The Missing Enchantress (English Version)

"Sixty-four," I muttered, the number tasting like ash on my tongue. "Sixty-four damn times." I exhaled a long, ragged breath, watching it mist in the crisp night air. Tomorrow, the agonizing cycle will begin anew. I’d have to scour the job boards, put on my best plastic smile, and beg for another dead-end part-time gig just to keep a roof over my head and instant ramen in my stomach. With a bitter sigh, I unzipped my worn backpack and pulled out a small, tattered, self-made book. The cardboard cover was frayed at the edges, the binding held together by peeling tape. It was the storybook my mother used to read to me every night when I was a child. As I stared down at the faded illustrations, a sudden, aggressive gust of wind whipped across the bridge, violently dancing through my shoulder-length hair. Once upon a time, I believed in the magic stitched into these pages. I believed in handsome princes, fated encounters, and the grand illusion of a Happily Ever After. But now? Now, I know better. Fairy tales are a luxury reserved for those who don’t have to worry about the rent. My belief in the world’s kindness died a brutal death when I was twelve years old. That was the year a horrific car accident snatched my parents away, plunging my world into absolute, suffocating darkness. Enter my aunt. A woman who graciously took me in, only to immediately treat me like an unpaid, live-in maid rather than her own flesh and blood. For six agonizing years, I was starved, overworked, and emotionally hollowed out. The day I turned eighteen, I packed my single bag and ran. I scraped together every penny I could find, found a cramped, molded studio apartment, and clawed my way into a university scholarship. But navigating higher education while working multiple part-time jobs was a nightmare. And the worst part? I kept getting fired. Every single boss had the same cookie-cutter excuse: "You’re a hard worker, Kiera, but we’re downsizing." Or, "You don't smile enough for the customers." “Smile?” I thought bitterly. “Try smiling when your joints ache and your bank account is sitting at a crisp double-digit.” "Mom, Dad... you're really unfair, you know that?" I whispered, tilting my head back against the cold iron railing of the bridge. "You left me behind way too early." High above, the moon was incomplete—a fractured crescent cutting through the ink-black sky. It looked remarkably like me: broken, half-empty, and drifting alone. But as I stared, I noticed a single, piercingly bright star positioned perfectly just above the tilted crescent. It looked exactly like a star resting on a silver hammock. A cruel smirk tugged at my lips. I remembered the old superstition. “When the star rides into the cradle of the moon, any wish—no matter how impossible—will be granted.” "What absolute garbage," I scoffed under my breath. I looked down at the handmade book in my hands one last time. The memories attached to it suddenly felt heavy, suffocating, and entirely useless in a world governed by political corruption, rising inflation, and cruel landlords. "I'm sorry, Mom. But all of this? It's just a bunch of beautifully made-up lies." SPLASH. I tossed the book over the railing. I didn't even wait to see it sink into the murky depths of the river below. I spun on my heel, shoving my hands deep into my pockets, ready to trudge back to my lonely apartment. "Why throw away such a beautiful thing, young lady? What a waste." I gasped, stumbling back a step. Out of nowhere, an old woman wearing a heavy, oversized hood had materialized right in my path. I hadn't heard a single footstep. "Ah... standard street scammers," I muttered internally, keeping my guard up. Outwardly, I forced a polite, albeit exhausted smile. "It's fine, Grandma. It's just a childish storybook." "Is it?" The old woman’s voice carried an eerie, rhythmic cadence, like the rustling of ancient parchment. "Who's to say it won't come true?" "I am," I replied, my voice dropping its polite edge. If there was one thing I hated more than my landlord, it was false hope. "I'll only believe in magic when it actually happens to me. Until then, reality is the only villain I'm fighting." I gave her a curt nod and stepped past her. But as the wind picked up again, carrying a bizarre scent of crushed roses and ozone, a sudden shiver ran down my spine. "You truly do not believe," her voice echoed, sounding closer than it should have. "I just told you, I—" I snapped my head back to confront her, the words dying in my throat. The bridge was completely empty. There were no pedestrian exits nearby. No hiding spots. Just a long, straight stretch of concrete illuminated by flickering streetlights. She was gone. "What the... where did she go?!" I spun around, my eyes scanning the dark perimeter. My heart hammered against my ribs. "Did I just encounter a ghost? Or am I finally losing my mind from sleep deprivation?" I puffed out my cheeks in a frustrated pout. "Seriously, how rude! I was still speaking to her!" Shaking off the eerie encounter, I practically sprinted the rest of the way back to my dilapidated apartment building. My name is Kiera Addinell. I am twenty-two years old, entirely alone in this wretched world, and surviving solely on pure, unadulterated spite. Ever since the day my parents died, I have walked through a total, unforgiving darkness, waiting for a light that never comes. I unlocked my door, shoved it open, and collapsed straight onto my thin mattress without even taking off my jacket. My eyelids felt like lead weights. "Tomorrow," I mumbled into my pillow. "Tomorrow, I'll find job number sixty-five..." As consciousness began to slip away, the ambient noise of the city outside—the distant hum of traffic, the blare of sirens—suddenly vanished. A profound, unnatural silence enveloped the room. Then, the world turned upside down. It wasn't a dream. I felt the physical sensation of falling, a sickening lurch in my stomach as if gravity itself had broken. The air in my lungs turned heavy and sweet, thick with the scent of burning incense and old parchment. The rough fabric of my cheap mattress dissolved beneath my fingertips, replaced by a sudden, terrifying emptiness. My soul felt stretched, pulled by an invisible, ancient tide across a boundary that shouldn't exist. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. May you survive the darkness this time. The old woman's parting words echoed through the void, no longer sounding like a frail beggar, but a powerful, absolute decree.