Things Science Can't Explain
In life, there are things that science simply can't explain. Take the occult, for instance—all those tales lumped under that umbrella. Under the banner of mysticism, people delve deep into spells and ghosts and spiritual phenomena, and end up believing it all. It leads to nonsense like tarot cards or four pillars of destiny, astrology, claims of reading the future. As major arcana, the cipher of fate, the whispers of the stars—they nod along.
But I never bought into any of that. Ghosts couldn't be pinned down in a horizon coordinate system, so what people called spiritual phenomena? Just illusions born from human distrust and mental illness. The future was an unobservable variable, so I never even glanced at the tarot shops you could find every ten steps on any street.
More accurately, I didn't have the time to waste chasing such delusions. I was always so utterly ordinary. No matter how hard I tried, I hovered around average. As a mere mortal, I didn't even have time to chase pipe dreams. The paths others strolled casually were daunting hurdles for me, so I was always rushing headlong.
I ran like a madman, only looking back after turning thirty, filled with regrets. I'd thought I'd worked so hard, but all that was left behind was worthless ash like burnt-out embers. Maybe that's why.
That's when I finally started reading novels, grasping at even a moment's respite. And I believed that's how I reclaimed my life.
So...
I have no idea how the story veered this way. Point is, I was the type who didn't believe in anything outside science's realm. Even if others believed, anything I couldn't observe myself was a mirage.
Except...
One thing that should've been pure delusion? Now I believe in it.
"Ain."
"Yeah, what?"
It was always just illusion before.
"Cotton candy's yummy."
"I'll buy you more if you want."
In my eyes, black hair and deep brown eyes.
"No. I wanna try other stuff too."
"If that's what you want."
This world called it magic.
A necklace that hid her true nature—I no longer call that a mirage.
"Ain."
"What."
When my own eyes observe it stepping out into the world, proving its effect, I accept it fully.
"Cotton candy's yummy."
"You said that a minute ago."
And I think: maybe because such convenient powers exist so blatantly, this medieval backdrop hasn't advanced.
Knowing modern conveniences, everything here's a hassle.
But such stray thoughts scatter soon enough, shoved back into some deep corner of my mind.
"But it's yummy."
A woman beaming, declaring it yummy.
"Yeah, I'll show you other tasty things. Let's go."
"Okay."
I take the hand of the woman munching cotton candy, staring blankly at me, and head into the bustling street.
This was the third time we'd gone out together, her hand in mine, trotting along happily. First the parade viewing under robes, then the autumn festival. After that, she'd stayed cooped up in alleys or Rendo's back room.
I was the one who'd said it was best that way, anxious about any mishaps. The empire was like a dark, empty stage now—no strong players left—but no need to stir up trouble.
So why out now? I'd wandered alone these past days and judged it safe enough.
"Ain, Ain. This one's weird-looking."
"Ah, that's fermented food."
The peaceful market street teemed only with background extras. No hint of unease in the scene, no seed of worry sprouting.
Wearing the necklace, a stroll seemed fine.
"Ain, this smells like alley sewage."
"...Don't say that in front of the shop owner."
"Hm, it smells like alley sewage, sir."
"..."
Who knew her filterless words would plant that seed of anxiety? I'd taught her polite speech was courtesy's symbol, but who figured she'd turn rude words polite?
Guess I need to reteach the basics later. I bowed apologetically to the hollow-laughing shopkeeper.
Our market jaunt continued.
"Ain, what's this?"
"Bug-catching tool."
Not just food stalls—I followed wherever her curiosity led.
"So it catches bug-like people too?"
"...That's rude. Where'd you learn that?"
"The grocery guy said it. Won't say bad words anymore."
Her eyes sparkled, pointing at market odds and ends, hand in mine.
"Ain, look at this. So funky."
"Just shelf decor. Want one? I'll buy it."
"No. Waste of money. You didn't get a bonus, so save it."
"..."
She toured eagerly, lips quirked in amusement.
