Aillen Grandel still remembers the day she first saw a train.

Its blunt, unstoppable nose charged in from afar like a gigantic beast from a storybook.

For Aillen, who had never heard a louder sound than her father’s snoring, the train’s roar was the opening note of destruction, cracking open an entirely new world.

“Wow…”

Young Aillen stood rooted to the spot, unable to think about pulling her hand free from her mother’s grasp to cover her ears. Instead, she surrendered her entire body to the overwhelming noise. Her eyes were fixed on the torrent of people pouring out of the train — she could not look away.

It had been well over a month since the railway had begun operating. For some, the sight was no longer anything special, but for Aillen it was entirely new.

Watching her child’s bright green eyes flit eagerly from one place to another, Aillen’s mother, Morris, smiled.

Amid the shrill whistle of the train, the clatter of footsteps, and the growing murmur of voices, Aillen could not hear her mother’s laughter. But she could feel the gentle tremor in the hand she was holding and knew that Morris was smiling.

‘Do you like it?’

Reading her mother’s lips, Aileen nodded. She tiptoed up to her mother, then settled back down again, smiling in return. As if to show just how happy she was, she swayed her body even more energetically than her mother did.

Perhaps it was from that very moment.

From that moment on, Aillen began to long to leave Titt Village, where her family had lived for generations, and to go somewhere far away — somewhere she could not yet imagine.

She loved Titt’s gentle winters, the heavy scent of grass in the summers and the clear skies of her hometown. Yet her desire to journey far beyond it existed apart from that love.

The soul of an adventurer — the same one that had once roamed the village’s small forest armed with nothing but a wooden stick — urged her onward, calling her to go farther still.

Yes, that tremor she had felt back then must have remained curled up somewhere deep inside her. And that was why, years later, she accepted the proposal without hesitation and boarded the train bound for the north.

***

According to the map, the village’s official name was Titlata. Yet the villagers, as well as the merchants who regularly visited, simply called it Titt.

No one knew where the name came from or who had first started using it. As with many things that had existed for a long time, its origin was unclear. Nevertheless, Aillen had always felt that the name had a certain warmth to it.

Titt lay on the outskirts of the Mogin Forest, roughly midway between the vast Ibilen Coast to the south and the metropolis of Whislen even further south.

Due to its awkward location, it had never grown into a large village. However, the atmosphere of Titt changed completely when a railway was constructed across the massive Gillen Mountain Range, which had once been the great divide between the southern and northern regions.

Nearly ten years had passed since tourists from the north had started travelling south in ever-growing numbers, drawn by the area’s beauty and mild climate.

Ailen was eleven when she first saw the train, her hand clasped in her mother’s. Twelve years had passed since that day.

In other words, more than twelve years had passed since Titt’s once inconvenient location had become its greatest advantage.

Travelling by rail from the northern metropolis of Rinamoth to the southern capital, Whislen, took around ten days. Reaching the famous Ibilen Coast from Whislen took another full day.

This is precisely why staying in Titt, which was midway along the route, enabled travelers to enjoy both destinations within a reasonable timeframe. The people of the north were accustomed to fast-paced lives and had little patience for spending long days on the road. So it was only natural that Titt’s commercial district flourished under the influence of tourists seeking the greatest reward for the least time spent.

Moreover, many visitors to Titt returned whenever they visited the south again. They said that there was something about the village’s quiet, unpretentious scenery that stayed with you.

Ailen grew up surrounded by people who marveled at what had always seemed ordinary to her.

Her family ran an inn.

***

The Grandel Inn was a family business that had been passed down through Aillen’s maternal line for generations.

Aillen had no idea how it had survived before tourism flourished. Back then, it was the only inn in the village, so anyone passing through Titford would have had no choice but to stay there sooner or later.

Now, of course, the streets were lined with inns, standing in neat rows like trees along a road.

Nevertheless, Aileen’s mother was so proud of the inn that she insisted her husband take the Grandel surname.

Even now, Aileen thought her mother had been absolutely right. Her father’s original surname before marriage was… well, she would rather not say. He was probably wiping away tears in some corner.

Aside from expanding the building to three storeys when Aillen was around seventeen, to keep up with the times, and repainting the old, flaking walls, the inn itself had changed very little.

“Aillen! Come give us a hand!”

“I’m coming!”

Aillen quickly gathered the laundry and ran back to the inn.

From a young age, she would go straight home from school, climb the inn’s stairs and help her parents without complaint. The first floor was used as both a restaurant and guest accommodation, and there was always a shortage of staff.

She never minded much. Meeting strangers and exchanging stories was something she had always enjoyed.

If she had one complaint, it was the sleeping arrangements.

