I Picked Up a Witch from a Novel

**Chapter 35**

I often dream.

Even though 16 years have passed, faces and names from my past life sometimes creep into my dreams.

I find myself calling out their names, which now feel faint, as they hold my hand and refuse to let go.

To put it simply, I hated the hillside village.

I disliked the sweat that rolled down as I trudged up that steep hill after a long day.

The drops of sweat would gather and splatter down, leaving fresh stains on the ground.

I detested the lingering odor of sweat from the numerous residents of the hillside village.

As I furrowed my brow and finally reached the top of the hill, I was met with a view that didn’t please me either.

In the distance, there stood tall buildings that seemed beyond my reach.

But if I lowered my gaze even slightly, I would often encounter the rats, which were there gnawing on cockroaches.

I could say that I disliked the disjointed reality where such contrasting landscapes intersected.

So, I vowed to escape someday.

I wanted to break free from an extraordinary life and seek a life that was ordinary and plain.

However.

To put it simply, I loved the hillside village.

I may have hated the sweat of its many residents, but I liked the people themselves.

There were candies and snacks they would hand me while I panted up the hill.

I appreciated those who would roughly pets my head with their rugged hands.

I thought the blue sky I could see from the house on the high hill was pretty.

The shabby houses of the hillside village may not have been distant buildings, but in height, they were no different.

Once the rats and cockroaches were hidden from the window frame, the view was not much different from that seen from the buildings.

And.

I loved my father and mother, who always loved me.

The existence of those two occupied the largest part of my life.

They were the only ones who poured unconditional love into me, having never truly experienced love.

I remember the crumpled pocket money.

I have memories of when they would dig it out to buy me my school uniform when I entered middle school and high school.

I remember the smiles that bloomed on their wrinkled faces.

I recall the scene in that shabby house where we danced together in joy when I got accepted into college.

I remember the warmth of those two as they embraced me.

There is the warmth of the two who held me with tears in their eyes, even for that small gift I bought with my first paycheck.

All those memories would sometimes come to me in my dreams, sharpening the blurry memories before they faded away.

Thus.

When I was young, that made me a little sad.

I wondered if the hillside villagers were still living the same lives, if that grandfather who patted my head was still the same.

I wondered if my mother and father were living well, or if they were grieving my death.

Such bittersweet feelings resurfaced as memories, which made me sad.

Perhaps starting a journey with a single goal was to shove such melancholy deep down inside me.

Perhaps I felt pity for the young gray witch because her pitiful appearance reminded me a little of the shabby hillside village in my memories.

Perhaps.

The reason I treated my current parents as characters in a novel for quite a long time was that the two from my past life kept flickering in my mind, making me try to deny reality.

If I truly acknowledged them as my parents.

It felt as if the two who loved me in my past life wouldn’t come to me even in my dreams anymore, insisting that I would be alright.

I was afraid that even the dreams which sharpened my fading memories would disappear, drifting away from me.

I foolishly trapped myself in dreams and denied reality.

And.

“Son.”

There was a voice calling me.

“It’s time to wake up.”

It was the voice that pulls my hand from the depths of my dream.

When I open my eyes and look in the direction of the voice, there is a landscape before me.

“You overslept, son.”

A kind smile that hasn’t changed once since childhood greets me.

“…, I should wake up.”

“Right, let’s eat breakfast quickly.”

Then a woman who yanked me up by holding my hand appears.

Her name is Rain, my mother.

Thus, the dreamlike scenery gradually begins to fade.

Leaving behind what I once called the past.

I move forward.

If someone were to ask what I am doing now.

“Son, do you need this?”

“Hmm…, is a teacup really necessary while traveling?”

I would say that I’m packing my things at home with my mom.

However.

When we got close to the journey, my mother’s worries and anxieties exponentially intensified.

Far more baggage than I had planned kept piling up at the front of the house.

“What if you encounter a noble lady?”

“Are you saying that I might suddenly meet a noblewoman on a dusty travel road?”

“Yeah. Who knows, a weird noble like you might throw everything aside and go on a journey.”

“….”

Still, I thought the pillow and blanket were relatively understandable items, so I was puzzled as to how the conversation even led to discussing tea time with nobles.

And to correct my mother’s statement a bit, my journey wasn’t random or throwing everything away.

“Hm, I guess I need to pack it?”

So I spill out to my mother, who’s pondering for a long time while still holding onto the teacup.

“That unnecessarily extravagant teacup should be put away.”

“How could you say that, son!”

“…, it looks like it’s going to be the first thing to break as soon as we start our journey. I mean, really, why pack that?”

“But this might be our son’s first tea time with a noble…? You don’t want to pack it?”

“Ha…, fine, give it to me. I’ll pack it.”

Yet, even though I knew such a thing wouldn’t happen, my mouth turned down because I had to pack the teacup due to her insistence.

That was the scene in my house the day before my journey.

And.

To put it simply, my mother’s worries never ceased, even as time passed.

“Son, how about this?”

“What’s with the doll?”

“If it’s scary at night, you have to hold it while sleeping.”

She would bring something from my room for the tiniest reasons.

