Ugly Eight-Year-Old: Winter is Cold
‘…Cold. And it hurts.’
Winter is cold.
Winter hurts.
So for the girl, the season of winter brought days more wretched and desolate than any other time. The frostbitten skin split open under the merciless biting winds, and with nowhere to escape the season, the girl could only fiddle endlessly with the weathered planks that couldn’t even block the breeze. She huddled against the cold stone wall, relieved at least that her back was safe from the wind. Last winter had been the same. The winter before that, too. And probably every winter before then had passed just as coldly and painfully.
But this winter was a little different.
‘…Warm.’
The warmth she couldn’t feel from the sackcloth she wore seeped from the thick, worn clothes. It was something tossed to her by a nameless boy she’d only briefly locked eyes with before he passed by. Unlike the kids who tormented her every day, he’d come after half a year—barely a hazy memory—and tossed it with indifferent eyes before leaving.
‘…Weird guy.’
He didn’t treat her like a person. And because he didn’t see her as a person, he didn’t hate her. Even though he was a kid raised under parents who shunned the gray-haired girl. Unlike his mother, he didn’t hesitate to approach her.
“H-hurts…”
So the girl mumbled in her halting speech, wrapping herself tightly in the worn cardigan covered in lint. It was warm. She could feel the heat. The coziness it had absorbed from the wardrobe inside the house still lingered. To savor it even a little longer, she buried her head deep, rubbing her face against the coarse fabric.
‘…Will he come again?’
Would that nameless boy come back to this alley? To avoid the other kids’ bullying, she’d had to move often, but if she did, he probably wouldn’t find her. Thinking of those indifferent eyes made her sure of it. He seemed like he’d withdraw his apathy—or whatever it was—and vanish forever. So for the first time, the girl clung to this alley where they’d first crossed paths. She’d always fled like a fugitive every year, every season, but this winter, she decided she wouldn’t.
‘Warm…’
This winter, she had these lint-covered worn clothes.
Two years passed. A bit more than that, until the new year’s snow melted and spring brought blooming flowers. Just as if to prove this was a world from a novel, days passed peacefully without any special incidents.
In other words, that much time went by, and I turned eight, still a small and fragile child in this world. And during that long stretch—naturally, as expected—I hadn’t taken a single step toward the alley where the gray girl was.
I’d wanted to become the witch’s watcher myself, but the novel didn’t want a new role like that. Or at least, that’s how it seemed. It was Mom’s firm opposition and Dad’s troubled smile. Of course, both their answers stemmed more from worry for me than hatred for the witch.
I knew that. The tales of the gray were so widespread they were even in fairy tales fit for kids. Naturally, I remembered being held in Mom’s arms, reading those books, and her earnest plea back then.
“Never go near anyone with gray hair, son. Got it?”
It was a promise sealed with our pinkies, laced with her worry. There’s a law in this world: break a promise with your parents, and there’s backlash. No need to blame the novel’s setting; it was just what happened.
So I often thought about it. I hated—honestly, really hated—still looking like such a little kid. Even after stepping into the novel’s plot, even after assigning myself the role of witch watcher, I realized I hadn’t made a dent. It hit especially hard then, chewing over those thoughts. Times like this made me wonder what kind of novel world this was, since I couldn’t skip pages and jump through time.
Look, see? In two whole years as an extra, all I could do was kid stuff. Eat, shit, sleep, repeat infinitely.
And trying to convince my parents out of pity for the alley girl? Pointless. Bringing up gray tales myself wouldn’t change their minds. It might even make them restrict me more as I grew. Just recalling Mom scolding me after I tossed those clothes—asking why I’d done it—made that prediction feel spot-on.
So this was my take after feeling this world up to age eight. Long-held prejudices spanning centuries-plus wouldn’t bend to a kid’s whining. Thinking a puny extra could upend fixed lore in one go? That’d just scream ignorance.
In that sense, I decided to be a thoroughly good boy for those two years. Obeying Mom, greeting Dad when he got home. No kid mishaps, helping with chores even if it seemed precocious. Sticking faithfully to the novel’s assigned extra role, living peacefully.
“Son!”
“…Yeah, Mom.”
“Come help with this?”
“Got it, coming.”
Until Mom naturally saw me as a sensible kid, I acted the part naturally. That way, I could reclaim my role.
I wouldn’t let the novel drag me around.
This world was pretty peaceful, honestly. An eight-year-old running Mom’s errand to the grocery wouldn’t get kidnapped. Lost in the square? A lost-child station within 100 meters. Too convenient to call pure medieval vibes—novel perks, well-fitted. Not everywhere, but at least in the empire’s capital, early setting.
Of course, as time passed and plot advanced, dangers would creep in. But for now, safer than Earth for imperial kids.
Everyone except the gray girl, that is.
“Don’t jaywalk when carriages pass.”
“Got it.”
“No rudeness to the grocer uncle.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“No wandering off alone, even if you want to go somewhere. We go together. Promise?”
“Yeah, promise.”
I pinky-swore with Mom, taking the small basket, some money, and the errand list.
“Sorry to make you work when I’m busy, son.”
“It’s fine. I’ve gone with you tons, so I know the way.”
“Pfft… Yeah, my boy’s all grown up!”
