Night blanketed the hospital sky with a starless veil of darkness. A gentle wind swept through the leaves, leaving behind the faint rustle of sounds only audible when the world was asleep. On one of the benches in the quiet hospital garden sat Canis Majoris. He was silent, letting the cigarette between his fingers burn slowly, exhaling smoke that drifted upward like his thoughts: heavy, endless, shapeless.
Near him stood two figures who seemed unwilling to stray too far. Easton stood with his arms crossed over his chest, while Aron remained upright yet restless, his eyes constantly glancing at his master like a silent guardian who knew how easily the night could steal someone's peace.
Canis finally spoke. His voice was low and flat, almost inaudible if not for the profound silence enveloping them.
"Do you still remember what Lucy told us about Shina Mariposa last night?"
Easton turned his head slowly. "Of course," he replied briefly, his eyes following the trail of smoke as if searching for hidden memories within it.
Canis gave a small nod, then without shifting his gaze, asked again, "Are you thinking the same thing I am?"
Easton didn't answer right away. He already knew where that question was leading. He had suspected it even before Canis opened his mouth.
"If you mean... the possibility that we met her nine years ago," he said quietly, "during the Northwestern Liberation Mission... then yes. I've been thinking about that too."
Canis didn't reply. He just sat there, allowing his mind to drift, letting Lucy's voice echo back into his consciousness.
"Canis… do you know my sister's history?"
Her voice still lingered—tinged with pain, and something deeper, something held back. Lucy wasn't someone who easily opened up. If she had chosen to share those memories, it meant she wanted Canis to remember them.
And now, here he was—at a crossroads between memory and reality, replaying a story that might not only change how he saw Shina… but perhaps, how he saw himself.
...
The night wind brushed gently against the hospital curtains, fluttering them softly through the half-open window. Inside room number seven, Shina Mariposa sat quietly atop the white hospital bed. Her back leaned against the pillow, knees drawn close to her chest, eyes distant as they stared out the fogged-up glass. The city had fallen into slumber, but her mind had not. The ghosts of her past flitted through her thoughts like spirits refusing to rest.
The moon hung pale in the sky, and in that silence, Shina asked herself... had everything truly been left behind? Or had she merely wandered in circles, trapped inside a loop of old wounds?
And then the memory came...
---
Twenty Years Ago
Vantoska Village, Northwestern Empire
Red earth clung to her small feet with every step she took. The metal bucket she carried was almost as tall as she was, yet little Shina Mariposa never complained. She walked slowly down the village path, which had never known the feel of stone or pavement—only dirt that froze in winter and turned to mud with the rain.
Wooden houses leaned unevenly on either side, their rooftops eternally leaking. Yet the people—though poor—wore smiles like blessings. An old woman waved at her from a crooked window.
"Shina! Don't spill the water again, okay?" she called out, followed by a small laugh.
Shina grinned wide in return. "Not today, Granny!"
Her steps continued, accompanied by warm greetings from the villagers. She was the kind of child everyone adored—not only because of her cuteness, but because she could always find laughter in a world that was falling apart.
Vantoska was like a tiny oasis in the middle of a burning field. Conflict and chaos raged across the Northwestern Empire, but somehow, this village remained untouched. As if the world had forgotten there was still life here. And for children like Shina, that was enough to believe that maybe—just maybe—this place could be home forever.
But peace never lasts.
Not even Shina would know that Three years after that day, their peace would be stolen—not with fire, not with blades or bullets, but with columns of armed men who came not to destroy… but to choose.
And so began the end.
{Chapter 41 end}