Silver Haired Maiden

After savoring the last bite of the exquisite pasta, Tristan watched as Kenway descended the stairs to close up his boutique. Once the shop was secured, he returned upstairs, his expression unreadable.

He gestured for Tristan to sit beside him on the couch, positioned near the wall adjacent to his bedroom door. Tristan hesitated before complying, leaving a noticeable gap between them—a silent testament to his guarded nature. Kenway, perceptive as ever, took note of the young man's wariness.

"I understand," he said after a brief silence. "It's been quite some time since you've last been to the Middle District, hasn't it?" His voice held a knowing tone.

The lazy man—though now inhabiting the body of the boy known as Tristan Merigold—had no recollection of when he had last been in this place. So, he remained silent.

Kenway studied him for a moment before continuing. "I hardly recognized you at first. You've grown so much."

The lazy man within Tristan resisted the urge to speak. One wrong word could unravel everything, exposing him as an imposter. Sensing the boy's reluctance, Kenway let out a soft chuckle before rising from the couch. He walked to his room, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips. As he disappeared behind the door, Tristan let out a long, relieved sigh.

I need to learn more about Tristan Merigold, he thought, staring at the ceiling. These memories come in fragments, but it's not enough. Still, I can assume that Kenway doesn't know much about him either.

Despite his confusion, Tristan found himself enjoying this new life. He had a roof over his head, warm food in his stomach, and—at least for now—someone who cared for him. But even as he acknowledged these blessings, his wariness remained. He trusted no one, and Albert Kenway was no exception.

He considered ways to repay the man's kindness, but before any idea could form, exhaustion overtook him. His eyelids grew heavy, and within moments, he succumbed to sleep.

Hours later, Tristan was jolted awake by the sound of voices. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, wiped the haze from his vision, and made his way downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he saw Kenway engaged in an intense conversation with two men. One was a police officer, his uniform crisp and expression unreadable. The other was an elderly gentleman clad in an elegant black suit, a cane gripped firmly in his weathered hand.

Though Tristan could only see Kenway's back, he could tell the tailor was distressed. The old man, his face lined with deep furrows of displeasure, waved his cane animatedly as he spoke. The officer, however, merely observed, his expression stoic as he listened to the heated exchange.

When their conversation ended, the officer murmured something to Kenway before both men turned and left.

Kenway ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp absentmindedly before gripping his locks in frustration. The sight was unfamiliar—this was the first time Tristan had seen the man appear so troubled.

Slowly, Tristan approached him. "What happened?"

At the sound of his voice, Kenway turned, his features quickly rearranging into a forced smile.

"Nothing. Just a few visitors," he replied lightly.

Tristan clicked his tongue, unimpressed by the blatant lie. "Don't insult me," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "I saw everything. You don't have to pretend."

Kenway's false expression crumbled, replaced by weary resignation.

"It's just… some rent issues," he admitted with a sigh.

Tristan eyed him for a moment, then simply nodded. "Alright."

Kenway blinked, surprised by his lack of further questioning. But a small, almost amused smile tugged at his lips.

Shrugging off the moment, he turned his attention to opening the boutique for the day. Meanwhile, Tristan hesitated before heading back upstairs, remembering his earlier thought.

"Mr. Kenway," he called.

Kenway glanced up from his work.

"Is there a library nearby?"

The older man nodded. "Yes. Take a left when you leave, cross the road, then turn right. Keep going straight for two blocks—you'll find it there."

"Thanks," Tristan said before continuing up to the apartment.

After freshening up, he realized he had no proper clothing for venturing outside. Just as he was about to lament this fact, a knock came from the other side of the bathroom door.

"I'm leaving an outfit for you to wear when you come out," Kenway's voice announced.

Tristan stared at the door, brows furrowed. Does this guy read minds or something?

"Okay, thanks!" he called back.

Once dressed, he turned to the full-length mirror near the couch to inspect himself. What he saw left him momentarily speechless.

It wasn't just an outfit—it was a statement.

A dark grey shirt beneath a long black coat that brushed against his knees, tailored black trousers, and polished dark brown oxfords. The ensemble radiated elegance and refinement, a stark contrast to his previous, tattered appearance.

"This is… nice," he murmured, a small, almost foreign smile tugging at his lips.

Downstairs, the boutique buzzed with the chatter of customers. But the moment Tristan stepped onto the showroom floor, the air shifted. Conversations halted. Eyes turned.

Women browsing through fine garments cast lingering glances his way, their interest unmistakable.

Kenway, amused by the reaction, shot him a thumbs-up. "Looking sharp."

Tristan simply nodded before stepping out onto the cobbled streets, following Kenway's directions.

After a half-hour walk, he arrived at his destination.

He tilted his head back, eyes trailing up the towering structure before him.

"This… is a library?" he muttered in disbelief.

The building resembled a grand cathedral, its architecture imposing and majestic. A wide staircase led to two colossal doors, each adorned with intricate carvings.

Ascending the steps, he pushed one of the heavy doors open and stepped inside.

Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched before him, ascending to the high ceilings. Staircases spiraled up to multiple levels, each lined with meticulously organized books. The air smelled of parchment and aged ink.

Impressive, he thought.

Though he wasn't certain what exactly he was looking for, he knew he needed information—something that would tell him where he was and the history of this place.

He approached a librarian behind a wooden desk, briefly explaining his needs. Without a word, she nodded and motioned for him to follow.

Up one flight of stairs.

Then another.

Then another.

By the time they reached the fourth floor, Tristan was struggling to catch his breath, bent over with his hands on his knees. Meanwhile, the librarian, unfazed, continued onward without pause.

What is she, a machine? he thought bitterly, forcing himself to follow.

The fourth floor housed books on the history of the nation. As she left him to his research, Tristan began scanning the shelves.

After some time, his gaze landed on a particular title: "The Great Nation of Constella."

He pulled the book from the shelf and turned to find a nearby table—only to collide with someone.

A petite figure tumbled backward, landing with an unceremonious thud.

Tristan blinked, taken aback. Before him sat a young girl with silver hair that gleamed under the dim library lights. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto his, devoid of emotion.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, extending a hand to help her up.

She accepted his hand, rising gracefully before dusting off her dress.

Then, in a quiet, expressionless voice, she said, "Amelia Green."

Tristan arched a brow. "What?"

"You asked for my name," she clarified.

A smirk played on Tristan's lips.

Interesting.