Chapter 8: The Heir of Viridian City

Section 8: The Heir of Viridian City

The thought crosses my mind like an obvious truth.

If a shovel was left here, and if letters claim that people were buried… then I need to see it with my own eyes.

The town hall is the logical place to start.

I push open the door to the building. A bright, well-maintained hall. Behind a counter, a woman is gently tapping on a register. When she looks up at me, her smile is polite but mechanical.

"Hello, young man. How can I help you?"

I leave a brief silence, as if choosing my words carefully.

"I'd like to ask a question."

Her smile widens slightly, becoming more sincere. "Of course, I'm listening."

"I'm doing some research." I pause. "On the town's archives."

Her expression freezes imperceptibly. "The archives?"

I nod slowly.

"Yes. A friend told me a story… about an old building in Viridian. I found it intriguing."

I subtly glance at her register, as if searching for something invisible.

She instinctively follows my gaze before composing herself. "Oh… Well, it depends on the type of archives you're looking for. Some are public, others are confidential."

"I understand." I offer a light smile. "But I suppose some traces remain visible, even without digging into confidential files."

She frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"

I feign innocence.

"Places have memory. A way of telling history, even when we think it has been erased."

I see her hand stiffen on her register. She knows something.

"For example, there are always objects that withstand time."

She swallows. "You mean… documents?"

"Not necessarily." I let the doubt linger. "More discreet things, sometimes forgotten."

She averts her gaze for a fraction of a second.

A hesitation, small but sufficient.

There's something here.

I feign indifference and slightly change the subject.

"Is the mayor here?"

She blinks, as if my shift in focus unsettles her. "Oh… No, he's away. He won't be back until 2 PM."

I nod slowly.

"I see. He must be a very busy man."

She gives a more natural smile this time. "Yes, he is."

"Has he held this position for a long time?"

Her gaze hardens slightly. "For several years. It's… a family tradition."

I pretend not to notice her tone.

"An inheritance, then?"

She nods, visibly uncomfortable. "You could say that."

Her eyes briefly flick towards a door at the back of the hall.

I have what I wanted.

"I'll come back later, then."

She nods politely as I exit the building.

I have a direction. Now I need someone who knows the history better.

The old man.

---

I stand before the small house of the old man I helped against the Spearows.

A few knocks on the door.

"Come in."

The scent of aged wood and tea lingers in the air as I step inside.

The old man greets me with a sincere smile. "Ah, you're back. Good to see you again, boy."

I nod slightly. "You too."

I sit down, taking my time. No rush.

I let the air settle between us before speaking.

"I met someone earlier."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

I nod.

"He was talking about the past. About how things change, or rather… don't change."

I see his fingers tighten slightly around his cup.

"You think things don't change?"

I shrug lightly. "I'd say they shift instead."

A silence. He understands.

His gaze sharpens as he looks at me.

"There are things that remain unspoken, even after generations."

I pretend to reflect.

"Because people don't want to say them, or because they can't?"

He smiles without answering.

"There are places where history is carved into the walls."

He nods slowly. "That's true."

"And places where it's buried instead."

He stares at me. I've struck a chord.

He takes a slow breath.

"Some inheritances are worth nothing but silence."

I lean back against my chair.

"And yet, they continue."

"Because no one stops them."

He lowers his eyes slightly, lost in thought.

I let the silence hang, then I drop a sentence, almost whispering:

"Maybe because no one looks at them directly."

I sense him tense slightly.

I follow up, with a detached tone:

"I've always felt that some places remember better than people do."

He nods slowly.

"Some places, yes."

A silence. Then I straighten up slightly, as if a thought has just occurred to me.

"You still enjoy walking, don't you?"

He looks at me, surprised by the shift in topic. "Depends on the day."

I smile slightly. "It's a good day, then."

I rise slowly, without haste.

"I would have liked to see those places that remember."

A simple statement. A phrase left hanging.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then sighs and gets up as well.

"Alright, let's go."

We step out of the house.

I never asked him to accompany me.

I never mentioned the town hall.

And yet, we are heading straight for it.

I steered the conversation towards memories, impressions. No direct facts.

But he talks.

I throw him a seemingly casual remark.

"You ever set foot in there?"

He smiles.

"Once. When I was younger. It was a… impressive place."

He doesn't say more.

I don't need him to.

We are now in front of the building's doors.

He pauses for a moment, observing the façade as if it's bringing back memories.

Then, in a calm, almost too even voice:

"Some silences weigh heavier than words."

I observe him.

I knew it.

He knows.

And yet, he keeps silent.

But now, I know where to look.