Ever since Mahina left, Merlin felt as if a piece of his heart had gone missing.
Days like these were like a cup of cheap coffee, diluted again and again with plain water, until all flavor had faded, leaving behind only a hollow, lingering emptiness.
He had lived alone for much longer than he’d ever lived with someone, yet Mahina’s absence unsettled him in ways he never expected.
Merlin once thought he was already used to being on his own.
On this land, where chaos and poverty were deeply entwined, loneliness seemed only natural.
From the moment he arrived in this world, he struggled alone, got hurt alone, licked his wounds alone, the endless years stretching out before him with no end in sight.
His previous life might have been more comfortable, materially speaking, but the loneliness remained unchanged at its core.
Coming home now, there was no one to greet him, no fragrant food laid out on the table.
Only a heavy, dead silence pressed on his chest, and the aroma of Mahina’s simple cooking had long been replaced by the familiar damp and moldy scent.
That crooked lab table was already gathering a thin layer of dust.
The little bed in the corner, carefully lined with old cloth and dry grass, still remained exactly as it was.
As if its owner had only stepped away for a while.
Yet that space seemed to have lost its warmth forever.
Mahina was special to Merlin, and even if he messed around with friends during the day, it couldn’t fill the empty space in his heart.
Merlin slowly squatted down, curling into the shadows by the entrance, his unfocused gaze landing on a random spot in the void.
On the day of their farewell, beyond the sadness, there was also worry.
Merlin knew Mahina depended on him deeply.
He began to worry if she could adapt to life on the battlefield, whether she could sleep at night, whether she’d be safe, whether those rough men would frighten her, whether she’d be sent on dangerous missions.
But now it seemed, it wasn’t just Mahina who couldn’t be without Merlin—Merlin couldn’t be without Mahina, either.
In this world, even writing paper and postage were especially expensive.
Even so, Merlin wrote to Mahina every day or two, always enclosing a new potion he’d developed.
Night Vision, Underwater Breathing, and the like. Merlin thought maybe they’d be useful on the battlefield.
Even though the postage fees pained him, he couldn’t suppress his longing.
His original plan to save money was utterly ruined; even though Merlin knew he shouldn’t go on like this, he couldn’t help himself.
Aside from the first and second letters, which received replies, the rest of the letters were like the only ray of light piercing the dim skies above the Slums, and Merlin turned them over in his hands again and again until their edges were frayed.
Mahina’s replies were always packed with words, written in the finest strokes, cramming all her longing and stories onto the limited paper.
She paid no mind to letter format, her handwriting sometimes neat, sometimes rushed, as if she had endless things to say and couldn’t wait to pour them all out.
She mentioned that, as a Magician, her treatment on the battlefield was pretty good.
Merlin could feel Mahina’s unique way of phrasing things and her careful thrift, and it warmed his heart a little.
It was proof that he was loved, and also evidence of Mahina’s frugal care for their home—or so Merlin thought.
After that, the longing he sent out was like a stone dropped into the sea, with no response at all.
From then on, every letter he sent felt like a stone cast into a bottomless ocean, never a ripple in return.
A sense of foreboding began to gnaw at Merlin day and night.
At first, he worried something might have happened to Mahina, but now and then, he’d hear rumors from the war against the Northern Barbarians of a beautiful, pink-eyed girl wielding Ice Magic and achieving frequent feats.
There was no mistaking it—that had to be Mahina.
Besides, none of his letters had been returned, which was proof enough.
Even though he didn’t know why she stopped writing back, Merlin kept sending letters at the same frequency as before.
Dropping each word-filled letter into the postbox, mailing them became a ritual in his daily life.
Even if Mahina was too busy to reply.
Clinging to the thought, “Even if she’s read and doesn’t reply, at least she’ll know how I miss her and what I’m up to,” Merlin persisted.
Yet, in those restless, sleepless nights, when the Slums fell utterly silent and loneliness and cold crept in from every crack, sharp self-doubt would drift in like a ghost.
Was he just deluding himself?
A whole year had passed—he’d written over three hundred letters, and not one had been answered.
Maybe Mahina was annoyed by him by now. Maybe she’d hit adolescence.
Maybe she thought that boy who once hugged her in the corner was just a tiny, embarrassing stain in her brilliant life.
That thought made his heart clench, as if gripped by an icy hand, the pain almost suffocating.
She’d grown up now—she probably didn’t need to rely on him anymore…
If only she’d written back, just once, Merlin wouldn’t be eating himself up like this.
Even so, he kept writing.
If Mahina really didn’t need him anymore, he’d just keep going for his own sake.
Otherwise, he might go mad with longing.
News arrived: the war with the Northern Barbarians had ended in victory for The Empire.
Merlin thought, at last—it’s finally over, finally, he’d see Mahina again.
Word was that Mahina had achieved great merit on the battlefield.
“The Pink-Eyed Ice and Snow Goddess”—that title echoed even through the Slums.
When she came back, how should he greet her?
Merlin stared at the freshly cleaned, battered glass bottles in his hands.
But misfortune never comes alone.
Soon after, a Beast Tide was triggered by a Labyrinth somewhere, and Mahina rushed to the front lines again.
Of course, he only heard about it; Merlin never saw Mahina himself.
So, as always, he sent letters to the new address he’d managed to learn.
Still, there was no reply.
It had been exactly two years since Mahina had left.
The Beast Tide ended safely.
Word spread that Mahina’s large-scale Ice Magic had turned the tide of battle, earning her the status of hero among soldiers and civilians alike.
They said that, at the brink of death, Mahina’s spell was so dazzling it seemed as if the Ice and Snow Goddess herself had descended.
They said Mahina’s magical talent was one of a kind—at only thirteen, she’d already touched the threshold of a Sixth Rank Archmage.
They said Duke Talan wanted to adopt Mahina.
They said Mahina had gone to The Capital for the Award Ceremony.
All good news, but no matter what, Merlin just couldn’t feel happy.
The war, neither long nor short, was finally over.
Merlin was twelve. Mahina was thirteen.
After the Award Ceremony, surely Mahina would come home?
Mahina, whom he’d longed for day and night, would finally come back.
It should have been a joyful thing, yet Merlin couldn’t feel even a hint of happiness.
No matter what, this ought to be his last letter.
Whether it reached The Capital didn’t matter anymore; it might as well be a diary, recording these years of longing for Mahina.
Yes, just that.
Merlin got up and walked to the flowerbed not far away.
After two years, he had finally cultivated roses as starry as the night sky.