A Dream Too Vivid
Beyond unsettling, the dream had been dizzyingly vivid. I woke drenched in cold sweat, nails scraping at the nape of my neck as I squinted blearily back into reality. The chill dawn air brushed against my skin, making my body tremble on its own. Lying there any longer wouldn’t bring sleep back. Since the dream had already roused me, I might as well start the day early. Today was finally the day I returned to the home I hadn’t sent a single letter to in two years.
‘…Please don’t let that dream turn out to be a prophecy.’
After whispering the desperate wish in my heart, I left the room that had become my second home. From the lodging, I headed straight for the early-morning market. As in any world, the faint blue haze still clinging to the sky marked the beginning of the day. The shops lining both sides of the street had no intention of leaving passersby’s coin purses untouched. Colorful toy displays tempted parents with children. Novice apothecaries offered cheap but crude potions to mercenaries who could never stray far from conflict. There were snacks to cure boredom, vendors selling vegetables and fruits that fed Windren’s tables, and merchants hawking hay, provisions, and water to coachmen bound for distant lands. Every direction pulled at the eye, yet my destination was clear.
One of the shops the hunched old men were eyeing. Most of those browsers were coachmen leaving for other regions today or tomorrow, comparing prices at a glance. I wasn’t buying water or fodder in bulk, though, so wasting time comparing every stall felt pointless.
“Welcome. What can I get you?”
I stopped in front of a random stall and scanned the display. A gruff voice called from inside. Raising a single index finger so the bearded man could see, I said, “Just one waterskin, filled to the brim, please.”
“Only water? No jerky?”
The merchant sounded puzzled. Here, po referred to dried jerky. It was an essential provision for long journeys, but if I moved at a decent pace, the trip from Windren to Pardin wouldn't even take a full day.
“Yes. I’m not going far.”
After giving that answer, I held out the waterskin. While water gurgled into it, I stared blankly at the jerky on display. Food eaten while traveling by carriage was usually just nuts or jerky. Being able to eat properly cooked meals three times a day even on the road would be ideal, but lighting a fire inside a wooden carriage was impossible, and stopping the carriage just to cook would delay arrival. Because of that, most people traveling by carriage adopted the mindset of “just fill up on jerky and eat properly once we arrive.” If you really craved a hot meal, you had to wait until the carriage was forced to stop anyway—usually in the dead of night when a fire could be lit. Fresh ingredients also didn’t last more than three days at room temperature. Winter travel wasn’t any better; while summer brought worries about spoilage, winter brought the cold. People said “it’s freezing to death” when it got too cold, and here that wasn’t an exaggeration. There were stories of mercenaries who froze to death after putting on airs with inadequate clothing.
“Here, filled it right up. Two bronze coins.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
While I’d been lost in thought, a thick, root-like arm extended the waterskin from behind the display. I took it from the hairy forearm and handed over two bronze coins. The once-flattened leather waterskin now bulged, sloshing proudly. A single waterskin was dirt cheap even by commoner standards. In actual medieval times, water had supposedly been more expensive than alcohol—an odd thought.
‘Well, whatever.’
Shrugging as I left the stall, I dismissed the stray thought. If everything here were forced to match reality down to the last detail, this place would already be a plague-ridden hell where women were burned as witches and streets teemed with filth and rats. After all, there was that saying about “the good being good enough.” Even if it lacked strict historical accuracy, this world still ran on interlocking gears. More important than nitpicking realism was today’s first meal.
‘What should I eat…?’
Tying the sloshing waterskin to my belt, I wandered between nearby stalls while mulling it over. There was still plenty of time before the lunch I’d promised the old coachman, so I gave my stomach—which wasn’t even hungry—a light rub. I wasn’t hungry yet, but skipping food entirely felt risky for later. Once we departed, I’d be stuck in the carriage for hours; enduring that without eating anything seemed unwise.
Just as that thought crossed my mind…
‘Hm?’
The smell of baking bread tickled my nose and seized both my appetite and my feet. Perhaps because the warmth spread through the chilly air, the scent felt especially intense. It wasn’t just plain dough baking. There was meat and sauce mixed in as well… A fragrance both unfamiliar and strangely familiar. My feet were already following it.
The smell led me to a restaurant. Usually a bakery would have tempting loaves visible through thin glass windows, but this place had no distinctive features except for a chimney pipe sticking out the side. Still, the white smoke puffing from the chimney and the irresistible aroma made it clear the shop was open even at this early hour.
Breakfast today would be here. Nowhere else would do. Following the instinctive urge, I flung open the door to the shop whose interior I couldn’t even see.
“Welcome—”
The moment I stepped inside, a rough, monotone male voice and a wave of heat greeted me. A man sat behind the counter with his back to the entrance, using the kitchen space like an armrest. He paid no attention to customers. The shop was dim even in broad daylight, and the rich smell of bread hung thick in the air. At least the source of the smell was definitely here. There was just no menu board anywhere. After glancing around, I finally spoke toward the counter.
“Um… is this a restaurant?”
“Yeah, it is.”
The curt reply came without a shred of politeness. The shopkeeper wore only a thin shirt in the middle of winter. Whatever he found so entertaining, his eyes stayed glued to a book and never once looked my way. Did this man even want to do business? Still, I’d come in to eat, so…
Just as I was about to ask what was on the menu, the man snapped his book shut and stood up abruptly. Holding what looked like a shovel, he disappeared down a passage visible even from outside the counter.
‘He didn’t even take my order.’
Separate from that question, scraping sounds came from inside the passage. It sounded like metal scraping against metal. Judging by the circumstances, he was probably doing something with the shovel he’d carried in. While my doubts spiraled into a maze with no exit, the man returned carrying a bowl and set it in front of me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Naturally, from my perspective—having never ordered anything—it was baffling.
“…I didn’t order anything.”
“There’s only one menu.”
When I tilted my head in confusion, the blunt answer came back. Setting my bewilderment aside for the moment, I examined the food on the table. It had arrived only minutes after I entered. A round, baked bread divided into eight slices with various toppings in the center. Though I was seeing it for the first time in this world, it was something my knowledge recognized.
‘…That’s pizza.’
The dough baked with a slight char from the oven, the sauce—though not tomato-based—generously applied along with cheese and meat. It was, without exaggeration, a taste that transcended eras. The potentially dry meat was covered by the richness of cheese, and any blandness was masked by the intense flavor of the sauce. Maybe because last night’s meal had been below expectations, I polished off an entire pie right there in my seat. The taste was slightly different from the pizza in my faint memories, but even accounting for local adaptation, it was excellent. Had there been a recovery item like this? I wasn’t sure about the finer recovery items in the outer cities. How much stamina did this dish restore? In any case, satisfied with the meal, I handed the empty bowl to the counter and asked, “How much?”
“Twenty bronze coins.”
After counting out twenty coins from my pouch, I handed them to the man whose speech was far too curt. Remembering the smell that had lured me in before I even entered, I asked out of curiosity, “By the way, were you already baking before any customers arrived?”
Considering the timing of the smell and when the man had moved, the aroma that had bewitched me was from the very pizza I’d just eaten. The man glanced up briefly at the sudden question, then lowered his head again and answered flatly, “If I just sit here baking, people who want to eat will come on their own.”
‘Ah.’
Only then did I realize I had been a fish that had thoroughly taken the bait called “smell.”
After leaving the restaurant, I checked my equipment and handled various tasks until lunchtime arrived. The time had come to board the carriage that would take me home—a prospect that filled me with dread.