Gentle Words and Recalled Names
Another ordinary morning, no different from any other. I stumbled out of bed in a disheveled state and into the living room, where the old man sat in his rocking chair, sipping tea, to greet me.
"Awake at last? What a fine morning, eh."
"Good morning-eyo."
"I've got to head into the forest today, gather some firewood. We're almost out."
"I'll help-eyo."
Hold on a second. This idiotic way of speaking wasn't because I had low intelligence—not at all. This was purely part of the old man's enforced "language correction" regimen.
His reasoning went something like this: "Your words are too sharp and pointy right now. Let's smooth them out, make them nice and round."
Of course, I rebelled fiercely. But when he raised that heavy cane and tapped it against my forehead, surprisingly, the most brain-dead speech pattern from my previous life—the one I despised most—came spilling out of my mouth unbidden.
And so, the first step in treating my "defects" was settled: the idiot speech pattern.
"Dear, could you gather up those branches over there and bring them back?"
"Got it-eyo."
"Evel, go along and help her out."
"Yes!"
I trudged into the forest, and the girl scampered after me.
"Together!"
"I said don't follow-eyo. I can do it alone-eyo."
"Still wanna help!"
The girl no longer seemed afraid of me. Over the past few days, my newly rounded speech had apparently made her feel an odd sense of familiarity. So now, whatever I did, she'd tag along right at my side.
"I said go away-eyo."
"Why-eyo? You'll be bored alone."
"It's annoying-eyo."
I didn't like this girl. I didn't know why. I just didn't.
"Hey."
"Don't talk to me-eyo. Can't focus-eyo."
"Look at this! Pretty pebble."
The girl finally blocked my path and held out her dirt-caked palm. On it lay a single smooth, glossy stone.
"Found it by the river. It sparkles."
The old man had definitely done something to my head. Even though I hated it, the dopey speech bubbled out naturally.
"Hurry up and pick the branches so we can go back-eyo. Before I smack your jaw."
"Eee?!"
But it wasn't absolute. Sometimes, when irritation boiled over, sharp words slipped out before I knew it. Mostly when I was with the girl.
I gathered the dry twigs and brought them back to the old man, who asked casually,
"Dear, how about it? Any names coming back to you?"
"As if-eyo."
"Heh heh. I see. Take your time and think it over."
I stared at him in disbelief, but he just smiled faintly. I sighed.
As if changing my speech alone would bring back my memories.
After that, things proceeded as usual. Mornings began with me wolfing down steaming stew, then tilling the garden under the harsh sun with a hoe. Idyllic days of being tailed by a brat who gifted me shiny pebbles or flowers.
At first, everything felt awkward and novel, but I soon melted into their lives.
While tending the garden, a baby fox—sneaking out without its mother—would sometimes poke around. The silver-haired girl would creep up stealthily, and the naive little fox would nuzzle her hand, acting all cute.
But every time, I'd yell loudly and chase it off. Foxes, along with wild boars, were the prime culprits ruining the garden.
The girl would puff out her cheeks in a huff and storm off into the woods somewhere. When she returned, she'd thrust out her filthy hands, offering me dogtail grass.
Then, at midday when the sun hung highest, the girl would learn magic under the old man's guidance. I'd watch quietly, but the moment she closed her eyes and started mumbling incantations, I'd inevitably interfere.
"Can't tolerate this-eyo."
"What're you doing?!"
Disrupting her focus on purpose, then rewarding her indignant outburst with a flick to the forehead. A fulfilling routine.
"Waaah!"
Once she burst into tears, I'd inevitably have to write a reflection essay. The first few times, my hand moved on its own, twisting the content into something weird, but thankfully, that phenomenon faded with time.
"Can't tolerate it-eyo."
"Waaah!"
Yet the habit of getting riled up whenever she practiced magic wouldn't fix itself.
Her cries grew louder by the day, and the parchment in the shed dwindled dangerously.
After a few repetitions, the old man changed his disciplinary approach. Before I could disrupt her practice and make her cry, he'd have me write the reflection in advance.
Prepaid reflections, like medieval indulgences. But amazingly, it worked.
That day, the girl completed her practice unscathed—for the first time. Because my hands were busy writing reflections the whole time I watched.
Then, a faint realization dawned on me.
'If I write the reflection before hitting, there's no need to hit at all.'
I applied this wisdom by always carrying parchment and a quill in my pocket. Whenever the girl did something stupid and I itched to smack her, I'd pull them out and scribble away.
Don't hit your friend. Don't yell at your friend, and so on.
And get this. Miraculously, I stopped laying hands on the girl entirely.
The power of prepaid reflections was tremendous...
Life in the forest cabin flowed by with boring predictability. But subtle changes crept in.
We tended the garden, tamed visiting foxes and stroked them, roamed the woods with the dirt-grimed girl. At lunch, I'd watch her magic practice and write lines.
[Don't interfere with your friend's studies.]
Repeating that sentence cooled the sticky rage bubbling inside me.
As dusk fell and the shadows of ancient trees blanketed the cabin roof, we'd shake the dirt from our boots and head home.
The aroma of bread and soup on the table tickled our noses just as the old man, dinner preparations complete, welcomed us with a kindly smile.
We washed our growling bellies' demands away, sat at the table, and picked up our spoons...
"Dear. Any memories today?"
The old man asked his ritual question.
I meant to snap back curtly, as always.
'Don't know-eyo. Stop asking-eyo.'
Something sharp like that.
But today felt different. The silver-haired girl staring at me with a spoon in her mouth. The old man's wrinkled face flickering in the firelight.
