Spring Comes Every Year
Winter slipped away on cold winds, and with the cooling weather, the season of sprouting buds arrived. So, like a blooming sprout, I made a new resolution.
Now I could put it off no longer. Like a monthly assignment from university, it had finally caught up to me. Last time, it was building a house for the witch. The time before, teaching the witch. The semester before that, feeding her and applying her medicine. And now, a whole new task shook me to my core.
"…."
Yeah. The witch. Time to really wash her.
But I have a question. Unknown professor—no, since this is a novel, should I call you author? Anyway, you. So, how exactly am I supposed to wash a witch who can't even step out of the alley?
That's why I was pondering deeply for the first time in a while. If I were to name it with the naming sense of a little kid, maybe Operation Grimy Witch Wash?
I've fed her, applied her medicine, taught her studies, even built her a house that blocks rain and snow. Now it was time to scrub off years of grime.
Not because of that smell comment last time or anything. I'm just helping her step by step. That's all it is. Really.
Calling a girl smelly would be rude, after all.
"…."
Ugh, the smell.
Anyway. The candidate spots I'd considered numbered four: the big public bathhouse, our house, the grocery store bathroom, and the public restroom in the square.
Unfortunately, three were out from the start.
The bathhouse would expose her gray hair to the world the moment we arrived. Our home bathroom—no dice, since Mom's outings were too short these days to sneak in. The store bathroom—I could take her before Uncle arrived, but it'd feel like betraying his trust, and my conscience stung at the thought.
So the square's public restroom seemed the most feasible. Sure, there were issues like the caretaker's patrols or only being possible at night when no one's around, but at least using it wasn't a problem.
If I could just solve the "kids my age have to be home by evening" thing.
Hmm.
"Gotta run away from home or…."
No way she'd go wash herself in the square restroom just because I told her to. Or maybe grab a basin and give her a quick wipe-down?
After agonizing for a mere thirty minutes, nothing was decided, and my fresh spring resolve was crumbling.
As I tilted my head in frustration, a booming voice roared from behind.
"Ain! No time for nonsense like running away—sweep the floor already! Customers are coming soon, you brat!"
Uncle grabbed my half-broken resolve and snapped it clean in two.
Fine, whatever. Work first.
"Thanks, Uncle."
"What? Don't thank me—just clean!"
"Yep."
I'll clean hard and earn lots of money.
My days flew by quickly. Doing familiar work at the grocery store, afternoon vanished in a blink. Closing up with Uncle, and the sun dipped into twilight. Afterward, I'd take the dinner he handed me and head home.
I'd bow to uncles and aunties from other shops on the way, flash a grin at the moms who frequented the store.
Even at nine, with spring approaching, nothing changed. My days flowed on, always the same.
Then, once a month, on the appointed day, the clockwork twisted. Gears that shouldn't mesh ground against each other, and time for mischief unfit for a good boy arrived.
I didn't see it as mischief, but the world—the novel's history—decreed it so.
Approaching the gray was wrong.
Saving the gray was misguided.
Those interested in the gray were villains.
For centuries unchanged, the yoke whispered in my ear that my actions were evil.
Yet I chose otherwise.
I resolved not to follow the laws the world—the novel—had set.
I'm not a character.
I declared I'd walk a different path from the characters, stepping onto it with a thud.
And once a month, it came again.
Today, I resolved to shed my role as the good boy.
Late at night. With Mom and Dad asleep in the quiet house, I stepped out carefully.
Creeeak—creeeak— The floorboards groaned uneasily, but Dad's steady snoring continued unbroken. Relieved, I took the next step.
I'd told the gray girl I'd come back at night—she was waiting. I'd given her soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, towels ahead of time. Now just slip out.
"…."
Creeeak— Tonight the floor wailed louder, but novels force characters to sleep at night.
So nothing would happen.
The soundly sleeping child, the father snoring out his fatigue, Mom's tiny sleep-talk. Tonight, we played our roles faithfully.
That's what I thought as I eased the door open and stepped outside.
A night with the moon high instead of the sun. Streetlamps glowed alone in the empty capital, no souls stirring.
"…."
I took in the scene briefly, then hurried on tiny feet toward my goal.
Quiet.
Clack—clack—clack— My hastily slipped-on slippers echoed long down the market street.
The dark market and my footsteps echoing alone sent chills down my spine.
Not childish fear of the dark.
More like, even real nights are like this, but because it's a novel, it feels that way—those thoughts filling my head.
How long did I run? The streets stayed dark, silent. Empty of people, unchanging.
Except for one thing.
From the alley I aimed for, gray hair peeked out, announcing its presence.
"…, Wait, ed."
Unlike daytime when she hid, the girl had stepped out to the market-alley junction, craning her head.
"Yeah, let's go."
"…, Yeah."
I took the basket she held and grasped her now-empty little hand, leading her.
A bit too serious from idle thoughts, but today's mission was Operation Grimy Witch Wash. Whatever—run to the square.
And so, late night in Kate Square's public restroom, water splashed long and loud.
"Huff—and rinse."
"Krrgh…."
Thankfully, the sink had warm water. The witch stood dazed as I washed her, eyes half-shut while I scrubbed the gray girl.
No, I hadn't planned to wash her myself.
We barely reached the restroom; I handed her the wash kit and pushed her in, telling her to hurry. But she just tilted her head, standing blankly.
Never bathed before, so of course she didn't know how.
That's why I was half-squinting, soaping her hair, making her wash her face, scrubbing off the grime.
"Ah…."
"What now."
"…, Warm."
Of course it's warm. Standing there, I lather you up, rinse with warm water to get the dirt off.
Doing everything—has to be warm, right? This was witch normalization. Helping out fully.
After a good long scrub, her filthy entrance-look vanished.
Her skin was incredibly—words failed—white. In the story, she stayed dirty and dull till death from endless suffering. Now, she looked like a proper kid her age.
That blankly vacant face, unknowable thoughts—still the same.
So thinking, I wrapped her in a towel and rubbed vigorously.
"Warm…."
"…."
Yeah. It's supposed to warm her up—of course it's warm. Winter passed, but spring nights still blew chilly. Dry her thoroughly post-bath.
Witch or not, no catching cold from cold, but can't leave a freshly cleaned kid shivering.
Anyway.
Dried off, I pulled out the small clothes I'd bought at a shop that afternoon and dressed her.
"Ah…."
Couldn't put her back in that sackcloth, so plain kid clothes. Why are children's clothes so pricey? Even with cuteness and smiles haggling, it hurt the wallet.
Now dressed, facing her again.
Tangled, stiff hair now softly swayed, still damp. Arms, legs, face—grime gone, pure white.
New clothes instead of filthy rags—she looked like any kid.
That signature witch blankness remained, though.
Still, her clean, tilted-head look was nice. Even now, fidgeting hands and feet, staring piercingly at me alone.
Mouth opening and closing like she wanted to say something.
I smiled back unusually, meeting her eyes.
And.
"…, Ah."
Reacting to my smile, her expression shifted slowly.
Perpetually blank eyes curved like half-moons, dimples bloomed at her mouth.
She smiled.
The girl with faint emotions smiled.
Right at me, eyes holding only me, a child's smile.
A slightly longer-than-usual day ended.
"See you next time" farewell.
Slipping back into the quiet house.
Dad's steady snoring.
Lying down with a strange prideful smile, eyes closing, drifting into dreams.
Misty dreams.
Gentle hand stroking hair.
Warmth.
Door softly closing.
Thus, the day ended.