The Name of the First Morning
Morning sunlight fell across the night’s events as if nothing at all had happened.
When the Saintess opened her eyes, the warmth of the body behind her reached her first.
Only then did the unfamiliar ache rise faintly from deep inside her.
Breath close against her back.
Legs carefully tangled beneath the blanket.
The faint traces of tears still clinging to the corners of eyes that had opened and closed again and again through the night.
And, lingering slowly in the deepest part of her body, the afterglow of last night.
The Saintess clutched the edge of the blanket and swallowed her breath.
Sunlight pouring in from the window stretched long across the white sheets.
It was nothing like the dawn light that once filtered through the stained glass of the temple.
This light settled quietly not upon an altar, but upon the edge of the blanket and the back of the Saintess’s hand.
This really is the Hero’s world.
And she herself had opened her eyes upon a bed in that world.
The Saintess carefully moved the tips of her fingers. The moment they closed around the edge of the blanket, the memories of last night rose with that small motion.
The voice that had called her name so carefully.
The hands that had stopped again and again before drawing near once more.
The low breath that had asked if it hurt, that had checked whether she was all right.
The instant she tried to push herself up even a little, a faint soreness bloomed low in her belly.
“…….”
The Saintess drew in a small breath.
It was too mild to call true pain, yet too clear to dismiss as nothing. The fact that she had truly been joined with him last night remained inside her body before any words could form.
Shame flooded her face.
Reflexively she pulled the blanket up to her chest. And because of that movement she saw the faint mark left upon the sheet. Dried light touched by sunlight made it look smaller and sharper still.
At first she looked away.
But soon her gaze returned to it.
The faint stain had dried small beneath the morning sun.
Looking at it, the Saintess found herself remembering not how much it had hurt, but the hand she had held onto until the very end.
Beneath the blanket she gently brought her two hands together.
Goddess.
The prayer never left her lips.
Yet her heart, out of long habit, sought that name first.
I really… have been joined with the Hero.
When she repeated it all the way through in her mind, the corners of her eyes grew hot again.
The name she had lifted at the end of every prayer for three years now slept quietly at her side.
The Saintess carefully turned her head.
The Hero still lingered at the edge of deep sleep. His face lay half-hidden in sunlight and the shadow of the blanket. Only the line of his shoulder and arm, and the weight of the hand that had held her through the night, remained close.
Beside the faint mark on the sheet, the Hero’s hand rested near.
It was the hand he had never let go of all night long.
The strength in the fingertips clutching the blanket eased a little.
When the Saintess curled more tightly into the covers, the Hero beside her drew in a low breath. The sound of someone waking. He stayed still a moment, then turned his face toward her.
“Ria.”
His voice was a little rough with morning.
Instead of answering, the Saintess pulled the blanket higher. Seeing that, the Hero fell silent for a beat. He had called her name any number of times last night, yet waking to look at each other like this in the morning was the first time.
“Are you all right?”
the Hero asked.
At once he lowered the end of the sentence.
“No—your body too, and… just, this is the first morning like this for me.”
At those words the Saintess blinked.
Even after correcting himself the Hero could not quite settle into a posture. His fingertips stiffened awkwardly on the bed.
In that clumsy silence, a small laugh rose in the Saintess as well.
“It’s the first time for me too.”
The Hero’s hand paused.
With that single sentence the air between them loosened a little.
The Saintess lowered her gaze and added,
“It’s still… unfamiliar. My body, and my heart.”
“Does it hurt a lot?”
The Saintess started to say she was fine, then closed her lips.
There had been moments last night when she had tried to say the same thing and stopped. Strength entered the hand gripping the edge of the blanket.
“It hurts. But…”
She held the blanket tightly.
“When your hand is touching me, Hero, it feels a little better.”
Her face flushed deeper. Somehow the words she had just spoken felt far too honest.
“And… I don’t want to be alone.”
The Hero listened and said nothing for a long while.
Soon his hand came slowly and settled over the back of hers. Not the hot, gripping hand of last night, but a hand carefully checking in the morning light.
“Then let’s take it slowly together.”
At that the Saintess nodded.
Slowly.
She pressed the word quietly into her heart.
The first night, the first morning, life on Earth—everything was still strange.
Yet it was something she could learn one piece at a time at his side.
Thinking that, her breathing eased a little.
A moment later the Hero picked up the white T-shirt that had been lying beside the bed.
“Want to put this on for now? Your clothes… I was so out of it yesterday I didn’t get anything ready properly.”
The Saintess accepted the T-shirt.
It was the Hero’s. The cotton that met her fingertips was soft, and a little of his warmth still lingered in the fabric.
She carefully covered herself beneath the blanket. Even the simple act of rising fully brought shame with it. The Hero sat on the edge of the bed and waited in silence while she drew the cloth up.
The T-shirt was large on the Saintess.
The shoulder line slipped a little, the body hung loose, and the hem fell nearly to her thighs. It was less proper clothing than something thrown on for the moment.
Even so the Saintess held the hem tightly in her hands.
It was the first morning clothes she had worn in this world.
It was the Hero’s T-shirt.
The path from the bedroom to the table was very short.
