The storm was intensifying again. The sound of raindrops striking the windows of Café Grimoire was far too violent to be called mere "rain noise." The glass trembled under the relentless percussion, and the world outside had turned not dark but white. Rain and wind, merged into one, filled everything. Natsuki had his foot on the staircase leading to the second floor. His right hand touched the railing. That was the moment. A dull, heavy impact sound came from below. From deep within the bookshelf. Something striking the wall. Natsuki's feet stopped. The next instant, the pendant at his neck grew warm. Not the faint warmth he'd felt the previous night, but a clear heat now. Not a gradual seeping, but a forceful push from the center of his palm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound came again. Not rhythmic, but desperate. Something was striking the same spot over and over. Natsuki descended the stairs. He rounded the counter and stood before the bookshelf. Green light leaked from the gap in the door. The usual color. But tonight its intensity was different. It flickered like living light, as if someone inside were holding a lamp. Thud. Again. This time the door itself creaked slightly. Natsuki's hand reached for the edge of the bookshelf. He pulled. Wood groaned. The bookshelf slid slowly, revealing the locked door—the one his father had said "never open," with its brass lock carved with leaf designs. But. The pendant pulsed again. Thump, thump. And the lock—without Natsuki doing anything—clicked open with a sound. He hadn't "opened" it. He had been "opened to." The door swung open forcefully from within. Green light struck Natsuki's face. His eyes dazzled. For a moment, his vision went white. And the next instant—something tumbled onto the café floor. A small something lay stretched across the floor. Natsuki dropped to his knees. His body moved before words could form. Before him was a being no more than forty centimeters tall. Long hair the color of pale jade spread across the floor, complete with small flower ornaments. Golden eyes were closed, long lashes resting on porcelain-white cheeks smudged with fine soot. The being wore a thin green garment, woven from plant fibers with care, but it bore scorch marks and dark stains throughout. And—wings on the back. Deep green, with the texture of moss, shaped like bark transformed into wings. The left half was more than half burned. Natsuki didn't know it was a burn from miasma. But he could see the charred edges of the wing darkened to black, and redness spreading across the surrounding skin. "—" Natsuki drew in a sharp breath. Several thoughts raced through his mind simultaneously. There's a fairy. She's injured. She needs treatment. Those three things were Natsuki's entire world in that moment. *** He hurried to the kitchen and returned with clean gauze. He dampened it and wrung it out. He also pulled out the first aid kit. But as he opened the box, Natsuki immediately noticed a problem. The bandages were too big. Every single one was too large. Even the smallest size was wider than this child's palm. He'd end up wrapping her entire arm. "...Yeah, this won't work." Natsuki muttered to himself and returned the bandages to the box. Instead, he decided to use only cotton and thin gauze. He gently wiped the area around the base of the burned wing with dampened gauze. Black soot came away bit by bit. Then came a small groan. Golden eyes slowly opened. Unfocused, they looked at the ceiling. Then at Natsuki. And— Snap. A small hand moved swiftly toward the ivy plant by the window. Natsuki didn't understand that she was using plant resonance—an ability of moss-winged fairies to assess the condition of trees by touching them, or to send certain commands—but he saw the ivy move. The vine's tip lifted, reaching toward Natsuki's arm, then— It wilted. The half-extended vine hung limp, barely managing to brush Natsuki's wrist with almost no strength. Silence. The small being stared at the ivy with a serious expression. Her small brow furrowed as she continued sending her will. Natsuki stood motionless beside her, gauze still in hand. The vine slipped from his wrist and fell. Natsuki looked at the pot. The soil was completely dry. "I didn't water it. Sorry." He murmured an apology toward the ivy. All strength drained from the small being. She slumped to the floor as if her body had simply given out. It wasn't that the light left her eyes—it was that her will to fight had simply broken. Natsuki could see it clearly: all strength draining from her shoulders. Natsuki began moving the gauze again. This time, no one stopped him. *** By the time he finished wiping the burned portions of her wing, the small being was looking up at Natsuki from where he leaned against the counter. Her golden eyes still trembled faintly. Her exhausted body was trying to maintain vigilance, and that tension showed in her expression. Natsuki set down the gauze and headed to the kitchen. His hands moved of their own accord, pulling out chamomile. He added mint. In the back of the shelf, in a small cabinet he rarely used, sat a small amber-colored bottle. He'd never checked what was inside before. Tonight, his fingertips merely grazed it before he gently withdrew. He lit the kettle. The sound of water heating filled the quiet shop. Mixed with the storm's rain, it created a strangely calming space. A regular cup would be too large. After a moment's thought, Natsuki retrieved the smallest espresso cup from the shelf where he kept prototypes. He poured the hot water. The sweet scent of chamomile rose up. The steam seemed to shimmer faintly golden. Natsuki's hands paused for a moment when he saw it. Perhaps it was the angle of the fluorescent light. When he looked again, it was just white steam. He placed the cup on a saucer, set it on the counter, and crouched down so the cup and the small being were at the same height. "Can you drink this?" The small being looked at the cup. Then at Natsuki. There was a pause. Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the cup. The moment her lips touched it, tears spilled from her golden eyes. It wasn't gratitude. Natsuki understood that too. These were the tears of something finally loosening after being held taut for so long. As if everything that had been wound tight was dissolving along with the warm liquid—just tears like that. Natsuki said nothing. He stopped moving and simply watched her tears. Something stirred deep in his chest, but he didn't try to name it. *** She wiped the tears away with the back of her small hand and looked up. "...Moss-Light Village is fading." Her voice was thin, with fragments of broken speech. She was exhausted. But the meaning reached Natsuki completely. Natsuki was beginning to realize something: he could understand this being's words even though she wasn't speaking his language. He had no explanation for how he could comprehend her. But he did—completely, down to every detail. He had no answer for this mystery, and he had no desire to pursue it now. "Moss-Light Village—is that your home?" The being's eyes trembled, and she nodded. Natsuki still didn't know her name. "The village of the moss-winged fairies—my people. A village that has always existed deep within the Verdant Abyss Forest." Verdant Abyss Forest—Natsuki understood this to be the name of the vast primordial forest that spread across the center of the Verde Nova continent. He didn't know how he knew this. "What happened?" His question was brief, matching her pace of speech. Lily's throat moved slightly. Her eyes wavered not as if she were choosing words, but as if she didn't know where to begin. "A great tree...rotted away in a single night." Those words changed the air. "The great tree on the south side of the village turned completely black when we woke. The trunk, the roots, the branches—all of it. The ground was stained black too, and Elder Mouche who approached it began coughing and couldn't move. When I touched it, my wings..." Her words trailed off. Natsuki leaned against the counter and simply listened. He didn't interject with questions or encouragement. Lily's voice was fragmented, sometimes broken, pausing once before continuing. "The Elder said a nameless monster had come. A creature from deep within the old forest, with no name—a black mist-like being that absorbs normal magic. It came once three years ago, and half the neighboring settlement disappeared. This time, it's bigger." "So the Elder stopped you from seeking help." Lily's expression shifted slightly. Not surprise at being seen through, but a faint relief at being understood precisely. "The moss-winged fairies...do not mingle with other races. That is our law. We're not even part of the Twelve-Branch Alliance—the loose confederation of the twelve settlements of Verde Nova—and seeking outside help would break our law. Elder Mouche said that protecting ourselves is what makes us who we are." Lily's eyes trembled for just a moment. In that tremor, Natsuki understood how heavy a decision it had been. "Yet you came anyway." "—Yes." A short answer. But in that single word lay all the time it had taken to get here. "Don't you laugh? That a fairy would beg help from a human?" Her voice sounded more like confirmation than a question. Perhaps she'd received such reactions before, or perhaps she'd anticipated them. Her straightforward golden eyes looked at Natsuki. Natsuki paused for a moment. "I don't see anything to laugh at." He said only that. Nothing extra. Lily relaxed slightly again. Not a release of tension, but as if she'd felt for the first time that it was all right to be here. A quiet change. Between them, "equality" was born for the first time. *** When the conversation had settled somewhat, Natsuki stood up. "Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry." He opened the refrigerator door. Lily walked toward it. The moment the door opened, a cool breeze wafted out. Lily's feet stopped dead. "...What curse is this?" She took a step back, speaking with complete seriousness. Natsuki held the refrigerator door and paused for a beat. "It keeps food cold." "Why make it cold?" "So it doesn't rot." Lily tilted her head slightly. "If you eat it before it rots, wouldn't that solve the problem?" Natsuki was silent for a second. "...That's fair." He closed the refrigerator. Instead, he opened the tin of cookies sitting on the counter—the ones the old man Hanaoka had left as a gift today, the kind that kept at room temperature—and placed it in front of Lily. She picked one up and bit into it. Her eyes widened. Her hand reached for another. Natsuki said nothing. *** After a while, Lily straightened her posture. Her wings still couldn't move more than halfway. Her body still bore injuries. But her spine straightened with proper bearing. Holding the espresso cup in both hands, she quietly extended it toward Natsuki. The cup held no remaining liquid. Yet the gesture itself held the form of "offering." "It's called the Guest's Cup ritual." "In Verde Nova, offering a drink to a visitor shows you mean no harm. Refusing the drink is tantamount to a declaration of war, and accepting it is a vow to accept the other. I accepted your cup tonight. So I offer it back to you—will you listen to my wish?" Natsuki looked at that cup. He noticed her small hands were trembling. Not from tension, but from exhaustion. The strength she'd had to cross the barrier and reach here was nearly spent. Yet she'd straightened her posture to make this gesture. "Then I'll brew another cup properly." As he headed to the kitchen, Natsuki didn't yet fully understand what those words meant for him. He said them as if it were simply a matter of brewing another cup of tea. But Lily's expression changed as she received those words. Something deep withi