Lacius was truly mature. You could tell what being a grown-up meant by looking at him. While I still had some immaturity, indecisiveness, and a childish heart, he had been consistently mature from the start until now.
‘A man who makes you happy and makes you laugh. There are plenty of such ideal types in the world… but… I guess I prefer…’
A man you can trust. A man you can depend on. A man who will never leave your side, even in the most dangerous, painful, and difficult situations. That was the ideal type I dreamed of and hoped for.
Perhaps that’s why my lips opened. Without revealing that I was a transmigrator, I wanted to share my story and listen to Lacius’. Past experiences shape who we are today, and I wanted to treasure the stories of someone important.
“We don’t know each other very well yet.”
“Yeah.”
“I will tell you my story; can you tell me yours?”
I think this should have happened before we went to bed, but oh well.
I lay down comfortably, adjusting the strands of hair tickling my back. Lacius, facing me, began to speak.
“I don’t have much to tell about my family history.”
“Why?”
“It was a common arranged marriage, and the household was just an ordinary one you’d find in any arranged marriage.”
Is that it? I couldn’t hide my disappointment, but Lacius, with a smile that seemed to say, “I know, right?” shrugged it off.
“My mother was strict and my father was kind. But there was no love between the two of them, and I too grew up not knowing what love was.”
“Hmm.”
“Then they died one after another. My father even looked happy when he handed over the dukedom and his title. That’s all.”
No, sir. I want to hear a deeper story.
But it seemed like Lacius didn’t want to talk about his past. Instead, he seemed more interested in my life. Lacius leaned closer to my ear and asked:
“I want to hear your story; if you remember anything, tell it all. Do not leave anything out.”
“What? That’s not fair.”
“I do not know anything about your past, and I want to know.”
Hmm. I suppose I should start with my story. Lacius was not the type to talk much about himself. It would be better to give him some space to open up after sharing my story.
“My mother was a wonderful person.
Eventually, I opened my mouth.
“If there was a war, she would rush there to document and report on it.”
“A war recorder?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
To be precise, a war photojournalist.
My mom understood the horrors of war, captured the gruesome reality through photographs, and sent them to National Geographic, various government agencies, and citizen groups. It was a dangerous job, but my mother did it with a sense of duty, responsibility, and purpose.
She was willing to die on the battlefield if it meant achieving her dream and taking on new challenges. She received numerous awards for her photography, but she never cared about them.
“When I was very young, I was genuinely happy. Even though my mom couldn’t stay at home for long, when she was there, she taught me all sorts of languages.”
“She seems very smart.”
“She is, she could speak more than twenty languages, including dying languages; I learned seventeen, some as simple as ‘bathroom’ and ’emergency!’ but still.”
I chuckled softly, remembering my childhood.
And at such a young age, having a mother who could say ‘I love you’ in over twenty different languages must have been impressive and amazing. Moreover, my mom would sit me on her lap and repeatedly tell me to live life boldly, just like she did. If you have a path you believe in, leave for it whenever you want. Mom hoped I would grow into that type of person.
When she first announced her desire to become a war photojournalist, she faced strong opposition. My grandmother and grandfather criticized her and threatened to disown her, but my mother refused to give up. She had never regretted dedicating her entire youth to the battlefield. Saving people in the aftermath of war was her calling, and she did so fearlessly.
Of course, my grandparents must have been extremely worried. Nonetheless, it did not imply bending one’s knees and giving up on one’s dream. That’s what my mom told me.
‘That is why I was able to live so comfortably here.’
I smiled as I thought about my mother, whom I miss. Lacius posed the next question, possibly out of curiosity.
“May I ask what your father did?”
“He saved people; it is similar to a knight, but different.”
My dad was a firefighter. The reason it is in the past tense is that my father eventually died. He sustained burns while rescuing people. But instead of crying, I smiled confidently as I recounted my parents’ story.
Both of them were people I was extremely proud of and respected. Being born to respectable parents is something to hold your head high, not something to feel unfortunate about. I thought so, and I grew up believing that.
“So, well… I was born to such parents. I have been good at drawing since I was a child. I have been told many times that I should become a painter because of my talent.”
“Even looking at your current skill, it appears that you were quite talented..”
Fine art costs a lot of money. It was impossible to do without funds at home. But how do you know about that at such a young age? My cram school teacher told me that my talent was wasted and that I should just become a painter instead. That is what I thought.
I don’t even know how much debt we have. Naturally, the shadow of unhappiness was slowly creeping in.
“One day, when I was around 13, my mother went to a dangerous area where many children and women were kidnapped…”
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