"Granddaughter?" Yuuta said, the word feeling strange on his tongue.
He felt a familiar chill run down his spine—the same kind of chill he had felt when he first sat down beside the old man, the same unease that had made him turn back from walking away. But despite that, he ignored it. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself that old men sitting in parks talking about missing grandchildren was perfectly normal. It was not, of course. But Yuuta had learned that normal was a flexible concept, especially since a dragon queen had appeared in his apartment and turned his life upside down.
The old man nodded slowly, his violet eyes fixed on the empty playground where the last of the children were being called home by their parents. The swings still swayed gently in the evening breeze, and the slide stood empty, waiting for morning.
"Yes," he said, his voice heavy with years of searching. "I am looking for my granddaughter. She has been missing for a long time now. I have searched for her across many vast lands, through kingdoms and wastelands, through cities and forests, through worlds that most people do not even know exist. I followed every clue, every rumor, every whisper of her name. And finally, I came here. This is where the trail led me."
Yuuta's heart ached. He looked at the old man's face, at the grief hidden behind his calm expression, at the weight of years pressing down on his broad shoulders. He did not know the feeling of missing someone—he had grown up in an orphanage, with no parents to miss, no family to search for. But he understood loss. He understood the ache of looking for something that might never be found. He had searched for his own parents once, in the early years, before he had given up hope. He had never found any trace of them.
"I am sorry for your loss," Yuuta said, and he meant it. "But I promise you, I will do my best to help you."
The old man's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his weathered face.
"Tell me what she looks like," Yuuta said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Every detail. We can search together."
The old man closed his eyes, and for a moment, he seemed to be looking at something far away, something that only he could see. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost reverent.
"She is short," he said. "Smaller than most. Her hair is white—like mine, but brighter, like fresh snow in morning light. Her eyes are the same color as mine. Violet. Deep and sharp, like she is always seeing something that others miss."
He paused, his fingers tightening around his cane.
"She is arrogant and ruthless. She does not bow to anyone. She does not ask for permission. She does what she believes is right, no matter the cost, no matter who stands in her way. She always has."
Yuuta rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his brow furrowing.
"That is interesting," he said. "She sounds a lot like my wife."
The old man's head turned sharply. "Your wife?"
Yuuta nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yeah. She has the same features you just described. White hair. Violet eyes. Arrogant. Ruthless. Does whatever she thinks is right without caring what anyone else says. She is the most stubborn person I have ever met."
The old man's eyes widened. His grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles went white. Hope flickered in his gaze—a fragile, desperate hope that had been kindled and extinguished many times over the years.
"But," Yuuta continued, oblivious to the old man's reaction, "she is taller than me. And she is not ruthless. Not really. She loves me, even though she will not admit it. She shows it in other ways—through her actions, through her protection, through the way she looks at me when she thinks I am not watching."
The old man's face fell. The hope in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a quiet resignation that seemed to age him further. He had thought, for a moment, that this young man might have known his granddaughter. But the way Yuuta described his wife—taller, capable of love, capable of softness—did not sound like her at all.
His granddaughter had lost the ability to feel long ago. She did not know love. She did not know joy. She did not know sadness. She had buried those parts of herself so deep that even he, her own grandfather, had not been able to reach her. And if she were with this man, she would have killed him long ago for his insolence. Her nature was twisted, broken, shaped by years of pain and solitude. She did not let anyone close. She did not let anyone touch her. She did not let anyone love her.
And yet this man was alive. This man was smiling. This man spoke of his wife with warmth and affection and something that looked very much like love.
So she could not be the one he was searching for.
He smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes. It was a tired smile, a weary smile, the smile of someone who had been disappointed too many times to count.
"I would be deeply indebted to you if you help me," he said.
Yuuta waved a hand dismissively, as if the old man's gratitude meant nothing to him, as if helping a stranger was the most natural thing in the world.
"Do not worry about that," he said. "Let us just search for her together."
The old man looked at him—at this young stranger with red eyes and a kind heart, who had no reason to help him but was offering anyway. He felt something stir in his chest, something he had not felt in a long time.
Hope.
Not the desperate, fragile hope that had been kindled and extinguished so many times before. Something quieter. Something steadier. Something that felt almost like faith.
He rose from the bench, his tall frame unfolding like a mountain waking from a long sleep. His joints popped, and his muscles protested, but he paid them no mind. He looked out at the evening horizon, at the last light of the sun fading behind the buildings, at the stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky.
For the first time in years, he felt like he might finally find what he had been searching for.
___________________
Yuuta and the old man walked out of the park together, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm on the cracked pavement. The evening had deepened around them, the last light of the sun fading into a soft purple glow, and the streetlights had begun to flicker to life, casting pools of yellow light across the sidewalk. The package of chicken was still tucked under Yuuta's arm, growing heavier with each step, but he did not mind. He had a mission now. He was helping someone.
"Let us go to the police station," Yuuta said, glancing up at the old man's towering figure. "We can file a report. They will help you search for her."
The old man shook his head, his silver hair catching the light. "No need for that, lad. I just need my nose."
Yuuta blinked. "Your nose?"
"Yes. In my family, we can search for our kin using our sense of smell and instinct. It is a gift passed down through generations."
Yuuta gave him a long, sideways look. He thought about what the old man was saying—searching for a missing person by sniffing the air like a bloodhound—and decided that the old man was either delusional or from a very strange family. Perhaps both.
What the hell is this old man talking about? Yuuta thought. Does he think he is a dog?