Crossing the threshold, the warmth of the blanket gave way to the bright air of the living room against her bare legs. The Saintess tugged the hem of the T-shirt down once more and walked slowly toward the table.
The apartment living room was bright. Beyond the large window the Han River glimmered faintly. The unfamiliar furniture, the neatly ordered kitchen, the cool smooth table still felt distant.
Yet when she saw the bread and milk on the table, something shifted a little.
The Saintess listened for a moment. There was no voice reciting the pre-meal prayer, no footsteps of servants preparing the dishes.
Instead two plates and two cups stood side by side.
Not one, but two.
The Hero transferred bread to a plate and spoke a little sheepishly.
“Too simple, right?”
The Saintess started to sit and hesitated slightly. The lingering sensation in her body made her careful with her posture.
The Hero’s hand rose reflexively, then quietly lowered again when he saw her settle into the chair.
The Saintess smiled faintly at that clumsy gesture.
“It’s all right. I can sit.”
“Yeah.”
The Hero answered shortly, yet still looked worried.
The Saintess carefully took her seat. She drew the hem of the T-shirt down toward her knees and adjusted her posture. Even that small movement made her face flush. The fact that she was sitting at the table wearing only the Hero’s shirt felt newly vivid.
She picked up a piece of bread.
It was the most ordinary bread. The surface that met her fingertips was soft and a little warm. She carefully took a bite.
“Does it taste bad?”
the Hero asked.
The Saintess shook her head.
“No. It’s good.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She chewed slowly, then took a sip of milk.
The cold milk sliding down her throat laid the coolness of morning clearly over the heat that had lasted through the night. The bread in her hand, the milk against her lips, the sunlight coming through the window—all of it held her here at once.
“So this is… how you eat breakfast.”
The Hero looked at her.
The Saintess gazed down at the plate and cup on the table as she spoke.
“Waking in the same bed and sitting at the same table… it feels more real, more slowly, than last night did.”
At that the Hero was silent a moment.
Then he answered low,
“Same for me.”
It was a short reply.
At the bottom of the cup opposite her a little moisture still remained.
A trace he would never have left if he had been eating breakfast alone.
The Hero’s hands folded the bread bag, closed the milk carton, and nudged his own plate a little closer to hers.
They were nothing special, those small touches.
Yet as they accumulated one by one on the table, the morning took on a shape different from the mornings he had eaten alone.
The meal continued quietly.
There were no elaborate words.
They still had few jokes that were familiar between them.
Though they had become husband and wife, they still felt like people who had not even finished their first day of courtship.
While the Saintess gathered bread crumbs with her fingertips, the Hero spoke suddenly.
“Today let’s buy your clothes first.”
The Saintess lifted her head.
“My clothes?”
“Yeah. If you’re going to live here you’ll need comfortable ones.”
He paused mid-sentence.
The next word came a beat late from his lips.
“And… underwear too. Whatever feels comfortable for you.”
“Underwear…”
The tips of the Saintess’s ears turned red.
That single word briefly called back the memory of last night. How clumsy she had been beneath the blanket, how carefully he had held her hand.
She looked down at the T-shirt she was wearing.
It was the Hero’s.
A large, warm garment that still carried the scent of the person who had held her through the night.
After today, her own clothes would hang somewhere in this house as well.
One section of the closet.
One drawer.
Perhaps even a pair of shoes set beside the front door.
The Saintess asked carefully,
“May I choose them myself?”
The Hero looked at her as if a little surprised, then smiled softly.
“Of course.”
And he added,
“I’m not exactly an expert at this kind of thing. Let’s pick them together.”
“Together?”
“Yeah. They’re your things now too.”
Those words stayed long in the Saintess’s heart.
Your things.
That simple phrase settled in the center of her chest.
She had not yet been fully recognized as a permanent resident. She could not walk outside alone, and tests still remained. There was still little she could truly call her own.
Yet the Hero had spoken as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Let’s choose them together.
A careful smile rose to the Saintess’s lips.
“Then… we’re really preparing to live here.”
“Yeah.”
The Hero looked at her a moment, then nodded a little awkwardly.
“The two of us.”
At those words the Saintess’s fingertips stiffened on the rim of the cup.
The two of us.
She set the empty cup down and looked at the Hero sitting opposite her.
He was folding the bread bag. Closing the milk carton, pushing the empty plate a little aside, withdrawing his hand so he would not touch the piece of bread she had not yet finished.
When the Saintess lifted her cup his gaze followed; when she shifted slightly in her chair his hand paused for a moment.
The Hero picked up his own cup, then set it down again.
“Eat slowly.”
The words came out a little awkwardly, so the Saintess smiled softly.
A few bread crumbs still remained on the table, and the sunlight beyond the window stretched past the table all the way to the floor near the entrance.
The Saintess caught the hem of the T-shirt that had fallen beneath the table once more.
It was the same clothes she had put on in the bedroom. Yet now that garment hung not beneath the blanket but under the morning table.
Beside the front door the Hero’s shoes and the temporary shoes she had received from the Bureau stood side by side.
They fit her feet, yet she had not chosen them with her own hands.
Today she would take his hand and step outside the house.
The small empty space next to the temporary shoes lay quietly at the edge of the sunlight.