The last manifestation

As the conversation ended, the old man reminded them to eat before the food cooled, even though steam still rose from the plates, rich with inviting aroma. Ace lifted his first spoonful—rice and stew—and the moment its flavor touched his tongue, his expression changed. Delight lit up his face, his eyes twinkled as if the taste had awakened a memory—of a meal once prepared with love long ago. He smiled and slowly nodded, expressing his admiration, though words couldn't capture the feeling that swept through him.

To the old couple, Ace's compliments were like a sweet melody, played upon the strings of their hearts. Their faces glowed with satisfaction, and they exchanged a look—one filled with joy, a silent language of shared happiness. They didn't speak, but their eyes said it all.

After some time had passed and the clinking of dishes being washed had faded, Ace, who had helped the grandparents clean up, asked for permission to step outside for a stroll. The grandmother reminded him to be cautious, and the old man gave him a look that conveyed the same message. As he opened the door, he was met by the scent of damp earth — a fragrance that deepens the experience of nighttime.

He moved forward, taking in the sight of the small garden stretching alongside the house. Then he headed to the backyard, where an even more splendid view awaited: flowers shimmering in the dark with vibrant colors, unlike any he had ever seen. Amidst that beauty, he soon noticed the young boy sitting silently, gazing at the stars, as if whispering to them in a conversation only he could hear.

Beside the boy was a small oil lantern, its flame dancing with every breeze. On the other side was an empty plate, spotless and clean, as if the boy had made sure not to leave a single crumb — a quiet gesture of gratitude for the meal.

He sat hugging his knees, arms wrapped tightly around them, his wide blue eyes reflecting the stars. His face was slightly pale, but it still bore the mark of pure innocence. His gaze was strange, as though trying to embrace the entire sky, to comprehend the vast number of stars, or perhaps to find something lost among them — something only a pair of wandering eyes like his could hope to see.

Ace approached him quietly, his steps making only the faintest sound. With each step, the lantern's glow briefly lit his face before returning him to the shadows. When his eyes fell on the lantern, which resembled one he used to own, he was suddenly filled with nostalgia. He remembered the torches that once lit the nights before they were swallowed by modern electric lights. The scene before him felt like a portal to a distant time, when life was simpler and dim lights carried a warmth that electricity could never replace.

As he drew close enough to be noticed, the boy's expression shifted to one of cautious discomfort. In a quick motion, the child raised his small hands — one reaching for the lantern and the other for the empty plate — preparing to take them inside before any words could be exchanged. It was an instinctive reaction, as though the boy feared Ace's presence might disrupt the silent solitude he had retreated to. But Ace saw more in that gesture than the boy intended to show.

He stopped a short distance away, careful not to make the child feel intruded upon. Yet, he couldn't ignore the sense growing within him — the sense that the boy needed help. He raised his hand in a calming gesture, like smoothing troubled waters, and spoke in a soft voice that mingled with the gentle hush of the night:

"Wait a moment, Nova. I'd like to talk with you."

Despite the friendly tone, the boy showed no interest. He stepped away quickly, heading toward the back door, but stopped abruptly when Ace's voice rang out again — firmer this time, carrying a weight unlike before:

"How long do you plan to stay like this?"

The boy froze. His hands were already cold, but the chill of that question seeped into his bones. His face reflected confusion, and his fingers stiffened before he slowly turned around. His wide eyes mirrored a mix of panic and surprise. He spoke, his voice faint, uncertain, and trembling:

"W-What do you mean?"

Ace stepped forward and replied:

"How long do you plan to keep hiding in this little world of yours?"

Silence filled the space between them. It was not empty, but charged with the invisible tide of thoughts crashing in the boy's mind. He tried to mask his discomfort but failed. A slight furrow formed on his forehead as he turned away and responded in a sharp, almost stern voice — though it was merely a failed attempt to suppress his trembling:

"I d-don't understand what you're saying, sir… Excuse me, I'd like to go inside now."

He placed the plate on the ground and reached for the cold door handle in haste. But before he could turn it, Ace's voice came again — gentler this time, yet carrying an unfamiliar warmth, as if his words touched the soul more than the ears:

"I completely understand how you feel — safe inside the space you've built for yourself. But that feeling won't last forever. One day, you'll find yourself trapped within it, and the world you fear today will be the very one you'll need tomorrow. You may think this retreat is harmless, but it won't remain so. Over time, you'll find your steps are no longer your own, and the solitude you once saw as refuge will become a chain that binds you."

Then Ace walked over to sit where the boy had been. He gently patted the cold wood beside him, inviting the child to sit. The boy sighed, hesitant, but something in Ace's eyes convinced him to take the first step toward him. He didn't sit too close, but he sat down nonetheless, his face still marked by irritation and resistance.

Ace began to speak. A door to his memories opened, and he recalled a time filled with longing and fear — his early childhood, when he lived in a constant state of hesitation and anxiety. His world was surrounded by trees, shielding him from the outside. Yet, despite the beauty of nature, he felt a wall of dread whenever he thought about venturing into the nearby village.

It wasn't the stern faces of adults or their piercing stares that troubled him, but even the children — those of his age — seemed out of reach. They spoke confidently, moved freely, their laughter echoing in the air, while he always watched from a distance, a shadow behind the veil of shyness.

Despite his fear of social interaction, there was always a flicker of light inside him — a glow that came from his mother's embrace. Her words, her hugs, even her gaze, were filled with warmth that dispelled his fears. She gently encouraged him, nudging him to cross the borders of his anxiety and explore the world beyond the forest he called home. Thanks to her support, he dared, at last, to take his first trembling step into the village.

His first visit was like entering another world. Everything was strange, lively, and unfamiliar. The houses were built from wood with slanted roofs and polished walls. Open windows looked out over dusty streets. There was no sign of the moist earth or the grass he used to run through. The air was thinner, tinged with an odd sharpness, and the sunlight poured forcefully into every corner — except the alleys, where he wandered, away from prying eyes.

People moved swiftly in every direction, speaking a language he couldn't understand. It flowed from their mouths with ease, but to him, it was just a jumble of sounds. Their laughter mingled with calls, and their brightly colored clothes made him feel like he stood before a living painting — one he was not a part of, just a quiet observer hiding in its shadows.

His eyes scanned the faces around him, and he felt like an intruder, a stranger in a world not his own. A part of him longed to return, to run back to the warmth of the forest, to his home, where his mother waited with gentle eyes and a soft smile.