The Weight of a Pinky Promise
"I have never once thought of you as a friend, Scarlet."
After delivering those words, Sylvia spun on her heel and returned to the classroom. As I stood there, blankly staring at her retreating back, I felt something tapping against my leg. I looked down to see what it was, only to find my own hand trembling uncontrollably, repeatedly brushing against my thigh. ...Hmm, was a hand tremor something you could acquire later in life?
I clasped my shaking hand with the other and squeezed, and the tremors subsided slightly. Still, Sylvia seemed particularly on edge today. Well, she was a girl; there were bound to be a few days a month like this. I suppose even an elf is no different from a human when it comes to that time of the month. If she’s in "Magical Elf Sylvia" mode, I’d better tread carefully for a while.
Even to me, it sounded like a ridiculous thought. I was currently thinking ridiculous thoughts. *Get a grip, keep your expression in check.* The distorted look on my face returned to a neutral mask.
*
When lunch ended and classes began, the atmosphere in the classroom, which had been strangely quiet until just moments ago, seemed to thaw a little. It was partly because the faces of Sylvia and Yoon Siwoo looked less rigid than they had that morning, but the biggest reason was likely the teacher conducting the lesson at the front.
"Now that you’ve entered Aegis Academy, you can all consider yourselves heroes! Aegis doesn't accept anyone who isn't strong to begin with, so if you’re here, it means you already possess a certain level of strength!"
She was the instructor for a subject called The Hero’s Mindset. Judging by her appearance, she looked like someone who would be incredibly calm and composed, but the moment class started, she became so passionately animated that you could almost hear the sound effects of her fluttering about. Even though she was an adult woman of above-average height, watching her made me think of a little sparrow frantically flapping its wings.
The other students listening to the lecture were wearing involuntary smiles, the kind you get when watching a cute creature scurrying about, so it was clear everyone was thinking the same thing.
"When it comes to a hero protecting people, don't think of it as some grand noblesse oblige where those with power fulfill their responsibilities and duties—you should think of it as a matter of course!"
The teacher continued her explanation, fluttering about energetically. The students listened intently, wearing satisfied smiles.
"If we look purely at power, if ordinary people are babies, then you are all fully grown adults! If a danger arises, even if it’s a threat that would be dangerous even to a grown person, you shouldn't just stand by and watch a helpless baby, right? Do you understand, everyone!"
At the teacher’s habitual shout of "Do you understand, everyone!", the students laughed and answered with a loud, "Yes!"
I was the only student who didn't answer, as I had been too busy listening to the lecture with half an ear while checking to see if Sylvia’s mood had improved. But there was only one thing on my mind: that even an irritable-looking Sylvia was beautiful. Anything else was, frankly, none of my business.
*
On my way home after school, I saw a man giving a child a piggyback ride. The child, perched on the shoulders of the man who appeared to be his father, was looking at the world from a vantage point far higher than his own, laughing brightly. Did that child know that the father carrying him was drenched in sweat? Even so, the man carrying the child walked silently, without a single word of complaint.
I was so distracted by the sight that I arrived home before I knew it. Like a routine, I stripped off my clothes and showered as soon as I got in. After the shower, I opened the refrigerator door to prepare dinner.
"Ah..."
I had completely forgotten that I was supposed to go grocery shopping on the way home. I considered heading out now, but since I had already washed up and changed into my pajamas, the motivation to leave had vanished. Do you know that feeling when you come home from work, shower, and change, only for a situation to arise? I’d rather just skip dinner for the night...
Come to think of it, I hadn't eaten breakfast either because I was running late and had to dash out. Why can't I spend the money I earn... Yesterday, my luck had been strangely good, too...
I sighed and flopped onto my bed. It was too early to go to sleep. Was I going to have to kill time again? Whew, I wanted to avoid any more slaughter. I wished my superpower was the ability to sleep as much as I wanted. If that were the case, I could sleep without these useless, wandering thoughts.
