To Reclaim the Girl's Dream
“Hah, hah…! Eek!”
“Ugh!” Thud!
As Abel rounded the corner for a brief stroll, his body went sprawling. He'd collided with someone charging from the opposite direction.
“Ugh…! Who the hell's in such a hurry…? Hmm?”
Rubbing his sore backside, he looked up to identify the culprit—and his eyes went wide. It was none other than Liriet.
In the old days, he would've snapped at her for not watching where she was going. But not today. Not when…
“Sob, sniff…!”
“……!?”
No matter how hard the impact, Liriet was sitting on the floor, bursting into heartbroken tears.
“S-sorry. Did I hit you too hard? But come on, it's not that bad to cry over…”
He wasn't proud of it, but even after all the grief he'd given her, Liriet had never cried like this. Over a simple tumble? Abel was utterly flustered—especially since his feelings toward her were already a tangled mess.
“Sniff…! N-no, it's okay, Brother. I wasn't looking and ran into you… Sniff! I'm sorry.”
With that, she scrambled to her feet and bolted down the hall, as if ashamed of her tears. Watching his little sister's retreating figure, Abel's heart grew heavy.
“…Couldn't apologize again.”
He'd been agonizing over how to broach it during their sparring session earlier, only to miss the chance. Now even this perfect opportunity had slipped away, leaving him deflated.
Tomorrow, he'd steel himself. Even if forgiveness was off the table, he'd at least get the apology out. As he turned to go—
“Liriet!”
“Uncle?”
A gray-haired man came dashing around the same corner Liriet had fled from—Baal Argent, their uncle.
“Abel! Did Liriet just come this way?”
“Yes, she passed by just now.”
“Where'd she go?”
“Seemed like she was heading to her room. But why… Huh?”
Abel's eyes sharpened. Baal's right hand held two lush red flowers—identical to the ones in Liriet's room earlier, when he'd gone to challenge her to a duel.
And Abel knew exactly why. Today was the Holy Birth Festival.
“Uncle, those…”
“…The flowers Liriet gave your parents.”
“Then why are you holding them…? Oh.”
Abel's mind raced. Liriet's demeanor just now. The flowers she'd handed her parents, now wilted and limp in Baal's grasp.
Putting the pieces together, he arrived at the grim conclusion.
“Don't tell me… they rejected the flowers from Liriet?”
“More precisely, your father's doing.”
Thud. Something heavy dropped in Abel's chest, like a gear slipping from a toy wind-up mechanism.
Something was wrong. He didn't know what, exactly. His own cruel words and deeds toward Liriet—what made them any different from Edmund's actions?
Yet his fists clenched anyway. He knew it was idiotic. He had no right to blame anyone.
Still, a voice screamed in his head: This isn't right.
“Why…”
Hot emotion surged up his throat, spilling out in three stark syllables—aimed not just at Edmund, but at Cassdia and himself too.
Why had it taken so long to see it? What had that child ever done wrong? Just ten years old—a age when even a family overflowing with love wouldn't be enough.
Yet she'd endured endless blows, only for her pure gesture—given simply because they were her parents—to be crushed so cruelly before his eyes.
“Why, you ask? How rich, coming from you. What's the difference between this and what you've done to her all these years?”
“Th-that's…”
Abel had no retort to the sharp rebuke. It was spot-on, a hundred times over. He had no grounds to question.
His fists trembled as he bowed his head, and silence fell.
“Don't worry about it. Rest up. I'll handle the rest.”
With those cold words, retreating footsteps echoed away.
The old Abel Argent would've let it go there. But for some reason, his feet wouldn't move.
He watched Baal's back recede down the hall, then…
“……”
With resolve etched on his face, quietly followed.
He might've lived like a halfwit so far. But he didn't want the rest of his life to be the same.
And he believed, without a doubt, that these steps were the foundation.
Knock knock.
“Liriet, it's me. Mind if I come in for a bit?”
—…No. I'm sorry, Uncle, but please go away today.
As expected, even after knocking, Liriet refused to meet.
Truth be told, I'm not the type to force myself on someone who doesn't want company. Everyone needs alone time sometimes.
Unwanted meddling can reopen wounds. Humans have natural healing, after all.
Sometimes, processing emotions solo beats hollow advice or comfort.
I'm sorry.
But today, I silently apologized and—making a fool of my earlier resolve—turned the uninvited doorknob.
“U-Uncle…!?”
Liriet jolted upright from where she'd been sitting forlornly in the dark.
I'd left the lights off on purpose. No doubt she'd hate showing her puffy, tear-streaked face.
“Forgive me. Barging into a lady's room is poor manners, but make an exception just this once.”
“…You're too much. How could I ever blame you, Uncle?”
“Haha, is that so? Music to my ears.”