During the summer off-season, she stayed in an empty room on the second floor with her twin siblings, who were seven years younger. But during the peak seasons — the rest of the year — the entire family would squeeze into a small cabin attached to the inn.

In summer, that same cabin was used as a storage shed.

Aillen often thought it would be nice if they could use it as their home year-round. However, due to frequent plumbing issues and mould spreading throughout the walls, the cabin would need to be torn down and rebuilt from the ground up. So, she kept those thoughts to herself.

This meant it would have to be rebuilt entirely. For this reason, she never voiced the idea aloud.

The cabin itself was not so bad. It was barely large enough to be called a room, but there was a warmth that could only be felt when the whole family lay close together, bodies pressed side by side, drifting off to sleep.

The quiet conversations she had with her family at her bedside often moved her to tears. And yet, at the same time, she found herself longing for her own room.

Her own room.

Not one that she only used during the summer and had to share with her siblings, but a space that belonged to her alone.

A place where she could neatly arrange her few clothes and books instead of constantly packing and unpacking them. A place where she could decorate the walls with wildflowers that she had picked herself.

Perhaps it was that yearning, growing layer by layer as she did, that pushed her forward.

Urging her to leave the beautiful village where she had spent her entire life and carve out a place that was hers alone.

The man from the north seemed like someone who could provide that for her.

Foolishly.

When Aillen saw his hand extended towards her, she knew that taking it would open a new chapter in her life.

That in itself was an adventure.

Aillen had always wanted adventure.

If she had realized sooner that what she truly desired was a place of her own rather than adventure, she would have chosen to save her money and live independently instead of accepting his proposal.

However, regret always arrives too late.

“Ah…”

Her vision flickered violently, like a lamp dimming at dusk due to a lack of fuel. Aillen blinked her blurred eyes, struggling to cling to consciousness. However, her thoughts slipped away, scattering like dust through her fingers.

As sensation faded from her body like a retreating tide, she felt something lukewarm trail down her forehead. She thought she heard voices — murmuring and distant.

Then, slowly, as though someone were turning off a light, all feeling disappeared.

As thick darkness poured into the empty space it left behind, Ailen thought—

‘Ah. So this is what it feels like to die.’

***

Aillen first met the man on a Friday.

As was customary, a small gathering of the inn’s guests was held that evening. To call it a party would perhaps be an exaggeration. At best, the tables were pushed against the walls, an impromptu dance was held in the middle of the room, and music was played. Everyone enjoyed traditional liquor and simple side dishes.

Without intending to, Aillen often found herself at the center of it all. This was probably because she danced with too much enthusiasm.

Once she had tasted the inn’s traditional liquor, which was bitter on the tongue yet left a faint sweetness behind, and heard the lively sound of trombones filling the air, she could not keep still. She kicked off the floor, stepped and spun again and again until she came to her senses, only to realize that she had collapsed onto the floor, laughing uncontrollably.

That day was no different from any other.

The man wore a plain, dark, unpatterned suit and had his hair neatly slicked back, giving him an air of cleanliness and propriety. His clothing and manner of speech made it obvious at first glance that he was from the north, a fact that no longer stirred much excitement among the locals.

Nevertheless, he was undeniably handsome, drawing quiet, lingering glances. He seemed accustomed to such attention. Although eyes were on him, he remained composed, clearly accustomed to giving orders and being waited on.

Some whispered shyly that this, too, was part of his charm. But Ailen felt nothing of the sort. To her, he was just another traveler from the north.

“No, Aillen, listen. It’s not just that. Apparently, he’s from a fairly wealthy family. Something about running a large general goods store in the north.”

“Miriam, you actually believe those rumors?”

“This one’s probably true. Aunt Monica told me herself. You know—what was it? They say there are several shops in the north named after that man’s family.”

“Oh my. Sure, sure. Now go do some work. Or help me fold these towels.”

“Hm, now that you mention it, I think I should go peel onions. See you later.”

Her mischievous friend, Miriam, who was the same age as her, scrunched her eyes playfully and slipped away. Aileen let out a small, deflated laugh.

Aunt Monica was not originally from the village, but she often stayed there. As a mid-level merchant who travelled between the north and south, she knew lots of rumors, and because her information was usually reliable, people would casually ask her whenever they were curious about something.

Afternoon sunlight poured through the thin linen curtains. Squinting slightly, Aillen carefully folded the stack of towels laid out before her.

In the middle of it, a clear chime rang from the counter. Acting on instinct, Aillen rose to her feet and hurried into the hall.

He was a man who never lingered long at any single inn, drifting from one to the next while quietly drawing attention wherever he went. She had often wondered why someone like that would bother with such an inconvenience.

His arrival at her family’s inn was nothing out of the ordinary — just another ordinary afternoon, no different from any other.