It was an evening just as winter had begun.

The city was already submerged in darkness, and the sound of carriage wheels echoed long over the wet stone roads. Telegraph lines crisscrossed between buildings, and the streets were dimly lit by gas lamps and the newly introduced electric lights.

I was on my way back from the bakery.

The moment I stepped out of the station with a long cloak draped over my clothes, I heard a strange sound from a corner of an alley.

A faint sound of coughing.

When I turned my head, a small child was huddled beneath a weathered stone wall.

Our eyes met.

The child's clothes were tattered, and he held only an old scrap of cloth in his hand. He didn't run away. He simply stared at me with wary eyes.

After hesitating for a moment, I eventually approached the child.

...Where is your home?

The child did not answer.

That night, I brought the child to my house.

At first, I only intended to let him stay for one night.

But that day passed, and another day passed—

Before I knew it, calling the child's name had become part of my daily routine.

And a few years later.

That small child was no longer the little boy who used to follow me around.