Whenever guests visited the red-brick house to meet the investment tycoon Carl Shore, they almost always brought a gift for Edmund.
That night, before going to bed, Edmund stopped by the playroom to inspect the day’s offerings.
He curled up on the sofa, pulling his thick velvet robe tightly around himself.
The lamp on the side table spilled a soft glow that scattered the darkness. It wasn’t enough to light up the entire large room, but it was sufficient to evaluate the usefulness of the nearby gifts.
He discarded four of the six gifts, salvaging only a single music box.
Then he noticed the last remaining “gift,” lying on the carpet without so much as a box. Edmund frowned when he saw it.
It was a hand-knitted lion doll—so shabby it barely even qualified as a “gift.” Its matted mane hadn’t been brushed in ages, and it looked as if it had been dragged through a hedge.
“This is my favorite—Prince Frankie! I want you to have him!”
Rose Panning clearly had never seen a real prince in her life. If that thing was a prince, it was one from a slum.
Even Sophie, upon seeing the doll, didn’t think it was worth asking about. She silently picked it up and headed toward the pile of discarded presents.
But Edmund stopped her.
“Wait.”
His gaze lingered on the doll with a flicker of hesitation.
It wasn’t cute—not even remotely. It was dirty and misshapen, and leaving it in the playroom would only make everything else around it look ridiculous.
His former nanny had once said:
Only surround yourself with beautiful things. If you keep ugly things nearby, they’ll make you look foolish too.
He’d believed her then, and he still didn’t think she was wrong.
Even so, he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell Sophie to throw it away.
That doll was from Rose.
Dirty and ugly as it was, maybe—just maybe—it had some kind of use, the way Rose did.
She might’ve been a scruffy, snot-nosed country girl, but she was better at catching dragonflies and fishing than any child in Islesford.
So maybe Rose—no, maybe the doll—deserved to be an exception.
“Don’t throw it away,” Edmund said. “Just leave it.”
__________𓍯𓂃𓏧♡𓇢𓆸_________
Edmund had been born and raised in the capital of Queensland, where every morning the city lay buried under a thick blanket of fog and the cold air seeped right into your bones.
It was a place where people walked with hunched shoulders, their hollow coughs echoing like ghosts in the streets.
But Islesford, nestled beneath the pale white mountain, woke each morning in a golden blaze.
Birdsong, like strings of glass beads, roused the world from slumber. The frost-covered forests and fields glittered with crystal drops as the sun melted the dew.
The breath of the damp earth rose in a fine mist, blurring the air in a way that made even the waking world feel like a dream.
It was in Islesford that Edmund first realized there truly were places graced by divine favor.
That morning, sunlight the color of his own hair poured from the sky. Edmund sat by the window, playing chess with Sophie.
He let out a small yawn. Though he usually enjoyed the game, today it felt dull and lifeless.
His thoughts were stuck on yesterday—on the river, on the fishing rod, on the exact moment he’d felt a bite on the line.
The sound of rushing water still seemed to echo in his ears. He could almost feel the current lapping at his legs.
The memory of the strike—when the trout had taken the bait—made his hands clench involuntarily.
It had been exhilarating.
Even more satisfying than catching dragonflies. Maybe because the trout had been a far bigger prize.
He couldn’t stop thinking about fishing.
At one point, he found himself staring at the knight on the board and imagining it bent like a fishing hook.
By the time he came to his senses, all his pawns had been wiped out.
Sophie, noticing his lack of focus, asked gently,
“Would you rather play a card game, Master Edmund?”
But Edmund rose from his seat, as though he’d only been waiting for the game to end.
“No, it’s fine. I’m going out for a walk.”
He left Sophie behind with a look of quiet concern, stepping out into the garden.
Though the garden was the proper place for a stroll, Edmund instead found himself aimlessly wandering toward the beech house.
She said we’d see each other again today.
He felt oddly anxious thinking about Rose, who still hadn’t shown up.
Then, just as he was starting to feel foolish, Rose came running from the beech house, arms flailing above her head.
“Edmund!”
She wore the same scarf on her head as the day before. Even though he’d just seen her yesterday, a smile bloomed across his face—before he quickly caught himself.
What the—was I seriously about to wave back?
Flustered, he turned sharply on his heel, his ears burning red.
Rose chased after him like an overexcited puppy, darting around him in circles. Edmund could practically see the shaggy tail wagging behind her.
