Chapter 2. I Am a Bug

The next morning, the unfamiliar woman in the mirror was still staring back at me.

The novel hadn’t spent much effort describing Mine Molière’s appearance. From what I remembered, the only description was that she was “like a flower that grew in the shadows.”

Maybe that’s why I had vaguely assumed she would have jet-black hair. I hadn’t expected this washed-out shade of blonde.

In this world, dark, straw-like blond hair was fairly common.

During my stay at the mountain cabin, the Kimber couple had fed me all sorts of nourishing food, but my pale complexion and brittle hair hadn’t improved dramatically.

I couldn’t tell if Mine looked like this because of the emotional toll she had endured or because she had been tortured while imprisoned.

I twisted the messy, overgrown hair into a loose bun and headed downstairs. The smell of greasy food wafted up to greet me, and even though I wasn’t particularly hungry, my mouth began to water.

“Did you sleep well?”

Mrs. Kimber, ever industrious, had already finished breakfast and was pouring herself a fragrant cup of coffee.

Most of the other guests were also sipping their tea, so I hurried down the stairs.

“You didn’t have to let me sleep in. You could’ve woken me.”

“Oh, what’s the point of disturbing a sleeping beauty just for breakfast?”

Soon, the innkeeper brought out a plate of fat, worm-like sausages, rye bread, and a glass of cold milk.

“Oh no, our Myrda can’t drink milk!”

Mrs. Kimber clicked her tongue, causing the innkeeper’s eyes to widen.

“Who can’t drink milk?”

“Uh, what do they call it… lactose something? Lactose intolerance!”

“What’s that?”

“They say some people can’t digest milk properly!”

“No, no, it’s fine. I think I’ve gotten over it.”

I said quickly, embarrassed. I picked up the glass and gulped down the milk.

This wasn’t my body anymore, after all. I had wanted to test it out, and sure enough, drinking milk didn’t upset my stomach.

‘I really did get reincarnated into someone else’s body.’

The weight of that reality hit me anew. Perhaps unconsciously, I must have made a gloomy expression, because the innkeeper asked in a concerned tone,

“You’re not forcing yourself to eat, are you? Forcing food down can upset your stomach.”

“No, really. It’s delicious. Very fresh, too.”

“Of course! It’s made with milk we get fresh every morning.”

The innkeeper pulled out a chair across from Mrs. Kimber and sat down. Meanwhile, I tore off pieces of bread and stuffed them into my mouth, the warmth of the grease and meat filling me with satisfaction. Truly, bread had a way of elevating the quality of life.

Resting her chin on her hand, the innkeeper watched me eat with a soft smile.

“What were you doing, letting a pretty young lady starve?”

“Strange, she must’ve lost her appetite before now.”

This was the first time Mrs. Kimber had seen me eat so heartily. It wasn’t her fault; I wasn’t particularly fond of potatoes, which happened to be the Kimber family’s staple food. I was a bread person through and through.

“Were you unwell?”

“Oh, we found her collapsed in the mountains. My husband brought her back—she was practically a corpse.”

“Oh my goodness, how terrible…”

“We’re not sure what happened either. She’s lost bits and pieces of her memory. Poor thing, imagine what kind of shock would do that to someone.”

“Hmm, that’s true. Sometimes, forgetting is a blessing in disguise.”

“Still, I’m convinced our Myrda must be some high-ranking noble, don’t you think?”

“You might be onto something.”

The two women seemed to be old friends, chatting and laughing over their coffee. Yet they still turned their heads now and then to check if I needed anything.

“Would you like more bread?”

“No, thank you. This raisin bread is absolutely delicious.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve got good taste.”

When it came time to leave the inn, the innkeeper insisted on gifting me an entire loaf of raisin bread. I tried to refuse, but Mrs. Kimber joined in, making it impossible to turn down the generous offer.

“If Mrs. Kimber ever gives you a hard time, run away to my place, Myrda!”

“I will. Stay healthy!”

I offered a bittersweet smile, knowing I couldn’t promise a next visit.

* * *

The wagon, which had been briefly emptied, was now packed to the brim with goods once more.

As Mrs. Kimber stuffed the bulky goose-down quilt into a corner, she chattered away cheerfully.

“Now that I think about it, I should’ve bought some new curtains too. I wasn’t thinking straight!”

“Curtains, too?”

“I should’ve considered how everything would match. Myrda, you forgot too, didn’t you? The curtains are green.”

“They’re gray.”

“Gray?”

Mrs. Kimber tilted her head in confusion and padded the driver’s seat with several cushions. That was where I would sit.

