Inside the quiet kitchen, there was only the faint sound of a pot simmering on the stove and the soft whisper of wind slipping through the half-open window. The occasional clink of metal utensils filled the air just enough to break the silence — not with disturbance, but with a warmth that made the space feel alive. The late-morning sunlight streamed through the thin cream-colored curtains, scattering soft beams across the room like dusts of gold. The tiny specks of dust floating in the air shimmered like little stars caught in the daylight. The shadow of a large wooden table stretched long across the pale floor tiles, reaching the far end of the room — where a woman stood before the stove.
Alenya Varinelle still wore her gentle smile, a smile that carried the warmth of spring sunlight after a long winter. Her light brown hair caught the morning rays, glimmering faintly like silk threads that swayed with every small movement of her head. She wore a pale apron marked with faint traces of flour — a sign that she wasn't merely posing to cook but was truly in the middle of preparing something. The faint aroma of melting butter and the smoky sweetness of bacon frying on the pan mingled in the air, blending with the crisp scent of freshly washed lettuce and herbs, creating a fragrance that made the room feel cozy and alive.
Asfinne — or Denato, within the body of this boy — stood a little behind her. The light from the window behind him spilled over his shoulders, casting his shadow upon the spotless cream-colored tiles — a soft, uncertain silhouette of someone who didn't quite belong in this place. His posture was slightly stiff, hands clenched loosely at his sides, as though afraid to move the wrong way. He tried to appear natural, tried to breathe steadily, but the weight of awareness pressed down on every gesture.
When Alenya turned toward him, that same light in her eyes met his — eyes of clear ocean blue, bright and calm, reflecting both care and quiet curiosity. Her voice, soft yet vivid, broke the silence.
"I'm making breakfast right now," she said lightly, "and it looks like it's one of your favorites, isn't it? You told me once."
Her tone carried a kindness that felt like sunlight over calm waters. Each word she spoke brushed gently through the air, soft but filled with warmth. The sound of her voice trembled faintly inside his chest — a sound that felt too human, too sincere.
He kept his eyes on her hands as she carefully placed strips of golden-brown bacon onto a wooden plate. The sizzling sound that followed made the moment feel strangely real — too real. He swallowed unconsciously, catching the rising steam that carried the scent of butter and salt.
He didn't respond immediately, only glanced toward the table a short distance away — where a full meal had already begun to take form. On it were sunny-side-up eggs, their yolks gleaming like twin amber suns; crispy bacon edges curling with perfect texture; slices of bread toasted until lightly golden, brushed with a layer of translucent pink jam that glowed faintly in the light; and beside them, a bowl of salad — crisp green lettuce, a few red cherry tomatoes sliced in half, each one glistening as though it still carried morning dew. Everything was placed neatly, in quiet harmony, like a still-life painting brought to life by the morning sun.
The mingling aromas filled every corner of the kitchen. The scent of warmth — of food and comfort — reached into his clothes and hair. Asfinne could feel it wrapping around him, coaxing him into a sense of belonging that wasn't his. His heart beat harder — not from hunger, but from the heavy truth that weighed inside him. He was in a place that wasn't his, living a life that wasn't his, facing a woman who smiled at him as if he were someone else entirely.
Her smile didn't fade. She stood there with patience in her eyes, waiting for his reply. That smile held familiarity — not the familiarity of recognition, but the one born from affection, care, and the countless little moments she must have shared with the boy named Asfinne.
He swallowed again, his throat dry. Words refused to come easily. He tried to read the subtle language of her gaze, the small pauses in her voice, searching for cues to guide his act. Then, before he could decide what to say, her voice came again — playful and knowing.
"It's called Amfenette, isn't it?" she said brightly.
The sound of the word struck him. There was a kind of pride in the way she spoke the name, as though it wasn't just a meal, but a memory. Asfinne raised his head slightly; a faint smile tugged at his lips. Then a small, almost shy laugh escaped him.
"This name... it always makes me remember," he said softly.
Those words carried two opposing feelings — warmth and ache. The smile on his face held the shape of belonging, but his heart twisted inside. He had no real memory attached to that name, no story to recall. Yet he spoke as though it were his own. He could only cling to the safest truth — that the name itself sounded full of care.
The sunlight through the curtains brushed lightly over his white-silver hair, setting off a subtle glow like snow touched by dawn. Alenya chuckled — a sound pure as the chime of silver bells.
"You still remember when you made it yourself, don't you?" she said with delight. "I've never seen anyone make a dish like this before."
Her tone was so tender it almost hurt. Her laughter rippled through the quiet kitchen, filling it with life. In her blue eyes shone the soft light of nostalgia — a memory she treasured, a small fragment of warmth she thought they both shared.
Asfinne smiled faintly, but deep inside, confusion tightened around his thoughts. He didn't know what "that time" meant — didn't know when or how it had happened. His mind was blank. He could only pretend to recall it, because showing hesitation might break the illusion.
