hoshikawa! Looking for something strong today, eh?"
I forced a smile. "Yes…something for the stew."
He chuckled and handed me a small bag of spices. "The best in the village, I promise. You'll make your mother proud."
I nodded, clutching the bag. The warmth of normalcy washed over me like sunlight, but my mind, stubborn and restless, began to wander again. But what if I'm not noticing something? What if there's…something hiding among the stalls?
I shook my head, feeling slightly foolish. Nothing is hiding. This is a normal market, just as it always is.
I wandered down a side aisle, where stacks of fresh bread and pastries lined the wooden tables. The scent of yeast and sugar made my stomach grumble, but I ignored it, focusing on my grocery list. Everything looked ordinary: golden loaves, soft buns dusted with flour, honey-glazed pastries gleaming under the sun.
A young boy, maybe seven or eight, stumbled near the bread table, bumping into a basket of buns. My first instinct was to catch them, but I hesitated. What if it's a trick? What if he's…planning something? I rolled my eyes at myself. Hoshikawa, it's just a child. You're imagining things.
The boy looked up at me with wide eyes, startled, and I smiled faintly. "Careful," I said. "Don't let them fall."
He nodded quickly, adjusting the basket, and ran off. I watched him go, shaking my head at how easily my mind spun small moments into imagined threats.
Moving on, I approached the vegetable stall. Carrots, onions, cabbages, and radishes were piled neatly in baskets, glistening with morning dew. The vendor greeted me warmly, chatting about the weather and how the harvest had been plentiful this season. I nodded politely, picking out the best vegetables, though I kept glancing at the crowd, expecting—what exactly? A shadow? A threat? Something that would never come?
A man passed by me, brushing past my shoulder. I flinched, heart racing. He didn't even look at me; he was focused on a cart piled with apples. I took a deep breath and laughed quietly at myself. Hoshikawa, you're ridiculous. He's just a man. He's minding his own business.
I continued down the stalls, the bustling market now completely in view. Merchants shouted their wares, children laughed and ran between baskets, the smell of fresh bread, spices, vegetables, and fruits mingling in a heady, comforting cloud. Birds chirped from the rooftops, and the sunlight danced across the cobblestones. Everything was ordinary. Everything was safe.
And yet…my mind still didn't let go. Every glance, every movement, every shadow at the edge of my vision felt like a warning, though I knew rationally that it was nothing. Just nerves. Overthinking. You've read too many stories, Hoshikawa. This is a market. There is no danger here.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling entirely. Even as I carefully picked through my list—carrots, onions, herbs, garlic, orvax—I kept glancing over my shoulder. The crowd flowed around me like a river, calm and unthreatening, yet my heart kept insisting there was an undertow.
By the time I reached the stall with the orvax, the last ingredient, I paused. There it was, neatly displayed as always, fresh and untouched. The merchant smiled at me. "Back so soon, Hoshikawa? Here you are, just like clockwork. Orvax for tonight's stew?"
I nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes, thank you. It looks perfect."
As he handed me the bundle, I felt the absurdity of my earlier fears wash over me. Nothing had happened. No shadows, no whispers, no mysterious glances—only normal villagers going about their normal lives. My hands gripped the orvax tightly, partly from relief, partly from lingering tension. I laughed softly to myself.
You've been imagining things this whole time. The market is fine. Everyone is fine. The sun is shining. The world is normal.
And yet, deep down, a small knot of unease refused to leave.
With the orvax tucked safely in my bag, I started making my way toward the far end of the market, where the smaller stalls thinned out and the path widened again. The clatter of the carts and the calls of the vendors softened slightly here, replaced by the occasional clink of coins and the soft chatter of villagers finishing their errands. The sunlight glinted off the rooftops, warm and golden, and for the first time in a while, I allowed myself to take a slow, steady breath.
Everything was normal. Really normal.
I passed a stall with jars of honey stacked like golden towers. The scent was thick and sweet, clinging to the air. A young boy was perched on a crate, dipping his fingers into a small dish of honey, then tasting it with a grin. He made sticky smudges across the wooden table, and the woman running the stall laughed softly. See? Nothing's wrong. This is life. People live, they make mistakes, they laugh.
I smiled faintly at the scene, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. My earlier thoughts, the imagined glances and whispers, seemed foolish now. It was just my mind overreacting, reading too much into nothing.
A little further on, I spotted a basket of freshly baked bread. The loaves were still warm from the oven, their crusts golden and crisp. I picked one up, pressing it lightly to test its softness, inhaling the comforting aroma. A faint smile tugged at my lips—my mother's stew would taste perfect with this. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn't had breakfast yet.
