Today is December 25th, 2013—Lina's birthday.
I might not take my own birthday seriously, but Lina's birthday is something I'll never ignore.
Every year on this day, I finish my work early and stay by her side, cooking dishes she has never seen in the village.
The first year was French fries.
The second year was sauce-less hamburger.
The third year was thin pancake filled with meat and vegetables.
Last year was apple fried rice.
And this year, I plan to make noodles and potato chips.
First, I pour wheat flour into a big bowl. While stirring, I slowly add an appropriate amount of water. Then I knead it by hand until it becomes dough. After that, I cover the bowl and let it rest for thirty minutes, so the dough and water can fully combine—this makes the noodles springier and smoother.
While waiting, I start making the potato chips. I slice the potatoes thin, boil them briefly, scoop them out, drain all the water, and drop them into hot oil. When the bubbles stop rising, the chips are done.
Using chopsticks, I lift them out of the oil and flick lightly to shake off the excess. After placing all the chips on a plate, I sprinkle a pinch of salt and gently shake the plate so every chip gets evenly coated.
"Potato chips are done."
I give a plate to Lina, who has been watching me cook the whole time.
I try one as well. It gives a crisp snap the moment I bite down—the salt is perfectly balanced, the flavor satisfying.
"Karen, this is so good! I can't stop eating!"
Lina keeps grabbing chip after chip. The once full plate is already close to empty. Looks like I did a good job.
"I want more!"
She asks for another plate, but potato chips are only a snack—not a real meal—so I refuse her request.
"No. Potato chips aren't something you fill your stomach with. Besides, there's something even more delicious coming."
"Really!?"
Her eyes shine the instant she hears that. She's practically drooling. I assured her.
"Of course."
By now, the dough should be ready for the next step. I uncover the bowl, take the dough to the cutting board, divide it into pieces, and roll each piece flat with a wooden rod until it's big and thin. I fold it into a shape I can cut in one stroke, then slice it into one-centimeter strips. Handmade noodles—complete.
When the water in the pot begins to boil, I toss in the noodles and cook them until they soften. I also add eggs and vegetables for a more balanced meal.
Cooking noodles takes time, so by the time everything is done, it's already dinner.
On the table sit two bowls of noodle soup, a small plate of fries, and a piece of sliced fish fillet.
Then I wished Lina.
"Lina, happy birthday."
She's another year older—and even cuter.
"Thank you, Karen."
"You're welcome. Dig in."
I pick up a long noodle with my chopsticks and place it into my mouth. The part still hanging out is slurped in with a smooth slide. The texture is elastic and satisfying.
Then I scoop up a spoonful of soup. The flavor spreads across my tongue—a blend of ingredients layered together—refreshing and not greasy.
Next, I scoop up more soup and place noodles on the spoon, eating them together. The combination is unbelievably good—far better than either alone.
"Delicious!"
Lina is happily eating her bowl as well, savoring every bite.
"There's more in the pot."
"Mm!"
This is the last birthday we'll celebrate in village, so I tried to make the meal as rich as possible. Thanks to the quality of the ingredients, everything turned out great. Seeing Lina enjoy it makes me happy.
Afterward, before bed, we drink a cup of warm milk—as it helps with sleep, growth, and strengthening the bones.
Now, I lie in bed with Lina in my arms. Every birthday night has always been like this.
The first year, when I asked what she wanted to do, she said she wanted me to hold her and pat her head while she slept.
And even this year, it's still the same.
This will be the last year I do this. It's time to stop such intimate contact. Lina is entering her growth period—certain parts of her body will begin to develop.
I need to harden my heart and refuse her request next year. I know she'll be sad, but we aren't a couple. I have my own goals, and until I achieve them, I don't want to start any relationship. I won't cross that line.
I don't know how long it will take, but I will keep getting stronger and reach my goal as soon as possible.
First, we'll head to the capital and challenge the dungeon—to earn enough money.
A few days later, it was January 1st, 2014—a new year, a new beginning.
I chose to depart on the 2nd because the village believed that staying home on the first day of the year would ensure a peaceful year ahead. It was more of a blessing than a rule, but still, it wasn't something we ignored.
Lina and I stayed home packing our luggage for the journey. The village's farmlands had stopped planting back in November, the livestock had all been turned into meat the day before yesterday, and most of the ores in the cave had already been mined out.
After a hearty dinner that night, I went to bed with a complicated mix of emotions.
On January 2nd, after eating our final meal in the village, Lina and I went to our parents' graves to tell them we were leaving.
"Mom, Dad… Lina and I are leaving the village today. We're heading to the city to become adventurers. Don't worry about us. We've learned plenty of powerful magic. I'll protect both myself and Lina. I'm going now."
After that, we headed to the village entrance and sat on our bicycles. I had wrapped the seat with some old clothes that no longer fit me—otherwise, riding for long hours would make my butt hurt. I also wrapped the handlebars a little to make gripping them more comfortable.
As I stared at the path ahead, a thought weighed heavily on my heart:
The moment we take this step out of the village… it'll truly disappear.
A village that had existed for two thousand years would end with our generation.
"Karen… why are you crying?"
Lina looked at me with worry all over her face. I touched the corner of my eye—there were tears. I really didn't want to part with this place.
"Am I crying…? It's nothing. I just feel a bit sad about leaving the village behind."
"I… I feel the same…"
Her voice trembled. If we lingered any longer, we might delay our departure by several days.
I wiped my tears away and said to her,
"Alright… let's go."
"Mm."
With her reply, I pressed down on the pedal and started cycling toward the capital, Lina riding beside me.
(Goodbye… the village that sheltered me for 11 years.)