The Everyday We Chose for the First Time
In the Bureau's records, it would remain a day of escorted outing for the purchase of daily necessities.
But for the Saintess, it was the first morning she stepped outside the house with the Hero.
She stood in the middle of the living room and looked down at herself.
A beige dress.
It was the same outfit she had worn when she arrived on Earth the day before—the dress that had walked the Bureau's corridors with her, crossed the threshold of the Hero's home, carried her through their first night, and sat with her at the breakfast table that morning.
The Saintess smoothed the hem once with her fingertips.
The fabric fell as neatly as it had yesterday.
And yet, to her fingertips, it already felt like a dress that had absorbed the residue of an unfamiliar day.
But the hands that had just arranged the hem soon stopped again.
Near the entryway, the Hero was taking out a pair of temporary shoes.
When she slipped her feet in, the size was right.
Only the fabric wrapping the top of her foot felt a little stiff.
The Saintess flexed her toes once.
The shoes followed, but the sensation across her instep was still a little strange.
"This outfit… is it all right?"
The Hero, still holding the shoes, lifted his head.
He paused a moment before answering.
In that silence, the Saintess pressed her fingertips to her waistline for no good reason.
Yesterday there had been no time to think about clothes.
Today she would have to step outside at his side in that same attire.
"It's fine."
The Hero said it, then added a beat later,
"You're pretty."
The tips of the Saintess's ears went red.
"It's the same dress I wore yesterday."
"Yesterday I didn't get a proper look."
Only after he said it did he press his lips briefly shut.
The Saintess gripped the fabric of her skirt a little tighter.
Last night she had passed through a far deeper shame.
And yet hearing that she was pretty in the living room in broad daylight was a different kind of fluster entirely—one that prickled in another direction.
The Hero stood by the entryway.
His hand rose once, but the Saintess bent first and pressed down the heel of her shoe herself.
She smoothed her hem below her knees on her own as well.
His hand lowered quietly before it could reach her.
In the end, the words he offered were short.
"Let's go."
The Saintess nodded.
When the front door opened, the air of the apartment corridor slipped in between them. Without thinking, she fell half a step behind him. It was the habit of following a guide through unfamiliar places—the same way she had walked the agency corridors, boarded the Bureau's car, and first entered this home.
But when they stood side by side in front of the elevator, that half-step of distance suddenly caught her eye.
The Saintess edged carefully over to his side.
The Hero shifted one step aside as well.
The two of them were reflected in the elevator doors.
The Saintess, neatly dressed, and the Hero in casual outdoor clothes.
On paper, they already shared the same address.
But between the two figures mirrored in the doors, enough space remained for a single hand.
That distance was reflected exactly on the elevator doors.
The doors opened, and the two of them left the apartment together.
The air at the edge of spring was still a little cold. The sunlight was bright, but the wind still carried a trace of winter that had not fully left. The Saintess slowly took in the street signs of a neighborhood she was seeing for the first time, the roadside trees, the small cafés and convenience stores.
In books, Earth's cities had always been vast.
The streets of Myeongdong had overwhelmed her with too much light and too many people.
This neighborhood street was lower, closer.
There were cars passing quickly and traffic lights, but people walked at their own paces. Someone carried coffee, someone held a child's hand, someone passed by looking at a phone.
And in the middle of that ordinary street, she was standing with the Hero.
At first, both of them walked with empty hands.
The Saintess folded and unfolded her free hand once.
His hand was right beside her—close enough to touch, or almost.
Last night, that hand had reassured her again and again.
It had brushed her forehead, supported her waist, and slowly laced its fingers through hers.
His hand shifted a little beside her, then stopped.
The backs of their hands nearly met, then a small gap opened again.
The Saintess swallowed as she looked at that gap.
Asking for directions would have come easily, but the words she needed now only turned over inside her throat.
The Hero curled his fingertips once, then opened them again.
People stopped at the crosswalk.
The Saintess stopped with them. The red light of the signal floated on the far side. Cars passed, and the wind lightly stirred the hem of her dress.
In that moment, the Hero's hand moved a little.
At the same time, the Saintess moved her fingertips.
The empty distance between them shrank by the smallest measure, and the backs of their hands touched first.
Then their fingers found each other.
The Saintess held her breath.
His fingers carefully wound between hers.
The light turned green.
Only after the other people began to move did the two of them take a step.
The Saintess looked down at her hand.
"Your hand…"
The voice slipped out small.
The Hero turned his head.
"May I hold it?"
Asking while already holding it was so absurd that she flushed to the end of the sentence.
The Hero smiled a little.
"Yeah."
That short answer was so tender that her fingers stayed right where they were inside his hand.
The warmth against her palm caught again, a little each time she took a step.
While they crossed, their joined hands swayed lightly with their stride. The signal tone, the sound of cars, the footsteps of people passed around them. And yet, before any of those sounds, there was the warmth in her palm.
"It's strange."
the Saintess said.
"What is?"
"Yesterday we did things far more embarrassing… and yet this makes me tremble more."
The slightest pressure entered his hand.
The answer came a beat late.
"Me too."
Startled, she looked at him.
"You too, Hero?"
"Yeah."
He spoke while looking ahead.
His voice had dropped a little.
"It's my first time walking hand in hand with a girlfriend."
The Saintess slowed her steps slightly.
Girlfriend.
The word settled inside her for the first time.
Wife.
Couple.
Marriage.
Words that had been written on paper.