I continued walking, passing a stall stacked with colorful fabrics. Red, blue, and green cloths fluttered in the morning breeze, catching the sunlight like liquid silk. A tailor, an elderly man with a crooked smile, waved at me. "Hoshikawa! Looking for new garb, or just passing through?"
"Just passing through," I replied, smiling politely. "I'm gathering ingredients for dinner."
He nodded. "Ah, yes, the young cook of the house. Your mother is fortunate." His eyes twinkled, and for a moment, I felt a warmth in my chest. Home. Safety. Normalcy.
A cart rumbled past, carrying barrels of apples. I had to step aside quickly, narrowly avoiding a collision. My heart jumped, not from real danger, but from the habit of overthinking, imagining threats where there were none. I shook my head. Really, Hoshikawa. You're fine. You're imagining everything again.
I adjusted the bags on my shoulder and continued. The market began to thin as I neared the outskirts. The path opened slightly, lined with low wooden fences and wildflowers that had grown between the stones. Bees buzzed lazily, and the soft chirping of birds filled the gaps in the noise left by the departing crowd.
Everything felt lighter here, calmer. I allowed myself a small sigh, shoulders relaxing as I glanced at the horizon. Smoke from distant chimneys curled lazily into the sky, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. Normal. Peaceful. Safe.
And yet…even as I told myself this, my mind couldn't fully release the small echoes of tension from earlier. The imagined glances, the fleeting shadows, the whispering wind—they lingered at the edge of my thoughts like faint echoes. I laughed quietly to myself. Ridiculous. Nothing's happening. The market is fine. You're fine.
I stopped briefly at a small flower stall, admiring the bright blooms. Pansies, marigolds, and daisies swayed gently in the breeze. A young girl was arranging the flowers into bouquets, humming softly. The simplicity of the scene grounded me further, reminding me that the world was still ordinary, still familiar.
I picked up a small bouquet of daisies, the stems cool in my fingers. Maybe I'll bring these home. Mom will like them. A small smile tugged at my lips. Even amid my tendency to overthink, these little moments of beauty reminded me why the market, why home, why ordinary life was worth cherishing.
The path back toward the village proper began to slope downward slightly. The sounds of the bustling market faded almost entirely, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant clatter of a horse-drawn cart. I felt a sense of relief, knowing the hardest part of the market journey was behind me. Only a few more stalls, and I would be on the familiar path home.
And yet, as my gaze swept across the stalls I had passed, my mind stubbornly searched for signs of danger, of threat, of…something wrong. I smiled wryly at myself. You're hopeless, Hoshikawa. The market is fine. People are fine. Nothing is wrong.
Still, I tightened my grip on the bags, lingering just a moment longer on the last familiar sights—the colorful fabrics, the jars of honey, the stacks of vegetables, the laughing children. These were real, tangible, grounding. And yet, the tiniest knot of unease remained, just enough to keep my senses alert, even when they didn't need to be.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and began to walk the final stretch of the market path. The crowd thinned entirely here, replaced by a few scattered villagers finishing errands, the occasional horse-drawn cart rumbling past, and the soft rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. The market was behind me, the path ahead open. I let my mind relax slightly, telling myself that everything was ordinary, everything was safe.
For now.
I finally stepped past the last of the market stalls, the crowd thinning until only a few villagers remained, moving slowly toward their homes. The sounds of the market—the clatter of carts, the calls of vendors, the laughter of children—faded behind me like a tide receding, leaving only the soft hum of the village awakening fully.
The path home was familiar, winding past the little fountain in the village square, where the water sparkled in the morning light. I paused for a moment, watching the ripples dance across the surface. The fountain had always been a place of comfort, a quiet reminder that some things in life remained unchanged no matter what. My reflection shimmered in the water—slightly distorted, but recognizable. I let out a small breath. See? Nothing to worry about. Everything is normal.
Beyond the square, the narrow streets were lined with cottages and shops, their windows open to let in the morning air. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the scent of bread and herbs mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke. I could hear the occasional bark of a dog or the clatter of a horse's hooves in the distance. Everything was ordinary. Safe.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, feeling the comforting weight of the groceries against my side. Carrots, onions, herbs, the precious orvax—all of it tangible, real. My mind, stubborn and restless as it was, still cast glances at every shadow, every flicker of movement, but I reminded myself: there was nothing to see. Everything was fine.
A group of children ran past me, playing a game I didn't quite recognize. They squealed with delight, their laughter echoing off the cobblestones. One tripped, nearly falling, but a friend caught him just in time. I smiled faintly, shaking my head at how quickly my heart had jumped when they first approached. You're imagining things again, Hoshikawa. Nothing to fear here.
