PAGE 0. Tomato Soup

To the cold and heartless Miss Aila.

I received your last letter. To think that you could convince me with such a letter, Miss Aila, you are no different from others—the kind who believe there’s no need to show respect and courtesy to those younger than themselves.

This is quite contrary to your claim that you are different from the trivial people in the village. Or perhaps you are simply indifferent enough not to show even that simple courtesy to me.

The many, supposedly sincere nights we shared were merely entertainment to you. Seeing how you thought you could resolve this whole situation, these emotions, by leaving a one-line trivial note.

But Miss Aila, that is purely your thinking.

Let me tell you clearly and kindly. It’s your misconception.

Ten days after receiving your final letter—what people typically call a notification—I nearly fell ill, groaning in pain. Of course, I didn’t actually fall ill. I have a strong constitution and haven’t caught even a cold since I was very small and fragile. You were quite pleased about that point.

Now I find this puzzling too. What difference does it make whether someone you’ve never met is bedridden and groaning, or running around mountain ridges every day?

But I’ll set aside this question. There are still many things I want to hear from you, parts you deliberately omitted.

Miss Aila, you enjoyed our correspondence.

Although it started by chance, from a very trivial curiosity, we exchanged letters for quite a long time. For someone like me who gets bored of things quickly, this was a very special thing.

Yes, special. You might find this expression too commonplace and insincere, but…… well, what does it matter now?

Since you’ve decided to cut off our relationship mercilessly, there’s nothing more to fear.

Miss Aila, there were countless opportunities.

Really, countless opportunities. Including last winter, if you had just decided to explain the situation, you could have easily told me your feelings and plans.

But you didn’t.

While confidently preparing to become a new bride outside of our letters, in them you leisurely talked only about newly made jam and your fussy sister.

While toying with me.

Does it comfort you to turn my sincerity into a momentary joke? The days I spent looking up words in the dictionary to choose the right ones, to make a good impression on you, to avoid being a ‘childish kid’ like your sister, now feel futile.

Will you click your tongue at these emotions of mine too, these serious and terrible emotions, saying I’ve fallen into ‘immature’ sentiments?

You always had a somewhat cold side. But when you asked about my well-being, especially when you recalled and asked about topics we had discussed months ago, you were quite attentive.

And I fell helplessly for that.

Thinking coldly, rationally, and logically again, you weren’t being kind, just…… good at dealing with people. With a good memory too.

So if you wanted, you could present yourself exactly as you wished to be perceived by others. What you wrote to me wasn’t your heart but your technique. To realize this only now, I can imagine how much you must have ridiculed me inside.

No, perhaps you thought I wasn’t even worth ridiculing. If I hadn’t sent this letter, I would have been a less troublesome youngster to you. But I don’t want that.

Truly, were all the stories we shared complete lies? Did you simply play along with my sincerity while acting the role of an elegant and mature woman—soon to be an adult?

The many promises we shared are torn to pieces, filling my room with tears. Does that sound like a joke?

You like people who are mature and steadfast like yourself. That’s why I tried not to act like a kid. Yes, I didn’t even use words like ‘kid’—a term exchanged like morning greetings in our village.

I always selected and arranged the most scholarly and, well, refined words I knew. I even paid attention to the spacing between sentences. Do you understand?

I never expected you to appreciate these efforts. If you hadn’t rejected me so cruelly, I would never have revealed this.

I wanted to appear as if I were naturally that kind of person, like a well-educated young master. Yes, the reason I’m exposing all these sordid inner thoughts is because I realized such efforts were completely useless.

Thanks to you, Miss Aila.

You may take pride in that. Though you, being so wise, probably wouldn’t. With your excuse, no, your one-line notification, I was reduced to a trivial plaything.

Before receiving the letter, I was a naive man rereading our past letters while waiting for your reply, but after reading it, I became a pitiful and foolish youngster.

No, perhaps you judged me from the beginning as a youngster good for playing with. Even guessing your inner thoughts is now meaningless.

Daringly, I ask one last time, Miss Aila.

