Lament for My First Life

The Lesson in the Library

The Winter estate's library was awash with golden afternoon light. Dust motes floated lazily through the air, catching the glow of the sun as it streamed through the tall windows. The shelves towered from floor to ceiling, lined with old tomes, polished wood, and the faint scent of parchment and tea leaves.

At the grand oak table in the center, Xylenne sat with a look of calm determination. In front of her were neatly arranged pencils, stacks of parchment, and several open books,her workspace perfectly prepared.

She was, after all, about to play the role of a teacher.

The door creaked softly, and a maid curtsied from the entrance. "Lady Xylenne, your guests have arrived," she announced politely.

Xylenne looked up from her book, smiling faintly. "Bring them here," she said, her tone that of someone twice her age, smooth and authoritative, yet soft enough to sound like a child. "Then bring us snacks and tea." "Yes, Lady Xylenne," the maid said, bowing before disappearing into the hallway.

Moments later, the door opened again , and in came Eryndor and Sylvareaen, both clearly excited. "My Xylenne!" Sylvareaen cheered immediately, running across the room with the clumsy energy of a ten-year-old. "Hey, Xylenne!" Eryndor greeted with a grin, sliding into a seat at the table. Xylenne chuckled lightly at their very different entrances, one loud and impulsive, the other cheerful but polite. "Hello, both of you," she said with a warm smile, flipping open one of her books.

But before she could begin, Sylvareaen fumbled with something in his pocket. "I got you something!" he said, beaming proudly as he pulled out... an almost crushed little flower. The petals were bent and bruised, but the gesture was earnest. Xylenne blinked, suppressing a small laugh. Another flower? she thought to herself, amused. This is starting to become a thing with him.

Still, she smiled sweetly and took it with both hands. "Thank you, Sylvareaen."

"I got this one from my estate this time," he said quickly, puffing up a little with pride.

Without hesitation, Xylenne reached for the thick book she had used before, the one that now quietly kept the first flower he'd given her, and opened it carefully.

To Sylvareaen's shock, she pressed the new flower right beside the old one.

His eyes widened, and his face fell. "D-do you... not like them?" he stammered, his voice trembling with panic. "Why are you putting them in that book? Are you throwing them away?" Xylenne laughed softly, shaking her head. "No, silly," she said, closing the book gently. "This is how you preserve a flower."

She turned to him with a small, knowing smile. "Flowers don't last forever. They turn brown and wilt... but if I press them inside a book, they dry out and keep their shape exactly the way you gave them to me. They'll even keep their color, if I do it right."

Sylvareaen blinked, completely frozen.

For a moment, he didn't know what to say, his cheeks burned red, his heart racing in his chest. So she's... keeping them, he realized, staring at the book in awe. She's keeping my flowers. He sat down beside her without a word, trying to act composed, but his hands fidgeted under the table. His eyes refused to meet hers, though every time she spoke, he found himself stealing glances, the way her blue eyes caught the light, the calm grace in her voice when she explained things that went far beyond her age.

Eryndor, on the other hand, had his quill ready, fully focused. "Okay! I'm ready!" he said eagerly. "Good," Xylenne replied, flipping through her notes. "Let's start with what we learned today in class. Eryndor, what part did you struggle with?" Eryndor scratched his head. "Everything," he admitted sheepishly, and Xylenne giggled softly before beginning her explanation. She leaned forward, her voice clear and confident as she walked them through formulas and examples, her tiny hand writing perfect notes on the parchment. Eryndor listened intently, nodding as he worked to understand.

But Sylvareaen... wasn't listening at all.

He sat still, chin resting on his folded hands, his crimson eyes fixed not on the book, but on Xylenne herself. Her white hair caught the light in delicate strands, her expression soft and focused, far too graceful, far too composed for a seven-year-old. He could hear her voice, every gentle word, every small laugh she let out as Eryndor made mistakes, and it made his chest feel tight in a way he didn't understand.

She's so strange... and different, he thought to himself. But I don't hate it.

The soft clinking of teacups came as the maid returned with tea and snacks. Xylenne thanked her politely and continued teaching, not noticing how red Sylvareaen's face had become. As the lesson went on, the sound of Xylenne's calm voice filled the room, Eryndor scribbling notes, the pages turning, the fireplace crackling faintly in the background.

And in the corner of it all sat Sylvareaen, lost completely in a daze, staring at the girl who had unknowingly started to rewrite the rhythm of his young heart.