Can the Gray Be Loved?
This is a question passed down from ancient times, one that will likely never be resolved. From time immemorial, there have been those who harbored affection for people born under the gray curse, but their stories rarely ended well.
The emotions of the gray are like the sea—seeming calm and peaceful on the surface, only to suddenly swell into massive waves that crash down without mercy. These are not emotions that can be tempered, nor are they borne by people who can restrain them. Ordinary folk are swept away in an instant.
No human could withstand the gray's fury, born from a single moment of quarrel amid fierce love. Upon realizing they've killed their lover, the gray's madness engulfs an entire village and overflows, becoming a disaster in itself.
In ancient times, when fear of the gray was lesser, records speak only of the many who returned to dust because of it.
So we return to the question: Can the gray truly be loved? Can they, as individuals—as lovers—entwine their emotions with others and live among them?
...In this era. Is there anyone left who can love them?
If such a thing were possible, it might halt the massacres called witch hunts that have continued to this day. At least, that is what I believe—I, who have devoted my life to studying the gray.
I could say it with certainty. Yesterday's actions of mine had strayed at least one step—no, two steps—from my role as an observer.
I'd been too emotional. This was a world from a novel, with settings from a novel. Plot developments and future calamities from a novel. As someone who knew even a little of them, as someone who had already lived a full adult life, it was an irrational judgment.
Because of it, the witch's faintly flickering emotions had begun to settle into place. The bar she'd raised had wobbled feebly before pointing squarely at me.
So. To avoid being dragged into the eye of the storm, I needed to reset the scales—tilted ever so slightly—with a touch of indifference and distance.
Someone might wonder if stacking up dislike to counter the favor I'd built would do the trick, but I couldn't forget why gray tales had persisted for centuries.
The emotions of the gray are like the sea—seeming calm and peaceful, only to suddenly swell into massive waves that crash down without mercy.
What did that even mean? It meant keeping things calm with favor stacks, but one wrong dislike stack and you'd get smashed by the waves—flipped and done.
Gray emotions were utterly unlike human ones, something a mere mortal like me couldn't arbitrarily judge. I hadn't scoured ancient tomes in this world, so I couldn't say "absolutely," but up to what I'd read in the novel, there was no other end for them.
Whether pure goodwill or malicious trickery. That was gray in this world.
In that sense, the best way to level things out was to make vague, noncommittal promises while her emotions were still faint, then foster indifference and distance.
—..., I'll come again next time.
I'd started off decently enough. But as I pondered what came next...
"…."
...I couldn't help thinking it. People's hearts were something you could never fully understand, no matter how hard you tried.
The gray girl wouldn't die now. She'd live on until some future point, blazing as a calamity before flickering out.
So I could just keep pushing back that vague "next time" indefinitely, tell my parents to evacuate at the right moment, and set off on a journey. Shove the witch back into the novel's plot, live out my life as an extra—that should be it.
And yet, her image kept surfacing: clutching that ragged, bloodstained cloth to her chest.
"…."
Wound on her head. Couldn't leave it untreated without even washing it properly. A handful of candy I gave her wouldn't even touch her hunger.
Staying there, she'd really die.
Thoughts like that filled my head, creeping back in no matter how I shook them off, clouding my deliberations and judgment.
Sympathy? Ridiculous. What kind of extra kid pities a gray witch who'd become a calamity?
And those musings were interrupted, if only briefly, by my mother's call.
"Ain! Come here and help with this, sweetie!"
"..., Yeah. Coming."
Our house—our family—had one ironclad rule. No matter what, we all ate dinner together without fail.
It was Mom and Dad's effort for the family. It had held from my newborn days right up to my eight years now.
"Son! Dad's almost home, so wash your hands and help set the table!"
"Got it, one sec."
I dashed to the bathroom, washed up, and helped Mom. The stir-fried dishes, timed for Dad's return, still steamed invitingly.
"Careful, it's hot!"
"Don't worry about it."
Body of a kid, maybe, but mind of an adult. No way I'd act like a clumsy child, spilling food and hurting myself...
Ah.
Got distracted and grabbed the dish wrong. Shit. Hot as hell.
I bit back the scream, bolted to the table, and set it down.
"Ain! Mom said it was hot. Let me see—are you hurt?"
