I'm officially one.
It wasn't a crazy birthday. There were no clowns, no bouncy castles, and definitely no store-bought sheet cake with a single candle being blown out while relatives sang off-key. Instead, my parents just stayed home. They spent the entire morning holding me, playing with me on the rug, and letting me nap.
It was quiet, warm, and surprisingly nice.
I've started to pick up the basic language a bit better, automatically translating them in my head. If i didnt understand something I would just infer what they meant.
I'm currently sitting in my mother's lap, facing her. The fire crackles nearby, casting a warm, orange glow over us, fighting back the winter chill pressing against the frosted windows.
Sylvia gently pinches my cheeks, her face hovering just inches from mine. "How's my little Percy doing?"
Her smile is bright and compassionate, but there is a spark of excitement in her eyes today. A mischievous glint.
"You've been stuck inside all winter, haven't you? Well, today is special. Today, I'm going to take you to town for the first time."
Town.
My ears perked up. Finally, I've been staring at these four walls for twelve months. I've memorized every knot in the ceiling beams and every crack in the stone hearth. I needed to see the world. I needed to know where I actually was.
I let out a happy gurgle, waving my hands.
An hour passed, and the preparation began. This, I quickly realized, was the price of admission.
Since it was the dead of winter, Sylvia wasn't taking any chances. She laid me out on the changing table like I was a piece of equipment she was prepping for a blizzard expedition.
First came the linen undergarments, wrapped tight. Then, a pair of thick, scratchy wool leggings that went all the way up to my chest. Then a small tunic. Then another tunic, this one knitted.
"We have to keep you warm," Sylvia cooed, ignoring my squirming protest.
She finished the ensemble by wrestling me into a coat that felt like it was stuffed with the feathers of an entire flock of geese. She wrapped a knitted scarf around my neck three times, until my chin was buried, and pulled a wool hat down over my ears.
I couldn't move. I lay there, arms stuck out at forty-five-degree angles, legs splayed. I felt like a marshmallow. I felt like a starfish.
My dignity, I thought, staring up at the ceiling. I used to be an ace pitcher. I used to look cool in a uniform. Now I look like a festive potato.
She hoisted me onto her hip, securing me in a leather sling. "Ready for the great expedition?"
She walked to the front of the cottage. She reached out and unlatched the heavy iron bolt of the front door. With a firm push, the oak groaned on its iron hinges, swinging outward.
The moment the seal was broken, the world changed.
The rush of air was instant crisp, biting, and smelling of pine needles and frozen earth. It was a shock to my system compared to the cozy, wood-smoke warmth of the hearth.
Sylvia stepped over the threshold, her boots crunching loudly onto the front step.
The world was white.
Snow covered everything. It blanketed the thatched roof of our cottage, weighed down the thick branches of the oak trees, and smoothed out the rolling hills in the distance until they looked like dunes of sugar. It glittered under the pale afternoon sun like crushed diamonds. My breath puffed out in a tiny white cloud in front of my face.
I stared at it, mesmerized. In Tokyo, snow was a nuisance. There was grey slush on the sidewalk, delayed trains, and wet socks. Here, it was pristine. It was vast.
Sylvia adjusted the sling so I'm snug against her chest, sharing her body heat. She closed the door behind us and locked it, the heavy thunk of the key echoing in the silence.
We made our way across the yard to the rustic wooden fence. The gate creaked as she pushed it open, and we stepped out onto the main dirt path.
She pointed a gloved hand down the road. "Look, Percy. The world is a big place."
I followed her finger.
The path stretched out before us, a ribbon of packed dirt and ice cutting through the snow. But what struck me wasn't the view; it was the sound.
Or rather, the lack of it.
There was no distant hum of traffic. No sirens wailing in the background. No drone of airplanes overhead. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind sighing through the trees and the crunch of Sylvia's boots. It felt heavy, ancient, and incredibly peaceful.