I passed the old well near the edge of the village, the water dark and calm. I paused for a moment, gazing down, seeing the reflection of the sky ripple with each faint breeze. Memories of tossing coins in as a child, wishing for things too small to matter now, flickered in my mind. A small pang of nostalgia rose in my chest, warm and bittersweet.
The path widened as I neared the outskirts of the village. The familiar hedgerows, dotted with wildflowers, swayed gently in the wind. Bees buzzed lazily, moving from bloom to bloom, and a bird perched on a low branch, watching me with bright, curious eyes. The simplicity of the scene brought a quiet sense of peace.
And yet, even here, my mind refused to rest entirely. Every rustle in the bushes, every shifting shadow across the road, even the soft flutter of leaves in the wind, felt like it might carry meaning. Ridiculous, I scolded myself quietly. You've left the market. There's nothing here to be afraid of.
I took a deep breath, letting the fresh morning air fill my lungs. The scent of damp earth and flowering hedgerows was grounding, calming the persistent tension that lingered despite the normalcy around me. I focused on the path itself—the uneven stones beneath my feet, the gentle slope leading toward home, the familiar curves of the road that I had walked countless times before.
Passing by the smithy once more, I saw the blacksmith at his forge, hammering steadily, sparks flying like tiny stars into the air. The rhythm was soothing, almost meditative, and I paused for a moment to watch. Everything is normal. Nothing is wrong.
I continued onward, my steps deliberate, steady. Villagers waved at me from their doorways—an elderly woman sweeping her porch, a young man adjusting a wagon, a pair of children chasing each other with a hoop and stick. I nodded, returning smiles that were met with friendly gestures in return. The village was alive and well, moving at its usual pace.
Yet, despite all evidence, a tiny knot of unease remained in my chest. Perhaps it was simply the habit of tension I had carried throughout the morning, a leftover echo from my imagined fears at the market. I let it sit quietly, not worrying to banish it completely. Some habits, even irrational ones, are hard to shake.
Finally, the familiar outline of my home came into view. The small garden at the front, the ivy curling along the walls, the smoke lazily rising from the chimney—it all looked exactly as it had when I left. Relief surged through me, warm and grounding, and I quickened my pace, eager to step inside and finally feel the safety of home.
I clutched the bags tightly, the coins in my pouch warm against my hand. Nothing had gone wrong. The market had been perfectly ordinary. The streets were quiet, the villagers kind and busy with their daily lives. The sun shone, the air was crisp, and everything…was normal.
And yet, somewhere deep down, a faint, uneasy flutter whispered, as if the world were about to shift. I shook it off, not ready to listen yet. Home was just ahead. Dinner was just ahead. Everything was safe. Everything was fine.
Just a few more steps, just a few more steps and my house would come into view.
There's nothing to be paranoid about, Hoshikawa, you're just being paranoid.
You're overthinking.
I froze.
At first, I couldn't process what I was seeing. A flicker of light? A trick of the sun on the roof tiles? But no. It wasn't a trick.
Smoke curled into the sky, thick and black, twisting in shapes I didn't recognize. The warm, familiar outline of my home—the garden, the front steps, the ivy climbing along the walls—was suddenly engulfed in flames. The roof glowed orange, shingles falling in slow, terrible arcs, sparks leaping into the air like tiny fireflies with cruel intent.
I dropped the bags at my feet, the contents spilling across the cobblestones with soft thuds. My hands shook uncontrollably, reaching for nothing in particular. My heart raced so fast I could barely breathe, each beat echoing in my ears like a hammer striking metal.
"No…no…this can't be happening," I whispered, my voice trembling, almost swallowed by the roar of the fire. The flames crackled and hissed, consuming everything I knew and loved with a ferocious hunger.
The scent hit me next—smoke thick and acrid, the sharp, metallic tang of burning wood, the faint, gut-wrenching smell of something familiar, something personal turning to ash. My stomach twisted, and bile rose in my throat, but I couldn't move. My legs felt rooted to the ground, powerless, as if the earth itself refused to let me run.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run forward, tear the fire apart with my bare hands, save everything. But even as panic clawed at me, a cold, hollow disbelief spread through me. My home—my home—was gone.
I saw the windows shattering, glass raining down like shards of ice. The front door warped in the heat, hinges screaming in protest. Shadows danced across the walls in the flickering glow, twisting familiar furniture and family portraits into grotesque shapes I couldn't recognize.
"Mom? Dad? Ella? Where are you?!" My eyes widened as shock consumed me.
My house was on fire.