Thinking "hot" made me hustle it to the table fast—no burn. Just a bit embarrassing.
Every time I thought of myself as an adult, I goofed like a kid and cursed inwardly. Ugh. Damn. Murasaki. One of those would numb this heat easy.
...Kid stuff.
Anyway, as I carried dishes to the table, the bell on the door jingled.
"Rain, Ain! I'm home~"
That bright voice paired with his massive frame never failed to mismatch.
"Zuben, welcome back. Tough day?"
"Yeah! It was rough."
Dad, with his bearish face, grinned as he approached. Mom went to him for a light hug.
"Welcome home."
"My boy! Whoa, you look taller already!"
"..., Uh. Yeah."
It's been 24 hours—ain't growing that fast. I nodded awkwardly, and Dad grinned wider, scooping me up.
Ah. Here we go.
"Haha, our son's so precocious, it's scary!"
"..., Help."
Beard attack. Dad's love, sure, but I got why kids screamed "no." It hurt, getting poked like that. I thought it every time but didn't push him away.
I endured the affection disguised as beard assault as we moved to the table.
Dinner wrapped up much like that. Mom and Dad chatting and laughing; me nodding along.
Agreeing with Dad's grumble about same-old menu every day, catching Mom's cooling glare.
Such scenes felt warmly familiar, drawing a rare childlike smile from me—before worries resurfaced, stiffening my face.
Belly full, spoon down, parents urging more; I shake my head, but meat lands in my bowl anyway.
I stare in dismay, but one "we love you" and their smiles have me popping it in my mouth.
Through it all, I felt their love. And it unsettled me a bit.
Not the relationship itself, but old doubts plus new dilemmas prodding my gut relentlessly.
"Goodnight."
With that, I headed to my room early—washed up, in pajamas, after bidding them goodnight.
My head was a mess. Had I been arrogant, taking on the gray observer role back then?
As an extra, I should've been content with that life. No need for pointless stubbornness.
But I'd rolled the dice myself. Now choices kept pressing in.
"…."
Creak—
"Son, you asleep?"
Dad's voice, peeking in with just his head.
"Ah..., Not yet."
"I see. Can Dad come in?"
Even entering his own son's room, he checked first. So considerate.
"Of course. Something up?"
"Mm. You looked down during dinner. Thought maybe Dad's beard prank upset you, so I came to apologize."
"...No, it wasn't that."
Still fretting over such tiny things.
"Then something bad happen?"
"..., Nothing bad."
Worrying about me like this.
"Dad worries when his boy's face is gloomy."
"…."
"Hard to talk about?"
"..., I have a dilemma. Don't know which choice is right."
Because of that, I spilled a bit of honesty.
I want to ignore the gray witch. I want to help her.
I couldn't say that much, but I tossed the dilemma's crux at him.
"Er..., Our boy's so mature. Didn't expect such a tough question already, haha…."
"It's fine. I can figure it out alone."
Dad chuckled awkwardly, flustered. It was an odd thing for a kid to say; he was pondering a good fatherly response.
About 30 seconds passed. Then Dad smiled, gently resting a hand on my head.
"Right!"
"…?"
"Dad thinks you should do what you want."
Simple answer. After all that thought, pretty straightforward and solution-free from Dad's mouth.
I tilted my head like a kid, replying.
"..., But it might be wrong."
"That's fine!"
"…."
What the hell's fine? Nothing in this chat was okay, you bear-man.
I didn't voice it, but Dad laughed again.
"You're still a little kid, so mistakes are okay. If it goes wrong, Mom and Dad'll help. Mom feels the same."
"…."
"So no worries—do what you want."
Truly good people. Unnaturally on my side.
I swallowed the fundamental doubt rising inside, nodding carefully.
No real plan, no safety net—yet it oddly soothed me.
"Got it."
"Goodnight, son. Love you."
Dad left with that, and the dark room filled with silence again.
"…."
What I want. Less rational, more emotional pull.
So.
Bang—
"But son, no huge screw-ups, okay…? Dad's scared of Mom mad…."
"..., Yeah."
"Good! Night, son!"
Creak—
Click—
So.
"…."
Hm. A choice where reason and emotion meet halfway.
Let's go with that.