Tomorrow... perhaps Sylvia’s mood would be better tomorrow? With that thought, I closed my eyes, my hands still clasped together, trembling just as they had been since I returned home.
*
When I was young, I loved my father. I didn't envy anyone, no matter how much money their father made or what kind of job they had. My father was the only person people around us talked about, saying it was hard to find someone like him in this day and age. He was kind, dedicated to helping others, valued connections, tried to repay kindness tenfold, and was a man who could generously forgive the mistakes of others. To me, he looked like the coolest person in the world. I wanted to be just like him.
But unlike the stories I read as a child, the world wasn't a place where living kindly brought you blessings. If anything, it was the exact opposite. At some point, strangers started visiting our house frequently. Whenever I heard someone knocking on the door, I would crawl into the closet. I had promised my father that when I heard that sound, it meant we were starting a game of hide-and-seek.
Since the only place to hide in our house was that large closet, I would always hide in the pitch-black darkness where I couldn't see a thing until the loud noises outside stopped. When the noise died down, my father would open the closet door and tell me with a smile that my son had hidden very bravely.
Honestly, being alone in the closet was scary, but I was happy because my father said those things. Because I had a father who told me that, I could find the courage to endure the darkness of the closet.
It was one night while we were playing hide-and-seek like that. It was past the time I should have been asleep, but for some reason, my chest felt heavy and I couldn't drift off. Seeing this, my father carefully hugged me, stayed that way for a long time, and then spoke in a trembling voice. He said he was truly sorry because he wasn't very smart and couldn't think of any other way to solve things.
After saying that, my father held out his pinky finger and said, "Let's make one last promise." A promise made by linking pinkies was something that must never be broken. Because that was what my father had taught me, I linked my pinky with his and engraved his words deep into my heart. That promise was the last image of my father I could remember.
After we made that promise, I went to sleep, woke up, and went to school, only to find the house covered in red notices, and my father didn't come home that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
"Your father took on debt," my mother had said. As I grew older and learned more, I had no choice but to think that my father, burdened by debt, had abandoned my mother and me and fled in the middle of the night. I had been deeply disappointed in the father who had left us behind, thinking he wasn't the kind of person who would ever do such a thing.
That was what I thought, until the man who claimed to be my father’s friend appeared before me and knelt down.
Guaranty. The man cried as he told me that my father had taken on a massive debt because of him. That my father had ended up this way because he had taken on the debt and run away. On the document the man held in his hands, my father’s name was written in the guarantor section. And next to it was a name I recognized—a name that was likely the man’s own. It was a name I had heard whenever my father talked about his "good friend."
The debt my father had taken on in that person’s stead was not the kind that could be settled by simply taking away our household furniture. It was an amount that wouldn't be strange even if the house itself were seized. Only then did I understand. My father hadn't fled in the night. He had gone to fulfill his responsibilities as a father to protect the house where my mother and I would live.
I remembered what my mother had told me: that if you don't pay your debts, other people suffer. It wasn't my father who hadn't paid the debt, but this man, and the person who must have been suffering the most wasn't me or my mother, but my father.
He must have told my mother not to tell me the truth, knowing that if I knew, I would live my life resenting this man who had betrayed my father. He was that kind of person—the kind who said that hating others was of no help in life. That was the kind of person my father was.
I silently helped the man up, who was crying and begging me to curse him, and sent him away. Resenting this person wouldn't bring my father back. And my father wouldn't have wanted that, either.
In the end, the target of my resentment wasn't my father, nor was it this man. The world was a harsh place for kind people. A place where faith is exploited and trust is betrayed. A place where living kindly means being called a pushover. Why was it that the kind and good people always had to suffer? That was why I hated this world.
That day, I remembered the promise I had made with my father. "Even if things get tough, let's promise Dad that you'll always live firmly." The weight of the promise made by linking pinkies felt heavier than ever today.
Feeling suffocated, I threw a question into the void. "Father, am I doing well?"
Naturally, there was no answer.