“Let’s go fishing again, Edmund!”
His heart skipped, but he feigned indifference.
“No thanks. It’s a hassle.”
God help me, he thought. Since when did lying hurt like this?
His chest tightened painfully. He prayed she wouldn’t give up—prayed she’d be her usual stubborn self and keep pestering him.
And thankfully, Rose didn’t disappoint.
“Oh, come on! Let’s go together, please?”
Clasping her hands earnestly, she begged, completely unaware of how her persistence only fed Edmund’s ego.
Now he got what he wanted, maintained his pride, and satisfied his vanity all at once. He spun around with flair.
“Well, if you insist.”
The two children fetched their fishing gear from the beech house and set off into the birch forest.
“Let’s race to the river!” Rose called.
“No way.”
Edmund, who wouldn’t run even in a downpour, rejected the idea without hesitation.
But Rose, giddy since yesterday, didn’t care. She spread her arms wide like an albatross and took off, gliding joyfully through the meadow.
Her laughter rang through the air.
Edmund bit his lip.
She looked so happy, so free—like someone who belonged in the sky.
Come to think of it, every time she invited him along, it turned out to be something fun.
Rose always pulled him into a new world.
And in that world, he discovered feelings he never knew existed. He lost track of time, swept away in her pace.
He stopped in his tracks, staring at her retreating figure.
She’ll take me somewhere exciting again—I know it.
Like a hatchling learning to fly, his limbs tensed with anticipation.
His hesitation burned away in the face of growing excitement.
He took off his hat and clutched it in one hand.
“Wait for me!”
And Edmund ran.
The earth pushed against his soles, the sky seemed to pull him upward.
He opened his arms and embraced freedom. And in that moment—carefree, weightless—he let out a whoop of pure joy.
Their laughter merged into one echo across the field.
The wind danced through the grass like rippling waves, and the golden sun spilled down over a five-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl racing toward another new world.
__________𓍯𓂃𓏧♡𓇢𓆸_________
I am the wind, with wings unbound,
I sail the Anderson River without fare.
Beyond the moon and past the rainbow—
Even to the land of ice, if I dare.
Wherever I want, I can go.
__________𓍯𓂃𓏧♡𓇢𓆸_________
<Westmystian Calendar, Year 77 — Summer>
It was a muggy summer morning, the breeze brushing across Islesford’s rolling hills.
On Sundays, the villagers gathered at church, sitting upright in pews, listening intently to the pastor’s sermon.
From the pulpit, Reverend Chamberlain raised his voice:
“Brothers and sisters, the Bible tells us the Lord never gives us a cross we cannot bear.”
A breeze entered through the wide-open windows, only to be startled by the solemn atmosphere and flee through the opposite side.
While most people were focused on the sermon, one group of boys sat fidgeting and whispering to each other, already bored.
They hadn’t come with any intention of paying attention.
They threw bits of paper at the girls across the aisle and snickered whenever a gnat circled Reverend Chamberlain’s snowy white hair.
Even when adults nearby glared at them, the boys settled down only for a moment before going back to their antics.
Chamberlain chose to ignore them and continued.
“And so, we must carry our God-given crosses and run the race of life to the very end.”
As the congregation nodded solemnly, someone raised a hand.
“Excuse me, Pastor.”
It was a red-haired boy sitting among the troublemakers. Though his tone was polite and respectful, his freckled face was brimming with mischief.
Chamberlain frowned behind his glasses.
But the boy went on, pointing to the younger child seated behind him.
“Then Edmund Shore’s cross must be Rose Panning, right? I mean, he’ll have to carry her for the rest of his life—as her husband!”
“Pfft.”
Though his friends tried to stifle their laughter, it burst out anyway—loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
The boy he’d pointed at—Edmund Shore, now thirteen—shot to his feet and shouted:
“Shut your mouth, Chris!”
His voice, cracking from the early stages of puberty, echoed through the chapel like thunder.
People who had dozed off jumped awake, and the sanctuary erupted into laughter.
Reverend Chamberlain groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. The boys’ parents wore matching expressions of dismay.
But amid the chaos, one girl did not laugh.
Among the gaggle of children, she alone stood out like a wildflower growing tall and straight.
With her rose-colored hair neatly braided into pigtails, she let out a soft sigh between her full lips.
