Town Chronicles I

A Perfect Puzzle Night

Annie finally gets a month's supply of candies from Atara and jerky from <color=#7CC38E><player></color>, sorting them by color and type into seven glass jars. This forces her to postpone her bath by an hour, but it's worth it. Now, freshly washed and ready for bed, she decides to reward herself with a perfect puzzle night.

She chooses the puzzle featuring the Burger & Olive and spreads it out on her Wednesday bed—the one by the window with a view of the moon, where the feather mattress feels just right on Wednesdays.

The puzzle comes together smoothly. The cockpit is beginning to take shape when Annie reaches for a dark blue piece—and her fingertips brush against something fuzzy and warm.

It's "Miracle," her clingy kitten. It has slipped in unnoticed and now lies curled right at the center of the puzzle, flattening the newly completed section beneath it. Its amber eyes gleam intently in the soft light, a contented purr rumbling in its throat.

Miracle, Annie tries to reason, "this is my command center."

The proud cat remains unmoved. It even extends a paw to toy idly with a piece of the orbital module nearby, its eyes stating plainly, "It's mine now."

Annie sighs. She knows Miracle's temper all too well—forcing it off would only end in disaster, like one swipe sending pieces skittering everywhere. She stares at the cat for a moment, then a spark of inspiration strikes.

She hops off the Wednesday bed, dashes to the kitchen, and grabs a piece of unsalted jerky from the jar labeled "Thursday". When she returns to the room, Miracle has shifted position, half its body now covering the ship's engine.

Annie doesn't approach. Instead, she stays at a distance and slowly unwraps the jerky. The scent isn't strong, but it's plenty for a certain little glutton.

The tips of its fuzzy ears twitch. Miracle's head snaps up.

Annie bites off a corner of the jerky and deliberately lets out a contented sigh. Then, she pinches the rest of the strip, places it in a bowl, and carries the bowl over to the Monday bed—the one farthest from the puzzle.

The cat's purring stops. After a brief pause, it rises with feline dignity, stretches in a long, luxurious arc, and gracefully hops down from the Wednesday bed. With deliberate steps, it makes its way toward the Monday bed in search of its "tribute."

Seizing the opportunity, Annie quickly restores the section Miracle had flattened and swiftly completes the engine.

Just as she fits the final star into place, Miracle finishes licking its chops, hops onto the windowsill. It tucks its paws neatly beneath it, and gazes quietly at the moon outside, as if the sly schemer from moments before was never it.

Annie looks at the completed Star Spaceship puzzle, then at the elegant silhouette by the window. She shakes her head with a smile, pulls a lemon drop from the "Tuesday" jar, and pops it into her mouth.

Guess she'll have to prepare the "toll" in advance next puzzle night.

The Return of Zinser

Something important is missing from Eric's living room—the voice of Zinser.

That retro speaker, with its metal knobs forming a dull expression, was once the soul of the entire home. When Eric came home from work and pushed the door open, Zinser's music would instantly pull him onto a dance floor—no need to even change out of his leather shoes, as if the rhythm alone could lift him to dance. But now, it stands silent in the corner, its indicator light forever dark.

Eric's youngest daughter, Ruby, hasn't spoken to Zinser in seven days.

She was the one who named this "singing box friend." "Zinser"—she gave the name to this partner who'd been there since her first day of life, back when she was just four years old. When Ruby was a baby, it was Zinser's lullabies that lulled her to sleep; when she learned to walk, it was the light bossa nova rhythms that kept her toddling; by the time she started school, Zinser had become the bridge connecting Ruby to her idols, the band called Dionysus. Even the faint scratch on the speaker's side is a "signature" she left at age two.

Zinser is just too tired. Eric comforts Ruby, though he himself stares helplessly at the burnt-out capacitor board inside the speaker. Parts for this old model aren't easy to find in a small town.

Things take a turn when <color=#7CC38E><player></color> visits Onsen Mountain.

<color=#7CC38E><player></color> arrives with the collected materials—each one set carefully on the workbench.

Bob, the enthusiastic craftsman, is just as handy with repairs as he is with making things. He places his repair kit on the Workbench and adjusts his glasses. "Let's see what's ailing this fellow."

The coil's aged, the capacitor's burnt out—both need replacing, Bob shakes his head. "The real problem is this tuner. Nobody makes them anymore."