Their faces seemed unusually vivid today. I stared at them alternately...
"...Evel, Zepeto."
I opened my mouth slowly.
"Heh heh."
Zepeto chuckled, stroking his beard. Deep wrinkles formed around his eyes.
"Yes. You've finally rounded out a bit."
No sooner had Zepeto finished than the girl across from me—Evel—leapt up.
"Waaah! You remembered! You remembered my name!"
Evel dashed around the table and threw herself into my arms.
Irritation surged.
"Get off-eyo!"
"Hehe. Good thing. Was worried you'd turned into an idiot."
I sighed deeply and looked at Zepeto. He wore the contented expression of a grandfather watching his grandkids play.
"Then... your name?"
Zepeto asked again.
"Do you remember your own?"
My name. I thought back to my previous life's name.
Nothing. Nor this life's. Family, servants, White Tower folk.
No names of anyone I'd ever met came back.
"That... still don't know-eyo."
But one thing was certain.
Evel and Zepeto. Those two names wouldn't slip away again.
It had been six months since I arrived at the cabin.
"But does this even make sense?"
"Tsk tsk. Mind your words."
"Does it make sense-eyo?"
Just changing my speech patterns had restored my cognition. Curing amnesia with idiot talk—does that even make sense?
"Words are vessels for the heart."
After dinner, I followed Zepeto out of the cabin.
The midnight forest was pitch black. I advanced relying on the lantern in his hand.
How far did we walk? Zepeto finally stopped, stepped beside me, and said,
"The more you deny the world's logic and act sharply, the more the world bounces you away. It's not that you've forgotten—it's that the world is hiding information from you."
Sounds like the White Tower elders' vague ramblings. My scoff was inevitable.
"So the world's bullying me-eyo? Childish-eyo."
"Something like that. This world is far more emotional and fluid than you think."
He drew a circle on the ground with his cane. Soon, a campfire-sized flame erupted, illuminating our surroundings.
A clear "Phenomenon"-stage magic display.
"What do you think of this?"
"Nothing special-eyo. Warm-eyo."
"Heh heh. Really? How about this?"
Zepeto gestured, and the flame swelled larger. It danced and flickered along the path of his waving hand.
"And now?"
"Oh. That's kinda cool-eyo."
"Is it?"
Zepeto gestured again into the air. The rising flame floated up. It held its flickering shape, then morphed into a small bird.
Flutter.
The flame-bird even made convincing wing-flap sounds as it circled me once before alighting lightly on Zepeto's shoulder.
"Now?"
Instead of answering, I pulled out parchment and scribbled.
[Don't attack the old man. Respect your elders.]
"Hahaha!"
Zepeto laughed louder than usual at the sight.
"Now I get it. What your inner thing reacts to."
"What's that-eyo?"
Whoosh.
The flame-bird flew back to the ground, reverting to its campfire size. The bubbling displeasure inside me subsided.
"Dear. Do you hate magic?"
"Not really-eyo. Wanna try it myself-eyo."
"That's a relief. Then how about this."
Zepeto smiled and opened his mouth.
"Destiny."
I flinched. Reflex.
I fumbled into my pocket.
"Heart Image?"
Parchment out, quill in hand. My hand scribbled furiously.
[Respect your elders. Don't hit the old man.]
"Heh heh. Just as I thought."
Zepeto stroked his beard, intrigued by my reaction.
"What even is Destiny, Heart Image-eyo?"
"Destiny is the vessel. The unique form the world handed you when it sent you here."
Zepeto chuckled at my curt question and explained.
"Heart Image is the water that fills it. Depending on the mindset you hold, the image you paint, that water becomes poison or medicine. Mages are the artists who shape that water."
As expected. More vague nonsense.
"Dear. You hate those two things?"
"Not hate-eyo. Can't accept them-eyo. Irrational stuff shouldn't exist-eyo."
I still didn't know why I couldn't accept them. Everything else I could shrug off, but why those?
"Right, acceptance. That's the issue."
Zepeto tapped my chest with his cane.
"You don't have to accept them."
"White Tower drilled it into me till my ears bled-eyo."
"Those stiff-necked tower fools."
Zepeto grinned mischievously and cut me off.
"I don't want you to accept Destiny. No need to understand it. Just..."
He paused, then gave a clear answer.
"Respect it."
"Respect?"
"Yes. Acceptance happens when it fits your logic. Respect is accepting its existence even if it clashes with your logic."
I pondered deeply.
Acceptance versus respect. Internalization versus othering.
"No need to shove your standards onto existing phenomena and get mad. Just step back and observe. That's respect."
Zepeto's words held strange persuasive power. He wasn't forcing anything into me. Wasn't remodeling my ideology.
Just offering a compromise.
"No need to accept. No need to understand. Just brush it off with 'eh, that exists too.' The first step is rounding yourself out."
He grinned, pulling a candy from his pocket and handing it to me.
"Be kind to the world, and it'll return your names. Simple trade."
I unwrapped the candy and popped it in. Real strawberry, made with actual fruit, not fake flavor.
"Got it-eyo."
"Thanks for understanding. Shall we head back? Evel's waiting."
Zepeto and I held hands toward the cabin. The darkness was dangerous, the lantern one—we needed to clasp hands to navigate.
"But is changing my speech really magic-eyo?"
"It is."
"Undo it-eyo. I'll respect from now on-eyo."
"Heh heh. A bit early yet."
"I said undo-eyo."
Sweetness lingered on my tongue, warmth from our clasped hands.