“Those are the curtains in *our* room.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you talking about? This—this quilt is for you to use.”

“Oh.”

I had completely misunderstood.

I was at a loss for words at the unexpected response. While I hesitated, Mrs. Kimber smiled gently and extended her hand toward me.

“It’s going to get even colder. We’ve only had one thick quilt at home, so I’m sure you’ve been sleeping cold. I’m sorry about that.”

“No… no, really, it’s fine. I’m not very sensitive to the cold.”

At this point, there was no point in trying to return something we had already purchased and loaded onto the wagon. More than that, rejecting it would feel like dismissing her thoughtfulness.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Kimber. I really appreciate how considerate you’ve been…”

“You haven’t even recovered all your memories yet.”

I had vaguely claimed I couldn’t remember much, unable to reveal that I was actually Mine Molière. The simple-hearted Kimber couple had believed me and taken me in—without expecting anything in return.

“Treat our home as your own. Don’t worry about anything. Even if your memory comes back tomorrow, we won’t just send you away. If something comes to mind, you can tell us then.”

“Yes…”

“Actually, even if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine too. Don’t push yourself to remember. Once your body and mind are at ease, everything will come back naturally. So stop worrying so much, Myrda—you’ll make yourself sick!”

How could Mrs. Kimber trust people so easily?

“What if I’m… not a good person?”

“See? There you go again, worrying.”

“Still…”

“You’re not a bad person. It’s short, but I’ve seen enough to know. Myrda is a good person. And hey, everyone makes mistakes. As long as you’re determined to live as a better person from now on, that’s what matters. Isn’t that right?”

I felt tears prick at my eyes.

Maybe it was because I had set a deadline for myself. The kinder the Kimber couple was to me, the more determined I felt to leave.

*‘I’d only planned to stay through the winter.’*

Leaving before we grew even closer didn’t seem like a bad idea. No, it was the right thing to do.

I took Mrs. Kimber’s warm hand and climbed onto the driver’s seat.

“I’ll repay your kindness someday. I promise.”

“Your words alone are thanks enough. Now, let’s get going.”

Good people seemed to fall from the heavens like shooting stars. And I, leeching off their kindness, felt like nothing more than a bug.

Winter days were short, and in the mountains, the darkness set in even faster. By the time the cabin came into view, the sky was painted in hues of lavender and orange, like watercolors blended together.

“Something’s not right…”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Kimber’s voice was uneasy as she drove the wagon forward.

“There’s no smoke coming from the chimney.”

She meant that Mr. Kimber should have been preparing dinner, knowing we’d be arriving soon.

“Maybe his back hasn’t healed yet.”

“Perhaps… He is getting older. Things he used to recover from in half a day now take much longer.”

She tried to brush it off lightly, but I could sense her unease. I was feeling it too.

The cabin was dark.

The windows, which should have glowed with the warm light of the hearth, were ominously silent.

At that moment, a flock of crows took off from the treetops, their wings flapping noisily.

“Mrs. Kimber…”

I bit my lower lip nervously and clutched her wrist. She was trembling too, though she masked it with a strained smile.

She stopped the wagon and climbed down alone.

“Wait here. I’ll go take a look.”

“I’ll come with you—”

“No. If something’s wrong, turn the wagon around and head straight back to the village.”

“What could be wrong—”

“Stay here,” she said firmly, shaking her head. She patted my hand briefly before stepping into the deepening shadows.

I counted to three hundred in my head, but Mrs. Kimber didn’t return.

Anxious and unable to sit still, I finally climbed down from the wagon. Just then, a long, guttural wail echoed through the air—like a wounded animal.

But it wasn’t an animal.

It was Mrs. Kimber’s anguished sobbing.

“Mrs. Kimber!”

Her hurried footprints were stamped into the shallow snow, and I followed them, descending the hill as quickly as I could.

The first thing I noticed was the broken door. The windowpanes were shattered, glass shards glittering faintly in the dim light.

‘Bandits…!’

Mr. Kimber had once mentioned them.

Sometimes bandits roamed these mountains, but he had assured me that their modest cabin was hardly worth targeting. In twenty years of living here, he’d only encountered bandits once. They had stolen their belongings but spared their lives.

Had their luck run out this time?

My heart pounded in my chest, and nausea rose in my throat. Forcing strength into my trembling legs, I stepped into the dark cabin.

The place was in ruins.

The kitchen cupboards had been overturned, and the delicate teacups and plates inside lay shattered on the floor in jagged pieces.

The sobbing was coming from the bedroom.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold.

Mrs. Kimber was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands. On the bed…