The streets were almost silent, the once-bustling marketplace now reduced to flickering lanterns and the quiet shuffle of a few late wanderers. Aria walked with steady steps, hands tucked into his cloak, a small smile playing on his lips as he made his way home.
Before reaching the inn, he stopped by a small bakery that still had its lights on. The sweet aroma of freshly baked bread pulled him in.
"Good evening, dear," greeted the elderly woman behind the counter, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw him.
"Evening," Aria replied, his voice gentle as he handed over a few coins.
She handed him a wrapped loaf, still warm. "Here, and take these too." She added two small apples and a handful of berries to his bundle, giggling softly. "That smile of yours reminds me of my grandson. Stay safe out there, young man."
Aria blinked, then offered her a grateful nod. "Thank you."
As he waved goodbye and turned down the path, he quickened his steps toward his lodging—the Lac Inn.
It was a modest, ivy-clad building named in honor of the Goddess Lyi, twin sister to the war goddess Lycra. Aria didn't particularly care for either. Gods, in his experience, had little time for people like him. He hadn't even chosen this inn for its name. It had simply been a practical recommendation from Olia, and its proximity to the guild made it convenient.
Aria sighed as he reached the heavy wooden door and pushed it open. The warm scent of old wood and candle wax usually greeted him, accompanied by chatter from the tavern or Ellen humming in the kitchen.
But now… silence.
"I'm back!" Aria called out, his voice echoing in the quiet.
No answer.
He frowned. The main room was empty, not a single soul in sight. Not Ellen behind the counter. Not even the usual drunk passed out at the far table. The stillness was uncanny.
Curious and slightly uneasy, Aria moved behind the desk and stepped into the kitchen. Cold. Empty. Not even the fire had been stoked.
"Odd," he muttered under his breath.
He checked the backyard. The wood-chopping area looked hastily abandoned—an axe left buried in a log, half a stack of firewood untouched. Whoever had been working had left in a hurry. The only clue of recent activity was the pile of dirty dishes stacked high in the washing basin. Business had clearly been good lately, yet everyone had vanished without a word.
Returning inside, Aria knocked on a few doors upstairs. No answers.
Maybe something came up? A town emergency? A festival he forgot?
With no leads, he gave up and returned to his room.
The inn was four floors tall. Aria's room sat on the second, a quiet corner space with a small window overlooking the alley. The inn staff lived on the first and second floors while the tavern took up the ground floor and part of the basement.
He stepped inside and locked the door behind him out of habit. The room smelled faintly of parchment and drying herbs. It was small but cozy: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a shelf filled with books and odd trinkets he'd collected over the months.
Aria placed his groceries on the desk before collapsing onto his bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams.
"What a day..." he sighed.
Then he remembered the egg.
Opening his storage interface with a flick of his fingers, he blinked.
The egg had changed.
It was now fully brown—earthy and warm in hue—whereas earlier it had been a mottled blend of white and pale tan. That shouldn't have been possible.
"System storage keeps items exactly the same," he murmured. "So why…?"
He tapped the egg's icon.
A glow sparked in the air beside him, and the egg materialized on his bed, warm to the touch. The hue wasn't a trick. It had really changed color.
He frowned. "Voice?" he called out softly.
Silence.
Ever since they'd left that strange ruin—ever since that desperate escape—the voice had gone quiet. Not a word. Not even a sarcastic comment.
"…Are you still angry at me?" he asked the egg.
No reply. But the egg pulsed faintly in his palm, warm like a living thing.
"I'm sorry," Aria whispered, lowering his head and gently rubbing his thumb along the smooth shell.
Maybe it wasn't angry. Maybe… it was just resting.
With a sigh, Aria stood and stripped off his travel-worn clothes, stepping into the adjacent room to shower. Water splashed, steam curling against the wooden walls. When he emerged, towel-drying his hair, the egg remained unmoving.
He dressed simply: a clean white shirt, loose brown shorts, no shoes. Summer air filtered through the window, cooling the room. Sitting at his desk, he opened his journal and began to write.
Crunch.
He bit into an apple as his pen moved across the page. He documented everything—encounters, people, details about the dungeon—but left out the egg. And the voice.
He couldn't bring himself to report it. Not to the Guild. Not when he remembered how frantic the voice had been to escape. The Guild Master had a bad habit of tinkering with things until they broke. And Aria didn't want this… whatever it was… to break.
"I haven't hatched yet."
The voice's words echoed in his mind.
He glanced sideways. The egg lay nestled beside his pillow, quietly pulsing like it had a heartbeat.
What would it become once it hatched?
A creature?
A person?
Would it still call him "Father"?
That word lingered in his mind.
He was 26. In this world, most were married by 18. If someone received a proposal and refused, they needed either a declared lover or permission from the potential spouse's guardian. Or they had to pass a trial.
Simple customs, but firm.
No one had proposed to Aria—not seriously, at least—and he hadn't proposed to anyone either. He never thought about children. Never imagined anyone calling him 'Father.'
Yet somehow… it didn't feel strange.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes.
The sun had dipped past the horizon, bathing the room in gold. He rolled out of the chair and grabbed a thick blanket from the wardrobe. Laying it over the bed, he sat beside the egg.
The room was chilly. He wasn't sure if the egg could handle the cold.
"…Better safe than sorry," he muttered.
He lay down and wrapped the egg gently in his arms, pulling it close to his chest. His warmth wrapped around it like a second blanket.
The report could wait.
The world could wait.
As his breathing slowed and his eyelids drooped, the candlelight dimmed.
He didn't see it happen.
He didn't see the invisible hand pull the blanket over him.
He didn't see the journal closed, the quill placed neatly back into the inkwell.
And he didn't feel the egg vanish from his arms.
Instead, nestled against him now was a child—small, warm, and breathing softly. Brown hair curled like his own. A faint hum rose from its lips as it wriggled closer, mirroring Aria's grip in a sleepy embrace.
"Sweet dreams," the child whispered, its voice barely audible.
"…Father."