Mom ruffled my hair wildly. Strands flew everywhere, but I didn’t complain. I was a good kid now.
Thus, I was alone in this world for the first time. Crowds meshing by, carriages whooshing past—I took it in, then stepped into the flow. Along the familiar path I’d walked with Mom countless times, I toddled childlike.
The alley to the market.
“…”
Like a good kid, no distractions, straight to the grocer. Like any kid my age, nodding greetings to familiar faces, bowing deeper at their praise.
About ten minutes later, I pushed open the grocery’s big wooden door.
“Welcome… Huh? Heh heh, you rascal! Aren’t you Rain’s boy? What’re you doing here alone?”
“…Hi. Mom’s busy, so I’m on an errand, sir.”
The bearish uncle at the counter, slouching through greetings, boomed a laugh at my solo entrance.
“Hahaha! Already running errands alone? That’s the spirit of a real man!”
“…”
Too young for “man,” but whatever. Good kid, so I bowed.
“Good, good. What’s the errand? Came alone, so I’ll cut you a deal!”
“Uh, here…”
I handed over the list and money. Uncle grinned, reading it.
“Hmm, usual stuff, no fancy ingredients. Rain’s cooking doesn’t stretch to variety yet!”
“Probably. Mom’s still young.”
“Kahaha! True enough! Wait a sec, I’ll pack it!”
He plunked extra change on the counter and headed to the back storeroom.
“…”
That uncle—always thought it, but needlessly energetic. Drains you just being near. But his boisterous vibe made him genuinely nice.
Even good folks like him were just extras here. Musing that, scanning the shop, veggies and meat thudded down before me.
“Here ya go! Want me to bag ’em?”
“No, I got it.”
I packed them carefully with my small hands. Looking up to say thanks, Uncle grinned and handed something.
“Gift for you, Ain! Cute little guy!”
“Uh, ah…”
A fistful of sweet candies—kid-pleasers, overflowing even in two hands. Mom’d hate it, saying it rots teeth. Uncle, knowing, ruffled my hair.
“Secret from Mom—hide and eat ’em all!”
“…Yes, thanks, sir.”
His words cracked me up. How to hide this much? Needlessly generous and kind.
I dumped the candies in too, basket overflowing, and left. From the quiet shop to the market’s bustle.
“…”
Uncle packed fast; plenty of time left. No suspicion if not too late. Could detour and still make it home normal.
So the flimsy “good boy” role? Off for a bit.
I turned toward home’s opposite—away from market crowds, into quieter streets.
First time out alone, no phone or GPS. No map. A kid’d hesitate. Scary, going opposite the flow on unfamiliar paths.
But memory burned vivid. Body might falter, but two-year-old recall shoved kid doubts aside.
This way. That direction.
Soon, another familiar spot. Alley seen twice, but etched deep. Kate Square peeking, clock tower shadowed.
“…”
Odd—hushed alley buzzing. I stepped quietly toward the shadows; kids’ high voices echoed long.
“…This filthy beggar!”
“Ugh, look at the stink… Why’s she hugging that nasty furball?”
“Pfft, check it! Hit by rocks, blood from her head? Oh, not gray blood!”
Voices crossing the alley—I arrived at the scene.
“…”
Had she grown? Honestly, no clue. The gray girl, bleeding amid kids, same scrawny as before despite two years. On moldier, torn-er planks, barely covered by sackcloth.
“…Ah.”
Clutching the linty clothes I’d tossed like charity that winter.
So. Why just take it? Hugging that ruined fluff like treasure—what for?
Basket down, I charged.
“Wha—huh?! What the—?!”
Kid fights? First strike wins. Grab one yapping, slam him, scary face, full-force punch.
“Uwuk! Hurts, hurts…! Why, why hit outta nowhere…!! Waaah!”
“…”
Reason? Shitty home training. Fine here, not for me.
“Aaaak…!! Stop, stop hitting…! Ugh! Sniff, waaah…”
Three or four? Go berserk, pin one, pummel. Others flee scared; victim bolts when free.
Bullies, still kids. I glanced at their retreating backs, grabbed my distant basket.
And.
“Ah…”
Turned to the softly voicing gray girl. Dull gray eyes, wide in shock, fixed on me after two years.
“…”
“…”
Planned: come quietly, drop candies from uncle, leave. But I’d deviated, now eye-to-eye in silence.
“…”
“…”
A minute like that? I sighed deep, dumped all candies from basket onto her plank.
Staring into those opaque eyes—unreadable.
I set them down.
“…Eat.”
“…”
Won’t fill hunger fully, but calories at least. Muttered short, stood, grabbed basket.
Awkward silence choked us, but I ignored, heading back.
She’d been hurt by people—no chatty mood. I had no time.
Just get home.
“…If, if you don’t go… bad…?”
“…”
Cracked voice at my back. Halting, emotionless slur. Maybe random mutter.
But I knew. Novel reader—her initiating speech meant resolve.
Scared me. Flicker of emotion in ash-smoldering heart, scale tipping.
Novel typhoon pulling me center?
Whispers hit: Decide. Choose branch. Own your role.
So.
“…I’ll come again.”
Coward’s pick. Irresponsible, uncertain words.