Chapter 662 - 65: The Departed Witch

Chapter 662: Chapter 65: The Departed Witch

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

The knocking grew louder, the blows coming faster and faster, as if something were ramming the door from outside.

No! Not ramming!

It was smashing, hammering—like a beast clawing at the door, again and again.

The entire door shuddered. Dust, shaken loose from the cracks in the frame, drifted down, forming a fine mist in the dim, gray light.

I quickly set down my bowl, wiped my hands on my clothes, and hurried across the living room.

The floorboards groaned under my feet, as if urging me to go faster, faster still.

I reached the door and put my hand on the knob. The banging exploded right next to my ear, sending a numbing vibration through my palm. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

I took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

A girl was standing outside.

For a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

She was so dazzling, like a ripe cherry dropped into a black-and-white photograph. All the world’s vivid colors seemed to come alive on her alone.

She wore a pink dress with a puffy skirt, its layers of lace fanning out like petals. A large bow was tied at the collar, its satin ribbons resting on her chest and trembling softly with every breath.

White stockings hugged her slender calves. On her feet was a pair of pink, round-toed leather shoes, each adorned with a silk flower.

Her hair was pink, too.

It was the color of the first peach blossom in spring—a soft, delicate pink. It was shoulder-length with slightly curled ends, as fluffy as a cloud of cotton candy.

Beneath her bangs was a small face, its skin so pale it was nearly translucent, though her cheeks held a light, pinkish blush.

Her eyes, of course, were pink.

Her irises seemed to be filled with sparkling, melted candy. Her long lashes were also pink, fluttering like a butterfly’s wings when she blinked.

Her ten fingers were slender and pale, tipped with shimmery pink nail polish that, even in the gray dimness, managed to catch a faint glimmer of light.

What’s more, she looked to be only thirteen or fourteen years old. She wasn’t tall, but she possessed an indescribable presence.

It wasn’t an aggressive or condescending sort of power, just an indefinable feeling that was hard to place.

That was it!

Our art styles were different.

Her art style and mine, in this world, were completely different.

The girl glanced at me.

Her pink eyes swept over my face before she lifted a foot, stepped over the threshold, and walked right past me into the house.

Her movements were completely natural, as if she were walking into her own home.

I stood frozen at the door, watching her cross the living room.

The fluffy hem of her skirt swayed gently behind her, like a walking cloud.

She walked to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Her back was ramrod straight. She placed her hands on the table, fingers interlaced, with a posture as proper as a Princess attending a banquet.

Then she spoke.

Her voice was crisp and surprisingly pleasant, like a silver spoon tapping against the rim of a porcelain cup.

"I’ve come for noodles."

"Oh, okay."

I quickly shut the door and headed for the kitchen.

After a few steps, I glanced back. She was still sitting there, her posture unchanged—a ball of pink, glowing like a lamp in the dreary, gray room.

I went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and took out some noodles.

I prepared them just as I had for the Elder.

When the steam rose, blurring my vision, I peered through the white mist toward the kitchen doorway, half-afraid she might have suddenly vanished.

But she hadn’t vanished. When I finished making the noodles, she was still sitting there.

I carried the bowl out and placed it in front of her.

She glanced down at the bowl, then back up at me.

Her pink eyes narrowed slightly, and a cryptic, half-smile played on her lips.

"Why didn’t you give me chopsticks?"

Her tone wasn’t harsh—it was even a little petulant—but her eyes stared right at me, making my skin crawl.

I froze for a moment, then remembered something. "I thought you’d have your own chopsticks," I explained.

’This was based on my experience, after all. Didn’t the Elder from before pull a pair of chopsticks right out of his pocket?’

’Those chopsticks were ancient, the tips worn and splintered.’

’So I’d just assumed that these customers who came for noodles were all accustomed to using their own.’

Hearing this, her pink eyelashes fluttered, and she let out a soft huff.

"Do you take me for one of those Lost Ones?"

’Lost Ones?’

When those two words left her lips, something stirred in my mind.

It was like a bubble rising through stagnant water, only to burst with a soft POP.

But my mind was a blank; no answer came.

Seeing that I wasn’t speaking, she frowned, and the pink on her little face seemed to deepen a shade.

"Hurry up and give me the chopsticks!"

Her voice was louder now, tinged with impatience.

"Alright, alright, right away." I turned back to the kitchen and pulled a clean pair of chopsticks from the container. After a moment’s thought, I grabbed a spare pair just in case, then walked back and handed them to her.

Her eyes lit up as she took the chopsticks.

The light was so sudden it was as if someone had lit a tiny lantern inside her pupils.

Then she lowered her head and began to eat.

She was completely different from the Elder.

The Elder had eaten his noodles as if performing some kind of ritual—slowly, bite by bite. He chewed each mouthful for a long time, and when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed several times, as if he were forcing down something heavy.

She, on the other hand, ate at lightning speed.

She shoveled noodles into her mouth, cheeks puffed out, lips stained with broth. A loud SLURPING sound rumbled from her throat. It was utterly unrefined, completely at odds with her delicate and pristine appearance.