It wasn't funny, but I forced a smile. If I laughed, maybe her tears would ease a little.
And I was glad. It meant our bond was strong enough that opening a door unasked wouldn't earn her blame.
I approached Liriet, slumped at the bed's edge in the gloom.
As I sat, the mattress dipped, shifting toward me. Was it that? Or an excuse to lean?
Poof. Her shoulder touched mine.
Hard to believe this frail, delicate frame swung a sword daily. And it trembled.
Tears not fully dried? Grief lingering?
I wrapped an arm around her quivering shoulder, pulling her close, and conjured a soft magical light.
No real flame, so no warmth—but whether from me or the glow, her face relaxed slightly.
“…Uncle, does Father hate me?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I heard. Mother died giving birth to me. Maybe that's why Father hates me. They say he loved her more than anyone.”
“He did.”
Edmund's love for his first wife, Viola Argent, was profound, to say the least. They'd met by chance in society, fallen at first sight.
Married at eighteen, they had a son—Abel—right after twenty.
Two years later, another child: Liriet.
But Viola was congenitally frail. Abel's birth was manageable, but Liriet's… her condition was dire. Even the doctor suggested abortion.
I was Liriet's age then, but I remember clearly. My sister-in-law's anguished cries from the delivery room.
“What do you think, Uncle?”
“About what?”
“Does Father still hate me?”
“……”
How to answer? I pondered deeply.
Alas, I don't have all the answers. Knowledge beyond the original story eludes me.
Edmund's arc was shrouded even there—a long-standing fan mystery.
The popular theory: He loved his first wife so fiercely that he resented the daughter who 'took' her, ignoring Liriet's suffering.
But I didn't buy it. This work, Beloved Lady, was perfect proof that no villain lacks backstory.
Or 'laundering,' if you want to be cynical. Most antagonists had reasons—wounds, sorrows.
Sure, there were disposable extras, but supporting villains? They had depth.
So I wondered too: Why was Edmund Argent so indifferent to his own daughter?
“Sadly, I can't answer that yet.”
“I figured.”
“Yes. But if my dear niece wants answers, there's one way.”
I stroked her hair, wiped the lingering tears with my sleeve, and stood.
“I'll find them for you.”
“You will, Uncle?”
“What, don't trust me?”
“N-no, of course not. It's just…”
“Just?”
Some worry? Her hands clenched and unclenched on her thighs, lips nibbled.
“I feel like I'm always just receiving from you.”
“Kids grow with adults' help. That's natural.”
“Even so… Isn't there something I can do?”
Something she could do. Bold, yet more mature than many adults. I smiled involuntarily.
I knelt to meet her eyes, then cupped her cheeks…
Squish.
“Ehehe…?”
“Kkh!”
And yanked hard.
Her already teary face turned comically distorted, and I burst out laughing.
“U-Uncaah…!?”
I dodged her flailing hands, tugging and releasing her cheeks at will.
Her brows furrowed in mock fury. Only then did I let go, gently rubbing the reddened skin.
“Haha, sorry. Wanted to see something, but failed.”
No talent for this, alas. As I rose, she looked puzzled.
“Wh-what did you want to see?”
Her bright, Puss in Boots-like eyes, oddly misty, drew my hand to her hair.
“A smile.”
“A smile…?”
“Yes. I wanted to see my niece smile.”
“I thought I've been smiling more lately…?”
True. “But you just asked if there's something you can do for me.”
“Yes.”
“That's the answer.”
“What…?”
My silly niece still didn't get it. Adorably so. I turned, revealing the truth.
“Smile for me.”
“……”
“The world has its sorrows. Days like today, when you want to cry? Plenty.”
I'm no fool. I can't make her happy 24/7, 365 days a year—that'd be mania, not joy.
But one request:
“Still, when I do something for you… at least then, no guilt, no sadness. Just smile.”
“My smile isn't worth that much…”
“Nonsense.”
I hammed it up like an opera lead, feigning horror.
“To me, it's priceless. Worth a fortune to see.”
“…You're always so sly, Uncle. You make me feel like the bad kid.”
“Perish the thought. Where's a kinder child than my niece?”
Teasing lightly, she relented. Just as I'd asked, she beamed—a smile that could swallow the tiny floating light whole.
“…Then I'll wait. Like you said, as a good girl. Liriet will smile and wait for you, Uncle.”
Finally, the words I'd longed for.
Grinning like an idiot, I closed the door behind me—to find an uninvited guest. Abel.
“…Uncle.”
“What?”
“Can I help with something too?”
Eavesdropping, huh? The door had been ajar.
He's come a long way in masking his expressions.
Lots to process, no doubt. Smiling, I brushed past him.
“Follow me.”
“…Yes!”
Perfect—I had just the job for him.