As we walked, I analyzed everything.
The architecture was distinctly European, or at least, High Fantasy European. The cottages we passed weren't the modern prefabs of Japan. They were built to last. Stone foundations that looked like they had been pulled from the riverbed, heavy timber framing stained dark against the white plaster walls. The roofs were steep to shed the heavy snow, covered in slate tiles or thick, layered thatch.
This wasn't a tourist village. It was functional. I saw a woodpile stacked with obsessive precision next to a house, an axe embedded in a stump nearby. I saw a well with a frozen bucket hanging from the rope.
We arrived at a fork in the road. One way led deeper into the farmlands where I could see smoke curling from distant chimneys. Sylvia took the right path, heading toward a cluster of buildings in the distance.
She adjusted my hat, pulling it tighter over my ears. "We are going to the Village of Brent. We need to pick up some flour and maybe see if your father is busy."
As we crossed the invisible line from the outskirts into the village proper, the atmosphere shifted. It felt lived-in.
To my left, I saw a building with a sign shaped like a loaf of bread hanging above the door. The smell wafting from it was heavenly yeast and warm dough battling the cold air. That must be the bakery.
Further down, I heard the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of metal on metal. I craned my neck, peering over the thick wool of my scarf. It was an open-air structure where a burly man was hammering a glowing orange piece of iron on an anvil.
The Blacksmith.
Sparks flew into the cold air, fizzling out before they hit the snow. It wasn't a machine stamping out parts. It was a man, using his muscle and his sweat to shape metal.
"It's busy today, even with the cold," Sylvia murmured.
She weaved through a small crowd of villagers. They were dressed in heavy furs and wool cloaks, their breath misting as they chatted and bartered. They looked sturdy. Healthy. These weren't the overworked salarymen of Tokyo; these were people who worked with the land.
"And look there, Percy." She stopped, her voice swelling with pride. "That is the most important building in town."
She pointed to a large structure at the end of the main street.
It was impressive. It was a Carpenter's Shop, but it looked more like a showroom.
The building was wide, built from high-quality dark oak that had been stained and polished to perfection. Unlike the rougher buildings nearby, the joinery on this place was seamless fitting for a master craftsman. Large double doors stood open despite the cold, inviting people in.
Displayed under the overhang of the porch were beautifully carved wooden chairs and a sturdy chest, showcasing the work to passersby. Above the door hung a sign, carved with intricate detail: Wilder Woodworks.
Sylvia bounced me slightly on her hip. "That's where your father works. He built this place from the ground up when we moved here. He makes the best furniture in the entire region."
We walked closer, and the smell of sawdust and fresh timber overpowered the smell of the snow. I could hear the familiar sound of a saw cutting through wood.
She smiled down at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Shall we go say hello?"
I let out a happy noise and waved my mitten-covered hand.
"I'll take that as a yes."
We stepped through the double doors, and the biting cold of the winter afternoon vanished, replaced by the rich, earthy scent of shaved pine, cedar, and sharp varnish.
The interior of Wilder Woodworks was cavernous and warm. The front section served as a showroom, displaying the finished pieces. To my left, a set of high-backed dining chairs sat arranged in a circle, their legs curved and elegant. To my right, a massive wardrobe stood with its doors slightly ajar, revealing complex joinery that didn't use a single metal nail.
I stared at the wardrobe. The wood was joined using dovetails interlocking wedge shapes that held together through tension and friction alone.
He's good, I thought, genuine respect rising in my chest. He's really good.
In my old life, I appreciated the mechanics of a pitch, the way the fingers gripped the seams, the way the wrist snapped. This was different, but the principle was the same. It was about mastery. It was about doing something a thousand times until it was perfect.
Through the open layout, I saw the workshop in the back. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light pouring in from the high windows.
Roxas was there.
He stood over a massive oak table, his body angled as he worked a hand plane across the surface. Even in the dead of winter, with the shop door open, he was sweating. His dark brown hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, held back by a thick cloth headband to keep the sting out of his eyes.