But he said nothing. He had learned, over the years, that old people were stubborn. They did not like being told what to do by young souls who had not yet lived long enough to earn their wisdom. So he nodded along, and he agreed to help, and he told himself that once the old man had exhausted his strange methods, he would contact the police himself.
And so they began their journey.
The Bookstore
The first stop was a small bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down café, its windows dark, its sign creaking in the evening breeze. The old man stopped at the entrance and sniffed the air, his eyes half-closed, his head tilted as if listening to something only he could hear.
"I can smell her," he said. "Faint, but there. She was here a few days ago."
Yuuta raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He pushed open the door, and a little bell chimed above his head. The old man ducked to follow him through the frame, his height drawing stares from the few customers scattered among the shelves.
The cashier, a young woman with glasses and a bored expression, looked up as they approached. Yuuta described the woman they were looking for—short, white hair, violet eyes, striking features, the kind of face you would remember if you saw it. The cashier shook her head.
"Sorry, dear," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I was only hired last week. I have not seen anyone matching that description. But you could check with the owner. She comes in on Tuesdays."
The old man wandered through the aisles while Yuuta thanked the cashier. His nose twitched as he passed the romance section, the mystery section, the small display of children's books near the window. He stopped near a shelf of poetry, his hand hovering over a collection of old verses.
"She was here," he said softly. "I can still smell her. Like frost and winter air."
Yuuta sighed and walked over to him.
"She is not here now, old man," he said gently. "Let us try somewhere else."
The old man nodded and followed him out, but his eyes lingered on the bookstore as they walked away, as if he could see her ghost still browsing the shelves, still running her fingers over the spines of books she would never buy.
The Shopping Store
They tried a shopping Store next, a sprawling complex of glass and steel that loomed against the darkening sky like a sleeping giant. The parking lot was mostly empty, and the lights in the windows were beginning to flicker off as stores closed for the night. A few teenagers lingered near the entrance, smoking cigarettes and laughing at something on their phones.
The old man stopped at the entrance and sniffed the air again, his brow furrowing.
"I cannot sense her presence," he said. "She is not here."
Yuuta looked at the mall, at the dark windows and the empty parking lot. "Are you sure? Maybe she came during the day?"
The old man shook his head. "No. My nose would know. She has not set foot in this place."
Yuuta did not argue. He could see the trouble in the old man's eyes, the frustration and grief that tightened his jaw and hunched his shoulders. He wanted to help. He just did not know how.
They walked on.
The Street Market
They passed through a street market that was closing down for the night, vendors packing up their wares, folding their tables, counting their earnings. The smell of grilled meat and spices hung in the air, and Yuuta's stomach growled again.
The old man sniffed the air, his nose twitching left and right.
"She passed through here," he said. "Recently. Maybe a week ago. The scent is weak, but it is here."
Yuuta looked around at the empty stalls and the tired vendors. "Do you want to ask around?"
The old man shook his head. "No. She is not here now. There is no point."
They walked through the market in silence, the old man's eyes scanning the crowd, his nose still twitching, his hope flickering like a candle in the wind.
Yuuta's College
The next stop was Yuuta's college. The gates were chained shut, and a sign hung from the fence, warning of construction and advising visitors to stay away. Yellow tape fluttered in the breeze, and the lights in the buildings were dark.
The old man pressed his face against the chain-link, his nose twitching.
"I smell her," he said. "Strong. She was here. Recently."
Yuuta looked at the empty campus, at the dark windows and the construction equipment scattered across the fields. The place where he had almost died. The place where Erza's grief had frozen the ground and shattered the sky.
"That is why I got a week off," he said quietly. "The college is closed for repairs."
The old man did not respond. He stood at the gate for a long time, his hand resting on the chain-link, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond. Yuuta could see the questions forming in his mind—why was she here, what had happened, was she hurt—but he did not have the answers.
"She was looking for someone," the old man said finally. "Or something."
Yuuta thought of Erza, of the storm, of the chaos that had consumed the campus. He thought of the woman who had stood in the middle of it all, her wings spread, her eyes blazing, her grief shaking the earth.
"Maybe," he said. "Let us keep looking."
The Apartment Building
They visited more places as the evening turned to night—a grocery store where the old man caught a faint trace of her scent near the dairy section, a bus stop where he stood for five minutes trying to decide which direction she had gone, a small park with a fountain that no longer worked where he sat on a bench and closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
The old man followed his nose from one location to the next, his hope flickering and fading with each stop, his shoulders growing heavier with each disappointment. He did not complain. He did not rest. He simply kept walking, kept searching, kept hoping.
Yuuta followed without complaint, his feet aching, his stomach growling, his heart heavy. He thought about what it would be like to search for someone for so long, to follow faint scents and half-remembered clues across cities and countries, to never know if you would ever find them.
Finally, as the moon rose high above the city and the streets grew empty, the old man stopped in front of a familiar building.
It was Yuuta's apartment.
The old man sniffed the air, and his eyes widened. His hand tightened on his cane, and his whole body went still.
"I can smell her here," he said. "She is inside."
Yuuta looked at the building, at the lights glowing in the windows, at the home he had made with Erza and Elena. The curtains were drawn, but he could see the faint glow of the television through the fabric. He could imagine Elena curled on the sofa, Erza beside her, reading her book.
"This is my apartment," he said.
The old man shook his head, his voice trembling.
"No. I mean—" He paused, his eyes fixed on the windows. "I can smell my granddaughter here. I am sure She was around here."
Yuuta's blood ran cold.
To be continued...