What was I to you? Were all those many phrases where you comforted and encouraged me merely quotations from poems lying around in your study?

If the time we shared wasn’t just a mere facade, no, if you have even a shred of humanity in your cold heart, please answer me.

A one-line excuse cannot represent the years past. I earnestly beg you like this.

Looking at the full moon,

Your sorrowful young lover.

Your young lover.

“What is this?”

The hand turning through the densely written pages stopped at the last phrase. Skinny fingers lightly crumpled the stiff letter paper, then examined the smooth cream-colored envelope again.

To the Lady who resembles the moonlight.

Lady.

In this small two-story house, there were only two people who could be called ‘Lady.’

First, an old woman nearly seventy.

Second, the old woman’s granddaughter who had just turned sixteen.

Neither quite suited the title, but if forced to choose, the granddaughter was closer. Since it had fallen in the hallway, perhaps the grandfather had dropped it while trying to deliver it to his granddaughter.

Though she had never had any correspondence worth exchanging letters throughout her life.

In this context, the girl opened the envelope with its embarrassing description. The detailed letter contained several issues. The foremost among them…….

“Aila?”

The name of the person reading the letter was not Aila. The woman who had been carefully turning the pages of the letter frowned and muttered to herself.

“What on earth has Aila been doing?”

The sender was not properly written, but the recipient was clear.

The most beautiful woman on the island. Someone every household with unmarried children coveted. Someone who had recently held a splendid wedding and left the island as a new bride—

Asha’s sister.

As soon as the short winter ended, Aila married a man said to be among the wealthiest on the mainland. Her dress was snow-white, like pearls ground into powder, fashionable in the capital, and instead of a flower crown, her head was adorned with a crown woven with diamonds and amber.

Like a princess from a fairy tale in her splendid attire, the most beautiful woman on the island left, treading on spring flowers and white carpets beneath her feet.

And the seeds Aila had sown belatedly fell into Asha’s hands.

Asha, who had been pressing her right temple firmly, pushed up her glasses irritably and bit her lip. Although it was weather where healthy children would jump into the sea with bare bodies, Asha’s thin shoulders were wrapped in a cream-colored shawl.

Neatly written letters that seemed to be pressed hard. High-quality paper not commonly used on the island. Unusual ink that sparkled blue-green when held up to the sunlight.

Elaborate expressions and overflowing emotions.

While there were many who expressed passionate love for Aila, no one had begged for affection using such grandiose phrases.

That is, not on the island.

Romance with people whose faces had been familiar since birth lacked romantic aspects. Even pranksters who practiced serenades, captivated by beautiful looks, would bluntly ask intentions with phrases like ‘let’s walk along the sea together.’

Direct and classic.

A clichéd date phrase that any girl born and raised on the island of Iota would have heard at least once.

But the man in the letter didn’t say anything about walking along the sea together or swimming together. He didn’t list old-fashioned expressions praising Aila’s appearance either.

If anything, yes, as the man himself claimed, the letter was full of ‘carefully selected’ words. Setting aside whether those choices were appropriate, it was clearly a letter that had taken considerable effort.

Especially assuming it was written by a ‘younger’ man than a woman who had just come of age.

The girl, quickly reading the letter once more, went up the stairs with heavy steps. Her blue-green hair flowing down to her waist rippled like waves, and her labored breathing heated her pale cheeks.

A man from outside the island.

Someone with whom her sister had regularly exchanged letters.

Someone who wrote a seething letter feeling betrayed.

A fresh breeze blew into the daily routine of having to be stuck in the bedroom or study all day. Through the half-open window, she could smell the salty scent.

There was a small drawer attached under the table next to the bed, and when she pulled the bronze handle, an old pen appeared.

Taking a deep breath, Asha pulled out the nearly dried-up pen and the paper stuffed even further below.

Though not the intended recipient, having read the letter, it was only proper to send a reply. Whether the other party was her sister’s follower or a narrow-minded person who mistook himself for a ‘lover.’

In any case, she needed to speak politely.

Her dry lips formed a shallow arc. Her hand, which had been contemplating the beginning at the top of the paper, moved like a dance.