He wore a heavy wool tunic, but the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. A thick, scarred leather apron protected his chest and legs, the pockets overflowing with measuring tools and pencils.
Shhhh-Shhhh.
The rhythmic sound of the plane shaving off thin curls of wood filled the room. He moved with a practiced fluidity, putting his entire weight behind every stroke. He wasn't just pushing the tool; he was feeling the wood, reading the grain.
Sylvia walked further into the shop, her boots clicking on the wooden floorboards.
"How is the table for Soldat?"
Roxas paused mid-stroke. He stood up straight, rolling his massive shoulders to work out the tension. A crack echoed through the room. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and looked at the table, running a callused hand over the grain to check for imperfections.
"It's going well. It should take about a couple more weeks to finish. I still have to sand it a few more times, then stain it to get that signature look he wants."
He turned fully toward us, his eyes landing on me. His tired, focused expression instantly melted into a wide, beaming grin.
"How's my big boy doing over there? Finally came to see what your old man does for a living?"
I looked past him at the table. The surface was glass-smooth, the edges perfectly leveled.
Impressive. Truly solid work. I tried to give him a nod of approval, but my neck was still a bit wobbly, so it probably just looked like I was bobbing my head to music.
Roxas chuckles, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his belt to clean off the sawdust. He walked over to a nearby workbench, rummaging behind a stack of blueprints.
"I have something for him."
He walked over to us, towering over Sylvia, and held out his hand. Sitting in his massive palm was a small wooden carving.
I stared at it. I'd never seen a creature like this in my life.
It looked like a squirrel, with a bushy tail and small paws, but attached to the back of its head, right where the neck meets the skull, was a pair of wings.
"This is my gift for you."
Roxas gently placed the object into my small, clumsy, mitten-covered hands.
"It's called a Flit. It's a small creature that wanders around in the forests and scavenges."
I grabbed the toy, bringing it closer to my face to inspect the details. The craftsmanship was incredible. The wood was sanded so smooth it felt like polished stone against my fingertips. He had carved distinct textures into it; the body had tiny grooves to mimic fur, while the wings were delicate and feathery.
But... a squirrel with wings?
I turned the toy over in my hands. Biologically, that shouldn't work. The drag coefficient would be a nightmare. Was this a mythological creature? A fairy tale monster he made up? Or was this my first confirmation that this world operated on entirely different rules?
Roxas watched me examine it, his grin widening. "He likes it! Look at him studying it. He's got an eye for detail, Sylvia."
"He certainly does," Sylvia agreed, smoothing my hat.
Roxas turned back to the table, picking up his sanding block. "Okay then. Let me finish this last layer of sanding. You guys go finish up the rest of your errands. I will meet up with you back home."
Sylvia waved a gloved hand. "We'll see you soon."
I glanced back over her shoulder as we left. Roxas was already bent over the wood, lost in his work, the rhythmic shhh-shhh of the sandpaper following us out the door.
We exited the shop and stepped back onto the snowy street. The cold nipped at my nose again, but the stop at the workshop had left me feeling warm. I clutched the wooden Flit tight against my chest.
We made our way down the bustling main street toward the building with the bread sign.
Sylvia pushed through the heavy door of the bakery.
The smell hit us instantly. It was a physical wall of sugar, butter, and toasted flour. It was intoxicating. After a year of breast milk and bland, mashed vegetables, the scent was enough to make my mouth water instantly.
Behind the wooden counter stood a man who looked like he enjoyed his own product. He was on the heavier side, with a round, jovial face and a shock of bright red hair that looked like a flame.
The moment he saw us, his face split into a wide grin.
"Sylvia! Long time no see."
Sylvia adjusted me on her hip, moving closer to the display case filled with loaves. "It hasn't been that long, has it? This is Percival. Today is his first birthday."
