In a quiet, peaceful village, a man sat on a chair outside his house. Smoke lingered in the air, swirling gently before disappearing, much like a memory of the past. He gazed out at the village, where people smiled and interacted with one another as if the war had truly ended. Looking down at the palm of his hand, he let his thoughts drift.

“Ah, the war ended a long time ago,” he whispered, taking a deep sigh before closing his eyes again.

“RETREAT!”

A voice echoed across the battlefield, filled with frustration and desperation to survive. The air was thick and heavy, the surroundings engulfed in flames. Bombs soared through the sky, exploding one after another, blanketing the ground in unbreathable smoke. Dead bodies lay scattered everywhere, blood pooling along the barbed wire fences. Gunfire roared from every corner of the battlefield, and the scene felt as though hell itself had descended upon the earth.

It was suffocating—hot, hopeless, and empty.

Despite the chaos, every soldier, no matter their allegiance, shared the same fear: death was imminent. None of them had truly understood the unbearable terror of war until they were standing in its flames.

Amidst the devastation, one man stood alone. His uniform was torn, his face smeared with blood, yet his eyes—lifeless and hollow—betrayed that he was still alive. A gun hung limply in his hand as he stared blankly at the sky. He bit his lip, the pain grounding him as he struggled to hold on to his fraying sanity.

Then, through the cacophony of war, a voice called out.

A woman’s voice.

“Arthur…”

The voice was soft, almost melodic, and entirely out of place in the chaos of the battlefield. It stopped him in his tracks, confusion flickering in his empty gaze.

“Arthur!”

The voice called again, louder, more urgent.

“Arthur, wake up!”

The battlefield dissolved, the chaos fading into the quiet hum of cicadas. Arthur gasped for air, his chest heaving as though he had just surfaced from drowning.

As he blinked, trying to steady himself, he noticed an elderly couple standing before him. Their worried expressions were tinged with anxiety as they stared at him intently.

“A-Are you okay, Arthur?” the old woman asked, her voice soft but concerned.

Arthur nodded slowly, his mind still clouded by the remnants of his dream. “Y-Yes. Is something the matter, Mrs. Fredway?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion as he tried to grasp the situation.

“Young man, you were panting so hard. It looked like you were having a nightmare,” Mr. Fredway said gently.

Arthur ran a hand over his face, piecing together what had happened. “Thank you for waking me up,” he murmured, his voice low and strained.

“The war has long ended, Arthur. Be at ease,” Mr. Fredway said, his voice calm and steady.

Arthur nodded again, though unease still lingered in his chest.

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Mrs. Fredway smiled kindly. “Why don’t you try interacting with the other villagers? Perhaps it could help ease your mind and bring some peace to your heart.”

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly at the suggestion. He hesitated but eventually nodded. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied softly.

The Fredways exchanged a glance before nodding, their smiles warm as they turned and walked away.

As their footsteps faded, Arthur leaned back in his chair. The air, once heavy and suffocating, now felt lighter, fresher. The cicadas hummed in the distance, and sunlight brushed against his face, warming his skin.

He closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. “It’s easy for you to say, but…” He opened his eyes and stared at the palm of his hand, the weight of his memories pressing down on him.

“Am I even allowed to do that?”

His voice trailed off, carried away by the breeze as his thoughts swirled with doubt and despair.

The night had finally kicked in. The once noisy village, filled with a positive atmosphere, had grown quiet. It was a peaceful night for all the villagers—unfortunately, not for him. The silence felt suffocating, and his negative thoughts swirled through the air as if trying to choke him.

As he prepared dinner, his eyes fell on the knife lying among the kitchen utensils. He swallowed hard and let out a reassuring sigh. Picking up the knife, he tried to cut the vegetables and meat, but his hands trembled uncontrollably. His frown deepened as fear gripped him. Suddenly, his stomach churned violently, and he vomited. His face turned pale, and sweat dripped rapidly down his face. Slowly, he sank to the floor.

“W-What a-am I even doing?” he whispered, his voice low but laden with emotion. Pain, trauma, fear—feelings he couldn’t comprehend surged through him like an unrelenting tide

Morning came, bringing with it a soft golden light. After struggling the previous night, Arthur had failed to make dinner. Hunger gnawed at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to cook. With no other choice, he decided to wander through the village, hoping to find a stall for food.

The villagers were surprised by his sudden appearance. They exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves—it wasn’t often they saw him leave his house. Just as they prepared to greet him, he stepped into a small restaurant, avoiding their gazes.

Arthur sat on an empty chair, picked up the menu, and began scanning it. The options were plentiful, each dish tempting and capable of filling his stomach. As he decided, a waitress approached with a bright smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Arthur! May I take your order, please?” she asked cheerfully.

Arthur blinked, surprised she knew his name despite this being their first meeting. “Ah, yes. I’ll have a steak, two portions of rice, and a bottle of water,” he replied. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he added, “By the way, I know this might sound strange, but… can you cook?”

The waitress tilted her head, surprised. “Unfortunately, I can’t, Mr. Arthur. May I ask why you’re curious?”

Arthur frowned slightly. “I’m looking for someone to cook for me,” he admitted. “I can’t cook for myself, and going out every day is… inconvenient. So, I thought—”

Before he could finish, the waitress grinned mischievously. “Oh, I see! Are you trying to propose to me?” she teased, laughing at her own joke.

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly. The waitress’s laughter rang out, filling the space with warmth. When her laughter subsided, she gestured toward the counter.

“See that girl over there?” she said, pointing to a woman standing behind the counter. “She’s good at cooking. But…” The waitress leaned in closer, her voice dropping. “Some say she’s a witch from foreign lands because of her enigmatic personality.”

Arthur followed her gaze, his curiosity piqued. “It’s my first time seeing her. Is she new to the village?”

“Yes. She arrived a few days ago,” the waitress explained. “Apparently, she told the mayor she needed money for her travels, so she’s working here temporarily.”

Arthur frowned slightly. “If she’s so new, how do you know she can cook?”

The waitress smirked, her tone playful. “You’re quite curious, aren’t you, Mr. Arthur?” she teased before continuing. “Well, the chef was out for a couple of days with a fever. None of us waitresses could cook like him, and we were in trouble. But then she volunteered. At first, we were nervous—none of us knew if she could cook—but the results were… incredible.”

Arthur’s eyes drifted back to the enigmatic woman. She moved with a quiet confidence, her expression calm and unreadable.

“How about you ask her to cook my order?” he suggested.

The waitress’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Of course! I’ll tell the manager right away.” She dashed off to relay his request, her enthusiasm contagious.

Arthur watched as the manager approached the mysterious woman, whispering something to her. She nodded before heading into the kitchen.

Arthur exhaled deeply, his thoughts weighing heavily on him. “Am I asking too much?” he murmured, his voice barely audible. But as he sat there, a faint sense of relief began to seep in, like a crack of light breaking through the darkness.