A sigh spread through the room like fog—disappointment made visible.

Ah, don't worry about that! Bob bursts out laughing. "For Rory, this is a piece of cake."

No one knew if it came from his personal collection or some special supplier, but Rory worked fast. In no time, he had the limited-run tuner in his hands.

Alright, time to work my magic! Rubbing his hands together, Bob begins the delicate operation.

The soldering iron dances deftly among the components, his eyes gleaming with focus behind his reading glasses. He murmurs to himself as he works: "This vacuum tube is from my era—it'll give a warmer sound than what they make now... This silver-plated wire will keep the signal pure..."

When the final connection is made, Bob takes a deep breath and slowly turns the volume knob clockwise.

The indicator light remains dark.

Ruby's face falls instantly, her eyes beginning to well up. Just as Eric moves to comfort his daughter, Bob does something unexpected—he raises his right hand and taps the speaker's casing three times with his knuckles.

*Thunk*

As if awakened by that familiar sound, Zinser's indicator light suddenly flickers to life, like someone stirring from a long slumber. A warm golden glow steadies, and the familiar hum of electrical static emerges from the speakers—a sound that feels like pure magic in the quiet living room.

Bob smiles, wrinkles spreading like ripples from the corners of his eyes. "See? It's got character. Takes a special wake-up call."

With a few soft crackles, the powerful, crystal-clear high notes of Dionysus's lead vocalist cut through the room like a laser—it's Falling Up, the song Ruby knows best.

The girl's eyes light up instantly. Though barefoot, she begins dancing to the rhythm on the spot. "Welcome back, Zinser!" she shouts, spinning in joyful circles, greeting her long-absent old friend in the way she knows best.

Amid the deafening music, Eric notices Bob and <color=#7CC38E><player></color> quietly gathering their tools, preparing to leave.

I don't know how to thank you...

Bob waves him off, gesturing toward the utterly captivated little girl. "This is all the thanks I need." Pausing at the doorway, he turns back and adds, "Oh, and remember to let it sing at least once a week. A good speaker is like a good friend—it needs to stay in touch."

As night falls, Zinser fills the room with soft melodies. Wrapped in a blanket and leaning against her dear friend, Ruby drifts into a deep sleep. Eric gently turns down the volume, watching the smile that still lingers on his little one's sleeping face.

Goodnight, Ruby. Goodnight, Zinser.

The Secret Meeting

Moonlight falls like a silver key, picking the lock of Epaphroditos's dreams.

He knows he must be dreaming. It's the only way to explain this. Here he is, floating like a Grimkin over his exhibition hall. Below, his entire collection has come to life, climbing down from their displays, walls, and shelves to convene together around a round table for a secret meeting.

Presiding over the meeting is the antique rug once laid before the Cat-Faced Sphinx. It too hovers mid-air. "Friends," it begins, the intricate golden threads across its pattern running like living streams under the moonlight, "I am tired of being anchored to the same spot every day, even if the cat is adorable."

Wait a moment, the Cat-Faced Sphinx stretches lazily, "doesn't anyone realize I'm a lion, not a house cat?"

These are just mood-setting fragments of speech, not meant to be answered. The Sancai Horse continues, "I'm tired of standing on this bogu-shelf. Look at my form—I should be galloping across open fields, or at least sensing the echoes of ancient battlefields."

The lady from the mosaic masterpiece on the wall leans out. "Well, you'd fall apart that way." But that's not her real point. She joins the complaints, puffing her cheeks before pursing her lips. "I've been holding this smile for years and years. Facial muscles—even painted ones—get sore, you know."

We must leave! the antique rug declares solemnly.

Epaphroditos understands. A chill of dread shoots through him. They're going to leave him! These treasures, collected with all his passion and guarded so carefully, are actually plotting their escape.

But the antique rug continues, "This isn't a farewell, but a..."

It pauses, and all the collections—from the astrolabe passed down since the Eclipse Era to the popular novel signed by its author just last month—chime in as one:

...Vacation!

Epaphroditos freezes.

I propose, chirps a small Mecha Bird, hopping down from the clock's upper level, "the seaside! My gears need the salty sea breeze for lubrication, not this climate-controlled cage!"