"Ain, that looks tasty."
"Nah, it's gross."
"Just once?"
"...I'm not eating it."
Sometimes she'd eye weird stuff, and I'd sweat persuading her otherwise. Why crave larva skewers or cricket fries when sizzling pork was right there?
Time slipped by; the sky shifted from blue canvas to painted dusk. We'd left near noon thanks to Rendo's kindness, but chasing her excitement dragged it out.
"This is good. Want some, Ain?"
"No."
She bobbed her head happily, munching hot larva skewers.
I respected her choice and let her eat, but the problem was her insistence I try one.
I prioritize food's looks—anything gross-looking is off-limits by creed.
Yet she kept wheedling, glancing slyly: just one bite, it's good.
"Tasty, right? Just one."
"No, really, I'm good."
I refused firmly.
Her beaming smile slowly faded.
"You don't like what I give you...?"
"..."
No, don't go emotional like that suddenly.
I panicked at her sudden gloom. Her emotions had sharpened lately, making this tricky. Gray feelings stayed muted dark, then flooded deep in a flash.
Usually, that burst mana outward. Novels and ancient records said gray disasters arose that way.
I didn't think she'd sink like other grays, but...
"Sorry, Ain. Won't ask anymore."
Even tossing her skewer—I squeezed my eyes shut.
"...Just one, okay."
"You'll eat it...?"
"Yeah..., ah."
Eyes closed, mouth agape, waiting.
Passersby might think us cute lovers. But my heart pounded harder than ever. Me, who'd ignored even mushrooms for weird looks, eating larva I'd refused worse than grubs.
"You'll like it too."
Squishy, wriggly, with a hard bit on one side—it slid in.
"..."
"Chew, Ain."
I crunched without hesitation.
Hot, lukewarm juice exploded, filling my mouth. Sticky, creepy sensation—goosebumps everywhere. The hard part? Larva head, crunching audibly.
"Good, right?"
Fucking awful.
I couldn't say it—chewed to mush, swallowed hard.
Forced a reply: "...Yeah."
"Heehee."
Eyes open, she grinned brighter, weirder laugh. Thrilled I'd eaten hers, she skewered another, munching.
"One more?"
"S-something else. Let's check that quick."
I yanked her hand desperately. Little time left before parting—if I distracted her till then, victory mine.
And before parting, I ate one more.
"..."
Absolute dogshit.
Days later, after work and training, home. Mom greeted me beaming.
"Son!"
"...What?"
I eyed her suspiciously; she grinned.
"Our boy got a girlfriend!?"
"No. Nothing like that."
Firm denial. Past life aside, no lovers this time. I knew who she meant, but we weren't that. Thirty-something soul in teen body—no lust for a kid. Medieval or not, that age gap made trash even among nobles.
I'm no trash.
"But market folk all talked about your girlfriend!"
"...Just the grocery coworker. She wanted to see the market, so I took her."
"Holding hands too!"
"Couldn't let her get lost."
Leave her wandering? Some creep might approach; losing each other? Unthinkable.
"Fed her food too!!"
"...Larva."
To onlookers, sweet feeding. To me, just warm, shitty larva. Recalling the texture, I grimaced; Mom nodded oddly.
"Hm, like that?"
"Yeah, just that."
"Bummer. Thought it was your first girlfriend."
She smacked her lips.
Mom was super chill about her son's dating. I shook my head, entering.
But she wasn't done.
"Son."
"What now?"
Braced for weirdness; she smiled mysteriously.
"Treat her well."
"Not a girlfriend."
Undeterred, she ruffled my now-taller head.
"Exactly. Doesn't matter. Treat her well, Ain."
"..."
Parental wisdom. Not to a naive girl, but a mother's voice raising and loving a child. Gentle resonance.
"You'll leave her behind on your trip. Till then, be good to her."
"...I will."
Parents. Magical, wondrous beings.
"And if our son likes her, Mom's fine with anyone."
"..."
She seems clueless, yet smiles like she knows all.