The Twisted Cogwheel
To put it simply, the only thing that had wedged itself into the girl's life was that one tiny fragment. Just one among the thousands, tens of thousands of minuscule pieces that seemed poised to snap off with a pop and tumble far away into oblivion. In a clockwork mechanism that had been meshing and turning so flawlessly, there were far more vital components scattered everywhere. A mere protruding shard like that one seemed utterly powerless to sway the turning of the world.
And yet. Cogwheels always rotated at precise, unerring intervals—so even a snag in a single spot set them grinding out strange tick-tick noises. One by one, the seemingly insignificant actions of that boy piled up. By the time his entire body screamed that he had twisted out of true, the rhythm was already lost in a stuttering tick. Something shattered. Something else warped alongside it. The circulating flow of the machine shuddered into unnatural chaos. And by the time anyone noticed, that landscape—that sound—had irrevocably changed.
Still, the mechanism never broke down entirely. Before a single warped cog could grind the whole thing to ruin, the caretaker would appear for repairs, nudging everything back onto its rails with those same tick-tick protests. The boy's desperate flailing, his thunderous cries—they were just one speck among thousands, tens of thousands. Everything would snap back to its original steady rhythm long before that tiny world lay in pieces.
So, did the boy's actions mean nothing? No, one could hardly say so.
Because another cogwheel had already synced to the twisted one. Already warped in tandem, deviating ever so slightly from its original shape in places. Pathetic and infinitesimal if they numbered fewer than one in ten thousand—but change crept outward, slow and insidious. By the time the caretaker caught on, they'd surely multiply to one in a hundred thousand. And when the belated scramble to replace them began, one in a thousand. Looking back then, no one could call it meaningless.
Yes, it had meaning. The boy's small affection offered to the girl—it carried that weight.
To the girl, scraping by day after wretched day in that alley. It meant more than anything else.
Now, an old tale. Of the nameless girl who gazed up at the sky, murmuring tiny, desperate pleas to the shimmering lights etched across that vast, dark curtain. She believed there was a god in the world. Believed some divine gaze lingered on her even amid sorrow. With the wondrous sky-song that rang out la- and the boy who came seeking her. She had once deemed it the mercy of a god on high, bestowing a boy as small as she was—Ain.
Even if that little boy had shown her nothing but disregard or indifference at their first encounter. That it wasn't contempt or loathing was reason enough, to her, to think so.
And in the days that followed, she wondered if it truly was godly mercy. He came like the wind, left something behind, and vanished like the wind. Wordless, always gazing indifferently before handing over only what she needed. Back then, she truly believed a divine emissary had come to grant her a sliver of hope.
Embarrassing in hindsight, perhaps. But in those days, that's what the boy was to her.
From some point on, the girl knew warmth. Worn rags, maybe—but the coziness a certain boy had given her. The first possession for a girl who had nothing. Clutching it tight and staring blankly skyward was enough to summon those memories anew.
From some point on, the girl ate ordinary food. The boy's rough habit now—of showing up on a steady schedule, tossing it down with a thud, and vanishing. She no longer needed to choke down garbage. Not hot meals, but everything he brought was surely delicious.
Chewing it nom nom, she found herself thinking of the boy.
From some point on, the girl stopped clawing at her wounds. On days when scars ran deep, it was his hands that came, smearing ointment with a sticky chideok-chideok. Still itchy, still aching—but his words echoed: don't scratch. Indifferent mask or not, bit by bit, the boy crept into her world.
Time flowed on. And that day was like any other—yet not. Once a month. The day the nameless boy appeared with food and salve before leaving again.
The girl marked her days waiting for him. Even when hateful children hurled stones by day. Even huddled under threadbare rags against the biting night winds. Blank-faced, she willed the hours away. He only came after sunset, after all—she yearned for time to hurry past.
And so. As the sun finally dipped low. Her ears pricked at footsteps—but it wasn't him.
A rough-faced man strode past the alley, a massive greatsword slung across his back.
He muttered at the sight of her. “... Gray?”
“...”
His low baritone carried weight even in a whisper. It filled the alley, momentum crashing toward her like a gale. For the first time, the girl knew fear.
“Gray smack in the Empire's heart. Un-fucking-believable.”
“... Ah.”
Her hair, her eyes—he hefted the greatsword. And as he took that heavy thud of a step forward, she thought: He's coming. Death, inching toward me.
“...”
“Uh... Ah...”
She had always craved death. From those alley days pelted with stones without end. Hope never hers, hated by all. No reason to breathe—so she'd wished to die.
“...”
But not anymore. One reason alone: the boy. She didn't want to die now. Even once a month—he came. She wanted to live.
“...”
“Ah...”
Trembling as he loomed at her nose, raising the blade slow. She hoped for rescue. He'd shown mercy in her misery, kindled the will to live—don't shove her to death now.
But the greatsword rose sky-high all the same.
Silence fell. Like the hush before a storm—killer mute, victim too.
She knew no stay of execution, squeezed her eyes shut. The giant watched.
Tick—death drew near.
Tick—creeping toward her.
Tick—whispering the moment's approach in steady rhythm.
Tick—then other sounds mingled, halting it.
Thud-thud-thud—fate's grim pointer jammed by frantic footfalls, heaving breaths.
No need to wonder what.
“Do you even know what you're shielding?”
“... Stay back.”
Eyes clenched tight, yet that voice pierced through—familiar, longed-for. She opened them.
Before her: a back broader than her would-be killer's. Trembling violently, arms flung wide in desperate bid to bar her way—the boy's back.
Greatsword thrust toward him, yet he snarled like a beast, holding the advance at bay.
Plop—a tear hit the dirt. The girl stared, dazed at it all.
“Ha.”
A low chuckle. He reslung the blade. “You're a boy, then.”
“...”
No answer—but the man spoke on. “Guard it like that. What's precious to you.”
“...”
Still silent, yet he held her front till the giant vanished—that was reply enough.
Precious. Was she precious to him? She wondered. Wanted it from his lips.
“... You okay?”
No need to wonder. Alone now, boy crumpling before her—his first words pure worry for her.
Thus her life shifted. The will to live swelled past the ache for death. Withered feelings stirred, sprouted shoots. Her deepest wish unfolding slow. The warmth she'd begged for stacking at her side.
Soon, she learned to curve her lips upward. Coddled now, her skeletal frame filled out with time's grace.
God existed, surely. That boy—he was her god. Not almighty, perhaps. But no less.
Others might scoff. Yet every time she recalled it, she thought so still.