“Mom…, I’m sorry, but I’m an adult now.”

“In my eyes, you’re still a child. So, even if you don’t pack the teacup, you have to bring the doll!”

“No. Put that useless doll back.”

Even as I said that playfully, there was worry in her eyes as she still saw me as a child.

“That’s unfair! You used to carry it around like that when you were little!”

“I didn’t carry it because I wanted to; you said it was cute to see me holding it and forced me to.”

“Then just force yourself to carry it like when you were little! Take it!”

“Ah, fine, give it here. I’ll pack it.”

“Okay!”

So I end up yielding to that unnecessary worry once again.

However.

My mother’s worry and love were somewhat intense, and yielding to them didn’t solve all problems.

“Ah, son. You really need to pack this!”

“Stop.”

So I had a reason to flatly reject my mother’s words, which showed no sign of ending as time passed into the evening.

“No, but really….”

“I’m really sorry, but there’s no space for me to sit in the carriage.”

To put it simply, as I stacked the items my mother handed me into the carriage, there soon wasn’t even enough room where I could sit.

So I just showed the clutter in front of the house to my still nagging mother, opening the door to the carriage.

“Uh… What’s with all this stuff in the carriage?”

“…, pillows, blankets, teacups, a teapot, two tables and chairs, five pots, three knives, a doll, cushions, heaps of newspapers, a wooden basket, a bundle of paper and pens, firewood, a trash can, five sets of seasonal clothing, even a doorbell…. I packed everything you wanted, and now it’s like this; how can I fit anything more?”

Three knives? Is she suggesting I should use some three-sword style?

And what’s with the doorbell? Is she telling me to boast that the carriage is my house?

As I set the door open, revealing the inside of the carriage, I quietly observed my mother, and she turned to look at me.

“Uh… um.”

“So, do you have anything to say, Mother?”

“I guess we have to unpack everything!”

Finally, by evening, her stubbornness yielded, and she admitted that she had gone too far.

“Ah, I told you none of this was necessary.”

“Son, I’m sorry! Hm, I’ll help you unpack.”

Thus, my mother and I had to unpack all the unnecessary items until my father returned from work, except for the things that were truly needed.

Now, the journey really approaches and greets me.

Having only one night to sleep and leave immediately, I lie in bed, tossing and turning, listening to the pounding of my heart.

It’s a clear anticipation, coupled with anxiety.

There’s concern for someone, and also mingled guilt towards someone.

And the feeling wasn’t just directed towards a single gray witch.

There was Uncle Rendo, Janssen, and even Linny from the gym and the crazed librarian who fit into that mix.

The countless people from the market streets, the customers I had become acquainted with over the years.

All of these feelings eventually built up inside me, leading me to reflect on them one by one just before departing on my journey.

And.

Of course, there were my parents.

Even with my rustling movements, my mother would brightly knock and enter.

“Son, are you not sleeping?”

“…, a bit.”

“Well, then don’t go on your journey.”

A woman playfully says, smiling.

She approaches the side of my bed and gently places her hand atop my head like in the old days.

“Son.”

“Yes.”

“Make sure you eat well while on your trip, don’t get sick, and always be careful of people wherever you go.”

Then she talks about the ordinary things.

“Oh, but it would be nice if you made lots of good friends. You’ve been so lonely without friends.”

She spouts such calm words, which a mother would say to her son.

“Make sure to see the things you wanted to see and do all the things you wanted to do.”

At such times, her usual playfulness vanishes, and she gazes at me with an oddly serious expression.

“I want to tell you not to do dangerous things… but knowing you, I doubt you won’t, so I hope you do so moderately.”

Her voice filled with worry drips down and soon starts to fill the space around the bed.

“I can’t tell how long you’ll be gone, but I’d like it if you could send me letters or something.”

Then, as if it finally reaches my fingertips, I too begin to subtly blend into that voice.

“You’ve done well with everything, work, exercise, studies; I have no doubt you’ve done your best, but you’ve really had a tough time, son.”

In a way, it was undoubtedly a parent’s affection.

To call it merely something from a character in a novel was always too much.

“Have a good trip. That child you’ve cherished will be well looked after by mom and dad while you’re away.”

Breaking free from the forced narrative, it became a story of people who supported me, smashing all the doubts of my childhood.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to you when you were little. I’m sorry I blocked your paths and couldn’t believe in you. I’m sorry for denying your decisions, son.”

In truth, it was I who had never been able to believe in them, not the ones who loved me wholeheartedly.

I was the foolish son who even doubted love and affection.

“I will always love you, son.”

With that, she caresses my cheek, and I am overwhelmed by the warmth that comes from her touch.

The bond forged from 16 years has become strong enough to break through even the most closed-off thoughts.

Looking back at my path, which felt so meager without any roles assigned to me, I find that my footprints have left a deep mark.

The new path I wished for has already welcomed a few who follow in my footsteps.

So.

“I love you too, Mom.”

I proclaim this.

I speak of love with sincerity.

Now, I no longer dream.

The landscapes of the hillside village, which I loved and hated, now rest deep within my heart.

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