The Inn Named 'Yuram' -3- Hamel's Empty Streets

The empty streets of Hamel.

Thud, thud.

Walking down Hamel's dark streets, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I gazed at the sign of a certain restaurant at the end of the road.

"A wandering restaurant, huh..."

What a tricky name. It was 11 p.m. now. Aside from the few taverns in Hamel, no other eateries had their lights on in these streets—except for this one called Yuram, glowing faintly.

It wasn't the "open for business" light. All the exterior lights were off, so they were probably in the middle of closing up.

'I'll be an unwelcome intruder...'

Customers showing up right at closing time wouldn't be welcome. Honestly, it didn't sit well with me. I'd hate it too if I were them.

There was one reason I'd come to 'Yuram' so late: to uncover the true identity of a woman named Ella.

The favorability window I'd seen at lunch told a whole story. "Lost child." "Shameful mom." And "Misa."

Her genuine love for cooking was nice, but what really caught my eye was a mother's desperate search for something she'd lost.

Especially that name "Misa," which raised a ton of questions.

Let me say upfront: Ella wasn't a total stranger to me.

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠remembered meeting her years ago in the slums, dressed in ragged clothes, during a nostalgic visit.

Her expression, on the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠verge of collapse as she searched for a girl named Misa—it was the kind of memory you couldn't forget even if you tried.

Forgetting it would be impossible.

Back then, Ella meant nothing major to me. Plenty of regretful adults wandered into the slums.

I just figured she was one of them.

Back then, that is.

"..."

Now it was different.

Call it intuition, or maybe a reader's instinct. I'd felt this nagging unease I couldn't shake.

The sense that this woman named Ella was deeply connected to Mihail.

Mihail's mom. Or some close relative.

Misa was a name that never even appeared in the novel, yet here I was, rewriting the story on my own.

I let out a hollow chuckle and took a step toward the shop.

Curiosity demanded confirmation.

Through the glass window, I could see a middle-aged woman cleaning up alone. The staff must have gone home; her solitary figure was striking.

She didn't look much like Mihail at first glance, but thinking of him immediately upon seeing her face was amusing.

"..."

This won't be easy.

I gripped the door handle and paused, recalling a certain scene from the novel.

A moment that had sparked readers' fury and explosive reactions. I stood there, lost in thought.

A bitter smile crossed my lips. As a reader who knew the story's ending, I couldn't view this situation positively.

Their reunion was a tragic bad end, after all.

"..."

I sighed, unable to take sides.

Mihail's side? Her brief backstory in the novel was too heartbreaking.

His mother's side? What she'd done was unforgivable.

I couldn't side with either.

'And it's not even certain. Why am I overthinking this...'

What an idiot.

The question gnawing at me was simple.

—Have you seen a child named Misa?

Misa was a "girl." If Ella was Mihail's mom...

If the person Ella sought was Mihail...

"..."

A new hypothesis formed.

I had to tread carefully.

"Maybe I've read too much of this novel."

With a hollow laugh, I cautiously pulled open the door of the lit restaurant.

Click.

Locked, as expected.

I flashed an awkward smile and slipped a thread of aura through the door crack.

Sorry, but I'd come late hoping for a "chance encounter."

The faint aura quietly unlatched the lock without her noticing. Feeling no resistance on the handle, I gently opened the door and stepped inside.

"Excuse me."

The door creaked. Under the single lantern's glow, Ella, resting there, met my eyes.

She stood in flustered surprise and bowed her head in greeting.

"Sorry, we're closed for the night."

"Ah... really?"

I bowed my head with a disappointed look. Then, muttering softly, "Even just a simple soup...?" I gazed at her, trying to look as hungry and pitiful as possible—irresistible.

"I'll eat fast and leave. I'll pay double... no, five times the price. Come on, how can you say no?"

"...Ah... well..."

Ella hesitated, flustered. Five times the pay was tempting, but she had nothing ready to serve.

Plus, sending away a seemingly starving young man tugged at her heart. She stood there, pondering.

Seeing this, I deliberately turned away.

Couldn't look purposeful. Had to seem natural.

"I shouldn't have asked. Sorry."

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Please, have a seat? I'll get something ready quick."

Luckily, she called me back.

About ten minutes later, I bowed my head over the food on the table.

Cooled bread, warmed soup, and even a quick stir-fried meat—generous treatment for a late-night intruder. It warmed my heart.

"..."

Ella stood by the table, watching me with eyes full of some poignant emotion, gripping her tray with both hands.

I glanced up and asked—just in case something was off—"I'll eat quick and go"—but she snapped out of her daze, waving her hands.

"No, no. Take your time. You just... reminded me of my daughter."

"..."

Got the opening.

I lightly gripped my fork and asked in a puzzled tone,

"Daughter?"

"Yeah, I've got one daughter."

"You don't look old enough. Must be a beauty."

"Haha... no."

"Bet she's a stunner, looking like you."

"..."

Ella gave a distant smile, no reply.

The conversation flowed from light compliments.

Who I was. Where I lived. I'd share a bit, she'd reciprocate. Past stories from me got simple tales from her in return.

And then, drop the right bait to build ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rapport.

"Back in the day, I got beat half to death for one piece of rye bread..."

"Beaten for bread?"

"Ah... truth is, I grew up in the slums. Had to steal to eat."

"You lived in the slums?"

She bit.

"Sorry, random story. Should eat up. My bad."

"Which part of the slums?"

I answered her question.

Questions flew back and forth. My past. Misa's. We toed the line, conversation deepening.

As topics shifted to the main point, her eyes widened at "hope."

And I found my answer.

My steps home were heavy.

"..."

What to say? How to process it? I kept sighing meaninglessly.

—Do you know a child named Misa?

—Think I've heard the name.

I'd lied deliberately.

—Maybe... silver hair, carrying a bear doll?

Uh... how'd you know?

—...

—Yes! That's her... white bear doll, and... that...! Ah! A mole under her right eye.

I'd seen Ella's tears.

Thoughts deepened. Doubts not fully erased, but the Mihail I remembered matched her "Misa"—no room for stubborn denial.

I gazed at the starry night sky and sighed.

'Was it wrong from the start?'

Something had felt off.

The novel's descriptions. The secretive way he never undressed. His unusually small frame.

Now I realized.

Hard to believe, honestly. Even if true, it wouldn't change much.

What to say...

"Haa..."

"Fuck."

Cigarettes crossed my mind—ones I'd never smoked.

Inside the pitch-black mansion.

"Hmph."

Olivia, waiting for Ricardo, leaned against the window, picking her nose.

"No chocolate."

Olivia wanted chocolate.