Free Web NovelLilian Duval is ten years old this year.
To be precise, she is ten years, three months, and four days old.
She remembers clearly because her mother said that once she turned ten, she would be an adult.
Adults have to support the family.
Adults cannot cry.
Adults must learn to count money, learn to bargain, and learn to rush home before dark.
Lillian thinks being an adult is quite good.
At least, being an adult means one can earn money.
She pushed a wobbly wooden handcart, walking along the uneven cobblestone road.
The wheels creaked like an old rat about to breathe its last.
Stacked on the cart were two bags of flour, a bag of potatoes, half a bag of salt, a small jar of honey, three bars of soap, and cured meat wrapped in oil paper.
A whole month's worth of supplies.
It was so heavy her arms ached.
But she did not stop.
Evenings in the Old City were always gray and gloomy.
Sometimes it was because it was about to rain or snow; but more often, it was simply because the weather had turned cold.
When it got cold, a layer of faint coal dust would float in the air.
After the war started, all the good coal was sent to the front lines, leaving only the worst kind here—choking when burned, with massive amounts of smoke.
However, Lillian the adult was already used to it.
She was even used to the bakery owner secretly mixing sawdust into the flour, the medicine at the pharmacy getting more expensive and scarcer, and a body covered in a white cloth being carried out of the house at the corner every few days.
Lung disease.
Or some other illness.
Either way, it meant death.
Mother was sick too.
Coughing, fever, and sometimes coughing up phlegm streaked with blood.
The doctor said she needed rest, good food, and that special medicine transported from the south.
So Lillian started working.
Deliveries.
Errands.
Sometimes passing messages for people, sometimes keeping watch, and sometimes doing things she didn't quite understand herself.
As long as they paid.
Lillian turned a corner into an alley, avoiding a drunkard urinating at the entrance.
The drunkard reeked of alcohol and was mumbling curses, probably at this damn war, or this damn weather, or this damn everything.
People in the Old City were always cursing.
But after the cursing was done, life went on as it must.
She continued forward.
By the roadside, a house had half-collapsed; rubble had been piled in the middle of the road for days, with no one coming to /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ clear it.
Lillian bypassed the pile of rubble, the cart wheels grinding over a broken brick with a piercing scrape.
The handcart felt heavier and heavier.
Or rather, her hands were losing their strength.
Lillian stopped, took a breath, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. freēwēbnovel.com
Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging painfully.
She began to remember the first time she went to this house.
That was a year ago.
Back then, she wasn't so thin, her arms weren't so spindly, and she would still be panting heavily while pushing the cart.
Back then, she knocked on the door and saw a woman with chestnut hair standing at the entrance.
The woman had heavy dark circles under her eyes, her shirt was wrinkled, and her hair was as messy as a bird's nest.
She glanced at Lillian and then spoke her first words.
"Are you the one delivering the goods?"
"Y-yes, Madam."
"Don't call me Madam," the woman yawned, "just call me Sophie."
Then she took the goods, casually pulled a few coins from her pocket, and stuffed them into Lillian's hand.
Lillian looked down and counted.
It was three coins more than agreed upon.
"This—"
"Keep the change," Sophie said, "come again next time."
Then she closed the door.
Since then, Lillian had come once every month.
Sometimes it was the older sister named Sophie who opened the door, and sometimes it was the young man wearing glasses.
That man was named Karl.
Uncle Karl was a bit more normal than Sister Sophie.
At least his shirt was clean, his hair was combed, and he would smile at Lillian when he spoke.
"Thank you for your hard work, Little girl."
He said that every time.
Then he would take out a few coins from his pocket, more than the agreed amount, just enough to buy a piece of candy.
"Buy some candy for your younger sister."
He said.
How did he know she had a younger sister?
Lillian didn't know.
But she didn't ask.
Don't ask about things you shouldn't ask about.
That was the rule of the Old City.
However, today's tip—
Lillian calculated in her head as she continued to push the cart.
If it was as much as before, added to what she had saved this month, it should be enough to buy a small bottle of cough syrup for her mother.
Even if it was just the near-expired, discounted kind from the corner of the pharmacy.
But it was better than nothing.
Mother coughed so much every night she couldn't sleep, her whole body trembling from the effort.
If she had that syrup, at least it would make her feel a little better.
At least it would let her get a peaceful night's sleep.
And if she saved a bit more, she could buy a new pair of socks for her sister.
The current socks already had several holes, mended over and over, with patches upon patches.
Her sister never complained, but Lillian knew her feet had developed chilblains.
Red and swollen, they itched terribly at night.
If she had a new pair of socks—
They didn't have to be fancy.
As long as they were warm.
And then—
Forget it, she was thinking too much.
Deliver the goods first.
She turned the last street corner and saw the familiar small two-story building.
Gray exterior walls.
Peeling plaster.
Yellowed curtains.
Exactly as she remembered.
Finally here.
Lillian stood before the familiar small two-story building and let out a long breath.
She stopped the handcart, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and tidied her clothes.
Although her clothes were wrinkled and stained with sweat and dust, she still instinctively patted them, wanting to look a bit more presentable.
Mother said one must be polite when visiting others' homes.
One must be clean.
One must make others feel comfortable looking at them.
She walked up the steps.
A thin layer of moss grew on the steps, making them a bit slippery to step on.
She carefully steadied herself and then knocked on the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
She waited for a moment.
No one answered the door.
"Sister Sophie?"
She called out.
Her voice echoed in the empty alleyway.
No response.
She knocked again.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
This time she knocked a bit harder.
Still nothing.
"Uncle Karl?"
She called out again.
Still no response.
Lillian frowned.
This was strange.
Uncle Karl indeed was absent sometimes; he seemed to go out on business frequently.
But Sister Sophie—
Sister Sophie never went out.
Never.
No matter when she came to deliver goods, she was always home.
Sometimes lying on the floor.
Sometimes slumped over the table.
Sometimes with a document covering her face, as if sleeping in a coffin.
Lillian knew Sister Sophie was just very tired.
But no matter how tired she was, she would always open the door.
She had never failed to open the door before.
A trace of unease rose in Lillian's heart.
She knocked again.
This time so hard her hand hurt a little.
"Sister Sophie! Uncle Karl! It's me, Lillian, the delivery girl!"
Still no response.
Only her own voice echoed in the alleyway.
Echoed.
Then faded away.
But this time, the door moved.
It was pushed by her hand.
The door wasn't locked at all!
She froze for a moment.
Her hand hung in mid-air.
Don't go into places you shouldn't go.
That was the rule of the Old City.
Curiosity killed the curious cat.
And the curious Little girl.
But—
What if something happened to Sister Sophie?
What if she was sick?
Fallen down?
Needed help?
Lillian bit her lip, hesitated for a long time, and finally decided to go in and check.
Mother said adults cannot stand by and watch someone die without helping.
She placed her hand on the doorknob.
The doorknob was very cold.
Colder than she had imagined.
She gave it a gentle push.
The door hinges let out a low groan, like some kind of ominous warning.