No, the forest! counters the Cat-Faced Sphinx. "I've spent too long in deserts and towns, never once visiting the woods. I want to feel moss and mushrooms, and see that Common Kestrel Ed mentioned."

The Sancai Horse tilts its head curiously. "Why a Common Kestrel?"

Ed says there's a lady who loves birdwatching in the forest, and she's particularly fond of Common Kestrels. This time, the lady in the painting doesn't dampen his spirits. She adds softly, a genuine blush tinting her cheeks, "I want to ride a hot air balloon and see this era from above."

The meeting erupts into a lively planning session for the vacation. The knot of anxiety in Epaphroditos's chest slowly loosens, replaced by a wave of profound, tender absurdity. They aren't leaving him. They're just... bored.

Only then does he realize he has protected them too well—so well that he has stripped away nearly all their chances to engage with the world.

The next morning, Epaphroditos wakes with a strange impulse. Instead of putting on his white gloves as usual, he picks up the Sancai Horse with bare hands—almost reverently—and carries it onto the balcony to warm the cool ceramic in the first light of day.

He clears a new spot for the antique rug and runs a hand over the Cat-Faced Sphinx's "fur." The mosaic masterpiece is relocated to the garden-view window, where it spends the day. After winding the mecha bird, he places it on the windowsill, letting it sing toward a real oak tree.

As dusk falls, he gently returns everything to its place. A contented, weary quiet fills the air, as if they have all just returned from a grand journey.

That night, Epaphroditos dreams again.

In the dream, the antique rug lies lazily under the moonlight, whispering to the other collections: "See? I told you he'd understand. Ed gets us. He just needed a little... reminder."

The lady in the painting shifts her shoulders and lets out a contented sigh. "I smelled the wind today. It carried the scent of the sea."

Chef's Special Salad

Massimo's "Chef's Special Salad" is facing a silent crisis.

In the kitchen, he works with alchemical precision: using only the crispest inner leaves of dew-kissed lettuce, tomatoes peeled for a velvety texture, and carrots shaved into translucent ribbons. His secret vinaigrette combines aged 10-year balsamic vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, and a spoonful of lemon honey that dances on the palate.

Yet the customers' reactions feel like a splash of cold water. "Tastes good, very refreshing," they say, then push it around with their forks as indifferently as if it were any ordinary ninety-gold house salad.

A pang of wounded pride shoots through Massimo. He's poured his heart into this salad, yet they treat his masterpiece like some common dish.

After closing, faced with the leftover salad ingredients, he makes a decision. Instead of his usual careful plating, he tosses everything into a large glass bowl and, with a rebellious gesture, dumps the entire bottle of dressing in at once.

He pulls on gloves, plunges his hands in, and mixes it all together—roughly, thoroughly, almost violently. But that's not enough. A ceramic mortar is enlisted for battle. Lettuce is crushed, tomatoes are smashed, their juices merging wildly with the dressing. This is no longer cooking; it's pure release.

Exhausted, he scoops a spoonful of the failed creation and shoves it into his mouth.

The next second, he freezes.

The taste... is completely different!

The crisp bite of lettuce, the bright acidity of the tomatoes, the sweetness of the carrot—and all the complex notes of the dressing—are no longer separated. They've been violently, intimately fused. Every leaf is like a sponge saturated with the juice, every flavor has found its match. His previous salad was a polite salon—guests elegantly dressed but keeping a distance. This... this is a raucous festival, a celebration of flavor.

Ahhh! So the issue wasn't the ingredients, but the integration. He had been so focused on preserving each element's elegant individuality that he had blocked the bridge where flavors meet.

From then on, the "Chef's Special Salad" stays on the menu. But when a guest orders it, Massimo now asks with a smile, "Shall I toss it for you?"

Most nod yes. And so they watch as he pours the dressing over fresh, pristine ingredients and mixes them thoroughly with long chopsticks in a rhythmic, almost ceremonial motion. The sound and spectacle have become a pre-meal ritual.

The first customer to try the new version widened their eyes after the first bite. "Is this... the House Salad?"

No, Massimo replied, returning to the stove with a relieved smile at last. "This is the Chef's Special Salad."

His salad hadn't changed. Only the way the parts met had. Sometimes, the best flavor doesn't come from meticulous separation, but from a thorough, intimate, even somewhat rough integration. The true "special," it turns out, was hidden in that one decisive toss.