Robin took them silently.
The ointment was effective, and the wound's healing speed increased noticeably.
On the fourth day, when Seraphilia returned, she had something wrapped in old newspaper in her arms.
While Seraphilia was out getting water, Robin's gaze lingered on the newspaper bundle for a long time.
Through a gap, a bit of leather binding was visible.
It was a book.
Robin's fingertips twitched, but in the end, she didn't touch it.
Only when she leaned back against the wall did something flicker slightly in her pale blue eyes.
Seraphilia continued her activities.
She traded for two small pieces of soft, coarse cotton.
Then, at a second-hand stall, she used nearly all her copper coins to trade for a chipped clay dish and a short length of red waxed cord.
Robin couldn't understand these "useless" items.
But Seraphilia never explained, just worked in silence as if performing a ritual only she knew.
Time passed quietly.
Robin's injury improved day by day, and she was already able to remove the bandages.
Sometimes she would pick up that dull book, "The Evolution of West Blue Trade Routes," and read it with extreme focus.
The supplies Seraphilia brought back grew more plentiful.
Until one evening in early February, she returned earlier than usual.
She brought food, a square package carefully wrapped in old burlap, and a small oil-paper bundle that emitted a sweet fragrance.
She set the items down, then walked to a corner of the room and began rustling about with her back to Robin.
Robin watched her busy back, then glanced at the gloomy sky outside the window.
Tomorrow, February sixth.
A day she thought no one would ever remember again, a day she was almost forcing herself to forget.
Her fingers curled up unconsciously.
On the morning of February sixth, Black Iron Town woke up in a rust-colored haze.
Seraphilia woke up even earlier than usual and tiptoed out the door.
The moment the door closed, Robin opened her eyes.
Her eyes were clear and bright, without a trace of sleepiness.
She slowly sat up, her gaze falling on the center of the room.
There, things were different.
On the small cleared space in front of the fireplace, the two washed cotton cloths were spread out like a crude tablecloth.
In the center of the cloth sat the chipped clay dish.
In the dish were several dark but neatly shaped items resembling pastries.
In the open oil-paper bundle beside it were several translucent, deep purple preserved fruits—an expensive berry specialty of the West Blue.
Beside the clay dish, three books were neatly stacked.
"Common Characters of West Blue Ancient Language (Simplified Edition)."
"Illustrated Catalog of Strange Plants of the Grand Line (Volume 1, Copy)."
And the thinnest one, yet with the most exquisite cover: "Starry Sky and Navigation: An Introduction to Simple Celestial Identification."
Beside the books lay the bottle of nearly dry ink and a carefully sharpened quill.
There was no note, no blessing, and not a single word about "birthday."
It was as if this were just a routine resupply, only happened to be arranged more neatly.
Robin sat there, unmoving for a long time.
Morning light squeezed through the cracks of the broken window, falling precisely on the small "display area," plating everything in a layer of pale gold.
In her chest, a strange, aching warmth swelled, nearly bursting from her throat.
After Ohara, no one had remembered this day.
She thought it would be like this for the rest of her life.
But...
This silent, eccentric silver-haired girl—how did she know?
Those books... ancient language, plants, celestial bodies... they were too specific.
Why did she do this?
What on earth did she want from her?
Countless questions and suspicions surged again.
But this time, they were wrapped in a more powerful, undeniable warmth that hammered at her defenses.
Robin took a deep breath, slowly moved over, and knelt before the cotton cloth.
She reached out, her fingertips trembling slightly as she gently touched the "Common Characters of West Blue Ancient Language (Simplified Edition)."
The book cover was cool, and the scent of old paper was the smell of "knowledge" in her memory.
She picked up a piece of deep purple preserved fruit and put it in her mouth.
The cloyingly sweet taste dissolved on her tongue, carrying the essence of sunshine and forests, starkly different from the coarseness of rye flour.
It was a long-lost taste belonging to "good things."
The door was pushed open gently.
Seraphilia returned, carrying a small clay pot from which the aroma of oatmeal porridge wafted.
Seeing Robin sitting by the cotton cloth, her footsteps faltered for a second before she walked in as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
She placed the clay pot by the fireplace to keep warm, her expression as flat as ever, not even glancing at the carefully arranged corner.
"Eat while it's hot," she pointed to the pot.
"I'm going to the docks today to check things out. I heard there's a new batch of'scrap'."
With that, she walked to the other side of the room and began tidying her tattered blanket with her back to Robin.
Robin looked at her straight yet slender back.
Then she looked at everything before her—simple yet heartfelt.
In the morning light, dust motes floated slowly within the beams.
She lowered her head and ate another piece of preserved fruit.
Then, in a very soft, almost inaudible voice, she said:
"...Thank you."
Seraphilia's fingers, tidying the blanket, paused for half a second.
She didn't turn around, but deep in her eyes, that icy blue melted for an instant.
"Mm."
She responded in an equally soft voice.
The room fell silent once more.
The aroma of oatmeal porridge mingled with the scent of old pages and the sweetness of preserved fruits.
No birthday song, no candles, no blessings.
Only a few items quietly arranged on a crude cotton cloth in the corner of a dilapidated room.
And between two girls emerging from the darkness, a sentiment unspoken yet quietly delivered.
This was Nico Robin's first birthday with company since the destruction of Ohara.
And the first birthday Seraphilia could celebrate for her.
Everything was just beginning.