Words that had passed through her whole body under the blankets last night.
But girlfriend touched her a little differently.
Much lighter—and before it could even melt on her tongue, it tickled somewhere deep in her chest.
The Saintess rolled the word very small inside her mouth.
"Girlfriend…"
Instead of answering, the Hero wrapped their joined hands more deeply in his own.
And so the two of them entered the shopping street.
On both sides of the road, small clothing shops and general stores, cafés and bakeries stretched in a line. Different colors of clothes hung in every display window, and each time a glass door opened, warm indoor air and music spilled out.
The first place they stopped was a shoe store.
They would start, it seemed, by choosing something for the empty spot beside the entryway.
The Saintess paused for a moment inside the shop. Low heels, sneakers, and neat flat shoes stood in rows.
The temporary shoes she had received from the Bureau the day before fit her feet.
But with every step, the pressure across her instep had been the first thing she felt.
"Just pick something comfortable."
the Hero said.
The Saintess nodded and carefully lifted the neatest-looking pair of low ivory shoes.
A clerk checked the size for her.
She sat on a chair and changed into them.
The new shoes did not press hard against her instep. There was a little room at the toes as well. When she carefully stood, the Hero stepped back one pace to give her space to walk.
The Saintess took two or three steps.
The floor beneath her soles supported her a little more softly.
Softer than the temporary shoes she had worn through the Bureau's corridors, and the way her feet gripped the ground felt easier, too.
"How are they?"
"They're comfortable."
The Saintess looked down at her feet.
Before long, these shoes would sit beside his.
While she gazed at the new pair, the Hero's steps slowed for a moment as well.
Walking toward the register, he said quietly,
"Then let's go with these."
The Saintess left the shop in her new shoes.
Her stride had changed, just a little.
The clothing store they entered next was warm. Clothes for various seasons were arranged along the walls, and cardigans, skirts, and blouses hung from a rack in the center.
At first the Saintess stood still, not knowing where to begin looking.
In the other world, most of what she wore had been decided for her. Saintess robes, ceremonial dress, a few sets of private clothes permitted by the temple.
A white cardigan.
A beige long skirt.
A pale pink blouse.
A thin knit and a comfortable indoor dress.
Her fingertips hesitated in front of the rack.
Not saintess robes, not ceremonial dress, not the private clothes the temple allowed.
Which garment to touch first was something she would have to decide now.
Watching her, the Hero swallowed a smile.
He had originally meant to buy what they needed quickly today. A few comfortable outdoor outfits, indoor clothes, underthings, sleepwear.
But every time the Saintess stopped in front of a display, his steps slowed with hers.
The fabric she carefully touched.
The eyes that looked up at him while still holding his hand.
The steps that were still careful even in new shoes.
Every time she smiled a little in front of a display, the shopping list in his hand slipped a little further down.
A date.
The moment the word rose, he cleared his throat for no reason.
"Shall we start over there?"
The Saintess nodded.
She carefully reached out.
A soft white cardigan met her fingertips. Beside it hung a beige long skirt. She held the two garments up side by side, then looked toward the Hero.
"Clothes like these… is it all right for me to wear them?"
The Hero started to answer at once, then stopped.
It's fine.
They'll suit you.
You should try them on.
There was plenty he could say.
But the Saintess was waiting for his answer with both hands lightly holding the edge of the cardigan.
It was not the stiff face she had worn at the Bureau counter.
Her eyes had risen carefully, and her fingertips could not let go of the fabric.
In the end, he lost every carefully chosen word.
"Whatever Ria wears will look pretty."
The Saintess's eyes went round.
"That… isn't very helpful for choosing clothes, is it?"
Only then did the Hero review his far-too-obvious answer and laugh quietly.
"Is that so."
"Yes. But still…"
She drew the cardigan in her hands lightly against her chest.
"It makes me feel good."
At that, he lost his words again.
As if taking the opening, the Saintess lowered her head.
"Then I'll try these on first."
The fitting-room curtain closed.
The Hero waited outside.
From beyond the curtain came the soft sound of fabric brushing.
It was nothing much to wait for, and yet his fingertips felt awkward.
He thought of the Saintess's hand he had been holding until a moment ago. The hand they had joined on the street had trembled more carefully, more strangely, than it had last night.
From inside the curtain, the sound of clothes shifting came again.
He looked around the shop for no reason. The clothes on the rack, the mirror on the wall, the register, the closed curtain again.
Then the curtain carefully opened.
The Saintess stepped out.
The white cardigan suited her silver hair beautifully. The beige long skirt swayed softly with every step, and she stood holding the hem lightly in both hands.
The Hero forgot even to ask about the sleeve length, and for a moment went still before the fingertips gripping the skirt.
She asked carefully,
"How is it?"
He answered faster than he meant to.
"Pretty."
Her face flushed at once.
"The clothes?"
Only then did he realize what he had said.
"…Both."
Not knowing where to look, the Saintess lowered her gaze for a moment.
"If you say it like that, I don't know where I'm supposed to look."
A little late, he answered,
"I don't really know where to look either."
At that, she finally laughed softly.
When the laugh broke free, some of the awkwardness eased.
In front of the mirror, the Saintess held the hem of the skirt lightly in both hands.
It was different from the clothes she had been wearing until a moment ago.
These were clothes she had chosen with her own fingertips at the rack, and changed into herself inside the fitting room.
In front of the mirror, she could not let go of the skirt's hem.