We arrived at an old shop with a weathered wooden sign.
The seed store smelled of damp earth and hope. An aroma far too optimistic for two people with withered souls.
I stood before the shelf, looking at the rows of paper seed packets. Alicia stood two steps behind me, wringing her hands in front of her stomach. Her eyes were fixed on the wooden floorboards, as if the grain pattern was the only safe thing to look at.
"Choose," I said flatly.
Alicia jolted. She raised her face slightly, her eyes darting wildly from one packet to another. Tomatoes? Carrots? Sunflowers?
Cold sweat began to form on her temples.
For a normal person, this was a simple choice. For Alicia, it was a minefield. What does the Master like? What is efficient? What won't make him angry?
I exhaled a thin trail of cigarette smoke.
The Rooster zodiac within me screamed at the inefficiency. But my Pisces side held it back, acutely aware of how fragile she was.
"Pick a vegetable seed. Anything edible," I finally decided, sparing her the torture of choice.
She picked up a packet of radish seeds with a shaking hand.
"Y-Yes, Master."
We continued to the library.
I told her to pick out a book for herself. She returned with a thin book bound in a dull brown cover.
The title read: The Perfect Servant's Guide: Etiquette and Devotion.
I looked at the book, then at her.
She wasn't looking for entertainment. She was looking for an instruction manual so she wouldn't be discarded. She was trying to optimize her function as a "tool."
"Are you sure about this?" I asked.
She nodded slowly, her eyes pleading with me not to ask any further.
I checked the book out under my name. Her identification card had died along with her former aristocratic status.
The walk home was silent.
In this world, freedom is the heaviest burden for those who have forgotten how to fly.
Nights passed. The pages of the book turned with the dry sound of paper.
Rustle. Swish.
Beneath the flickering candlelight, Alicia read the manual like a holy text. Her lips moved soundlessly, memorizing every word about "devotion" and "etiquette."
She wasn't seeking knowledge. She was seeking definition.
She was trying to patch the hole in her soul with someone else's written instructions.
I watched her from the comfort of my recliner.
The pile of cigarette butts in my ashtray grew steadily higher. I let her be.
Let her find her own shape.
However, theory without practice is merely a ghost.
After two days of confining herself with that book, she grew restless. Her fingers tapped against the cover. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward the only place in this house that held the scent of life outside my bedroom.
She needed tangible validation. Not from paper, but from the work of her own hands.
The Manor, Sun Son City.
The days were beginning to form a pattern. A pattern is just another form of a comfortable prison.
Alicia started to move. She swept away dust that didn't exist. She wiped down windows that were already pristine. She needed to move to justify her existence in this house.
One afternoon, she stood at the threshold of the room where I was reading.
"M-My Lord..."
I didn't look up. "Speak."
"May... this servant use the kitchen?"
This servant? Was that because of the book's teachings?
I lowered my book.
The kitchen. The heart of a house. The place where life is cultivated.
"You know how to cook?"
"I... have studied it. A little."