He lowered his gaze slightly, as though reliving a memory that wasn't there. The expression he wore — half-smile, half-thoughtful silence — was his only shield. He stood still, surrounded by the sounds of the kitchen.
The pan crackled softly. The bacon sizzled again as Alenya flipped the strips over with a wooden fork, the oil popping faintly. The rising steam glowed under the sunlight, shimmering gold like a slow-moving wisp of warmth.
The air itself seemed alive — dense with the fragrance of butter, bread, and the faint salt of bacon. In the midst of that calm hum, something unspeakable lingered — a quiet tension, a shadow of emotion that neither of them spoke aloud.
Asfinne's heart thudded quietly in his chest. He tried to breathe evenly. He could feel the heat of the stove, the faint tremor in the floor when she moved, and the rhythm of every tiny sound — all of it felt like a memory trying to form inside him, but never quite did.
He understood now that the safest choice was silence — to remain within the rhythm of her comfort, to let her believe what she needed to believe. So he smiled again, soft and reserved, and his eyes moved back toward the meal that was nearly ready.
The egg yolks gleamed like tiny suns, still warm and shimmering under the faint light. The golden edges of toast looked crisp, and the glistening surface of the jam seemed to catch the light like crystal. Even the salad looked alive, its colors breathing gently under the daylight.
For a brief moment, he forgot the weight of deceit. The air felt lighter, and the warmth that filled the kitchen wrapped around him like a gentle embrace.
Alenya moved gracefully, her motions unhurried and deliberate. Even the sound of her knife cutting, the clink of dishes being placed upon the counter — everything had rhythm. It was as if she was dancing in time with the breath of the morning.
For Asfinne, this moment felt both comforting and unbearable. Every second that passed, every smile she gave, was a reminder that she saw someone else when she looked at him. The affection in her voice belonged to the real Asfinne — the boy who once stood here, who had once laughed and spoken and lived this life. But she couldn't know the truth, and he couldn't ever tell her.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy, tender, almost sacred. The faint bubbling of the pot filled the air again, blending with the sound of turning pages — the quiet rhythm of a morning that felt too gentle to break.
The warmth of the food reached him even from where he stood. It carried a scent that whispered of care, of days spent laughing together, of small joys that belonged to someone else but somehow wrapped around him too.
He breathed in slowly, letting the air fill his lungs, and smiled once more. Alenya was still facing the stove, her hair moving lightly with each motion, glinting under the sunlight. A gentle wind slipped through the curtains, brushing against her sleeve. The faint rustle of fabric echoed like the soft waves of the sea.
In that moment, he realized something simple — that no matter what world he was in, no matter how misplaced he felt — the warmth of her smile was one of the most human, most fragile things he had ever seen.
And even if it wasn't meant for him, it still reached him all the same.
Until the faint sound of a wooden door creaked open — "creeeak…" — echoing softly through the room.
A thin beam of morning light slipped through the narrow gap of the door, slicing across the dim interior like a quiet breath of dawn. Dust particles danced in that beam, shimmering like tiny stars adrift in the golden air, swaying slowly as if they were alive. Inside this small, warm kitchen, the fragrance of butter and eggs lingered gently, wrapping the space in the calm of early morning.
Then, through that faint light, the sound of footsteps approached — light, quick, full of youth. Two figures appeared in the doorway.
The first was a boy — short brown hair that framed his forehead, glinting faintly under the sunlight. His eyes, a striking crimson, flickered with liveliness and a spark of uncontainable energy. There was a certain adventurous spirit about him — the kind only found in children who had never yet learned to fear the world. His outfit was simple: a light gray shirt tucked into brown trousers, with a faint scuff near one knee, hinting at countless hours of running and climbing. He looked about fourteen, the age of endless motion and unfiltered curiosity.
Following him was a girl — her long, blonde hair cascaded in gentle waves down to the middle of her back, catching the morning light so beautifully that it almost seemed to glow on its own. Her blue eyes were soft, tranquil, like the reflection of the clear sky over an untouched sea. She wore a simple white cotton dress, slightly mended at the hem by careful hands, proof of care and attention. Her steps were quiet, but her expression — a faint, warm smile — carried a kind of serenity that filled the room with calm.
Asfinne — or rather, Denato in Asfinne's body — felt his heartbeat quicken.
He had not expected anyone else to appear. Speaking with Alenya alone was already delicate enough, but now, with these two children entering, maintaining the illusion of being "the real Asfinne" would become much harder.
He froze for a second, his eyes quietly tracing the two figures as they moved closer. The sunlight now spread across their faces — golden on brown and pale hair — painting them in the hues of life and warmth. The boy's eyes sparkled like a small flame, while the girl's seemed to hold the reflection of the morning sky. Both stopped just a few steps inside, gazing around curiously before focusing on the two people before them.
Then, the boy spoke first — his voice was bright and alive, carrying both familiarity and affection.
"Mom, what are you doing?"