The baker's eyes widened. He leaned over the counter to get a better look at me.
"First birthday, eh?"
He beamed at me, then his eyes dropped to the toy clutched in my mittens.
"What do you have there? Is that a little wooden Flit? Roxas does good work."
My brow furrowed under my hat. Wait. He knows what a Flit is?
So it wasn't just a made-up creature Roxas invented for a story. Or maybe it's a story based on this village's spirit or something?
The baker turned to the shelves behind him, grabbing a sack of flour. He placed it on the counter, then paused. He reached into a glass case on the counter. He pulled out a small, delicate pastry dusted in white sugar.
"Here's your flour. And this... is on the house. For the birthday boy."
"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sylvia says, though she's smiling.
"I insist. Take it."
"Thank you. You are too kind." Sylvia bowed her head slightly, accepting the flour and the treat.
"Anytime. You guys get home safe, alright?"
We stepped back out into the cold. The afternoon was wearing on now. The sun had begun its descent, casting long, purple shadows across the snow, though the sky was still bright enough to see clearly. The "golden hour" light reflected off the icicles hanging from the roofs, turning the village into a glittering wonderland.
We made our way back down the path, leaving the village center behind.
As we passed the scattered cottages on the outskirts, I watched the world go by. The village was winding down. I saw a man near a woodpile, swinging an axe to split logs for the night's fire. Further down, a woman was hurrying across her yard, carrying buckets of water from a well, her breath misting in the air.
Life here was simple. It was hard. There were no machines to do the work for you. If you wanted heat, you chopped wood. If you wanted water, you carried it. But there was a beauty in that simplicity. A connection to the earth that I had never felt in the concrete jungle of Tokyo.
Finally, our sturdy cottage came into view. Sylvia navigated the front path, unlocked the door, and we spilled inside.
The warmth wrapped around us like a blanket. The fire in the hearth was still going strong, having burned down to a bed of hot, glowing coals that radiated heat throughout the room. It was infinitely cozier than the biting chill outside.
Sylvia set the flour down on the kitchen table. She immediately started stripping off my layers. Off came the wool hat, then the scarf, and finally the puffy coat.
I wiggled my arms, sighing in relief. Freedom.
She carried me over to the rug near the fire and sat down, pulling the pastry out of the bag.
"Here you go, Percy."
I dropped the wooden Flit onto the rug and reached out with both hands. My coordination was still terrible, but my motivation was at an all-time high.
The pastry was beautiful. It was golden brown, flaky, and covered in a generous dusting of powdered sugar. Red filling peeked out from the sides like jewels.
I took a bite.
Oh my god.
The crust crumbled against my gums, buttery and light. Then the flavor hit me. Strawberry. But not the artificial, sugary candy flavor from my old life. This was sharp, tart, and incredibly authentic. It was sweetness concentrated. It was the taste of summer preserved in jam, exploding in my mouth.
My eyes went wide. I chewed happily, letting out a satisfied hu m. I looked up and gave a huge, messy smile to my mother, crumbs falling down my chin.
She laughed, breaking off a piece for herself. "Mmmm. You like the pastry, don't you, Percy?"
She fed me another piece, then ate the last bite herself, licking the sugar off her thumb.
"I gotta hold back sometimes. Don't want to get too chubby." She flashed that beautiful, radiant smile.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of the front door latch echoed through the house.
"I'm home."
Roxas walked in, bringing a gust of cold air with him. He stomped the snow off his boots on the mat and began peeling off his heavy work tunic and outer layers. He walked over to the living area, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
"How was the trip?"
"It was good. We got a birthday treat from the baker."
Roxas dropped onto the couch behind us, the frame groaning comfortably under his weight. He leaned down to ruffle my dirty blonde hair.
"Is that so? Happy birthday, kid."
I looked up at him, still tasting the lingering sweetness of the strawberry. I patted my stomach with a satisfied sigh.
This was a good day. A solid start to this new life.