The tone was casual, innocent, yet filled with warmth. It was the voice of a child comfortable enough to speak without hesitation — the kind that belonged only to those who felt safe and loved.
Alenya turned around with a soft, glowing smile — one so gentle that it seemed to radiate light. Her face reflected both patience and fondness, the kind that came from caring for others for many years.
"I'm making Amfenette, dear,"
she said tenderly.
The boy's eyes lit up instantly, wide with joy. He turned toward Asfinne in excitement and exclaimed:
"That's the dish Fin made, isn't it?!"
The sudden sound of that nickname — Fin — caught Asfinne off guard.
He blinked for a moment, unsure how to react. So, that's what they called him here — the real Asfinne. It was an affectionate name, short and easy, something only close friends or family would use.
The realization brought with it both warmth and unease. Warmth, because he could feel the closeness of the bond they all shared; unease, because he was now part of it — pretending to be someone loved and familiar.
The boy, without warning, stepped forward quickly. Before Asfinne could brace himself, he felt a sudden weight press against him — the boy had wrapped his small arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.
It wasn't a gentle hug; it was full of raw, overflowing emotion. The scent of soap and morning air clung to the boy's clothes. For a moment, Denato forgot how to breathe. He wasn't used to this — to being embraced so openly, so earnestly.
The boy's voice trembled slightly when he spoke, muffled against Asfinne's chest.
"I thought you'd never wake up again. I'm so glad you did..."
His words carried both sadness and relief — the kind of emotion that could only come from someone who had truly worried for another.
It hit Asfinne harder than he expected.
He didn't know how close this boy — this Galax — had been to the real Asfinne, but the sincerity in his voice was undeniable.
The blonde girl watched quietly from behind, her soft blue eyes shining with gentle emotion. She didn't speak; she didn't need to. Her calm smile alone was enough to say "welcome back."
Alenya watched them with quiet delight, her golden hair glowing beneath the light. Her smile deepened with something like affection and nostalgia as she said softly:
"Galax and Asfinne seem to be just as close as ever."
Her words carried the warmth of a mother observing her children — not by blood, but by bond.
Asfinne managed a faint smile. It felt awkward, almost forced, but he made it through. Inside, however, he was relieved. Finally, he knew the name of the boy who stood before him — Galax.
He remembered that Alenya had mentioned him earlier that morning: "Perhaps Galax will be overjoyed to see you awake."
And she had been right. Galax's energy filled the entire kitchen like sunlight spilling through an open window. His happiness wasn't subtle or quiet; it was radiant, pure, the kind that made even the walls seem to breathe.
Asfinne turned his eyes to the girl beside him. She remained still, observing quietly. There was something about her — her calm gaze, her soft composure — that made him feel she was someone important to the real Asfinne too. Someone steady, understanding.
He forced his focus back to something else — the clock.
On the far wall above Alenya's counter, there hung a silver-rimmed clock. Its numbers were written in an unfamiliar script, curving elegantly in patterns he didn't recognize. Yet, despite the strangeness of the symbols, the movement of its hands was the same.
He studied it carefully, translating the positions in his head.
By his estimation, it was now 7:50 a.m.
That realization gave him a small sense of grounding.
In his room earlier, he had noticed that the wardrobe contained both a school uniform and a set of work clothes. That meant this place must follow a strict daily routine — mornings for study or assigned tasks, and evenings perhaps for communal time.
He was still thinking this through when Alenya's voice floated gently across the room once more, like sunlight brushing against the skin.
"At eight o'clock, we'll have breakfast together,"
she said, smiling.
Her voice was firm but tender, the kind of tone that naturally made children listen. Then she continued:
"After that, I'll be assigning either work duties or study sessions for everyone."
Her words came at the exact moment he was thinking about the schedule, almost as though she had read his mind.
The timing startled him. He blinked once, quietly amused. Perhaps Alenya wasn't just any caretaker — she seemed to know things before they were spoken. Or maybe, she simply knew Asfinne that well.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.
The sound of sizzling butter and eggs returned to his awareness — "chhh..." — soft and rhythmic, the kind of sound that made the world feel safe. The smell of warm bread and salt filled the air, mingling with the laughter and faint chatter of the children.
In that moment, everything seemed almost perfect.
The morning sunlight fell across the table, touching the wooden surfaces with gold. The shadows of the four of them — Alenya, Galax, the girl, and himself — stretched and intertwined faintly against the floor.
It was all so simple, yet somehow profoundly peaceful.
And for the first time since awakening in this strange place, Asfinne — or Denato — felt something unexpected stir in his chest.
It was a kind of warmth that wasn't his own.
A remnant of the life belonging to the boy whose name he now carried.
And with that warmth came a quiet fear —
A fear that he might not be able to live up to the kindness, the memory, or the affection that everyone here seemed to hold for the real Asfinne.
Still, as he stood there surrounded by light and laughter, the only thing he could do was smile —
A smile that wasn't quite his, but one that felt right for this moment.