The Swallow's body had completely frozen solid, like a small, cold stone, lying in Leah's palm.
Gwof looked at her reddened eyes, a wave of gloominess just passing through his heart, when he suddenly heard Leah sniffle and mumble, "At least The Statue is still here..."
Yes, the Swallow was dead, but The Statue still stood here.
He was listening to Leah's fragmented story about last autumn—how the Swallow had crashed into the Orphanage's glass window, struggled to stuff a Sapphire into her hand, and then wobbled off into the sky—when another voice suddenly crept into his ears.
The voice was deep, like stones rolling in a jar, yet strangely gentle, with a hint of aged hoarseness.
"Excuse me, is someone there?"
Gwof's movements abruptly halted.
He quickly glanced around.
The Relief Food Distribution Point in the corner of the Square was like a forgotten corner, with tattered cloaks billowing into deflated lumps in the cold wind. The elderly hunched their backs, children huddled in adults' arms, the edges of their clay bowls chipped, and cloth bags patched all over, yet all clutched tightly, as if grasping at life-saving straws.
The line twisted into a tangled mess; if someone shuffled forward half a step, a ripple of faint commotion followed from behind.
The official in charge of distributing food was bundled in a thick cotton coat, his voice hoarse from the wind. Each time he called out a number, a figure stumbled forward, receiving white porridge and bread, fingertips red from the cold, their words of thanks scattered by the wind mid-air.
A little girl with braids stood on tiptoe, peering into the line. Her mother quickly pulled her close, whispering, "Don't move around, don't cause trouble for them."
Two elderly people nearby huddled together to talk, their breath condensing into white mist as soon as it left their mouths.
"Bluebeard died well..."
"I heard he was a hero..."
The wind whipped sand against their faces, stinging enough to make them squint.
The trivialities of life were like an airtight net, wrapping everyone in their own little boxes, with no one having the energy to look up and gaze around.
The shouts of food distribution, low sighs, children's cries, and the silence near The Statue were split in two by the wind, each belonging to its own world.
Leah still had her head bowed, shoulders trembling, tears like broken strings of beads falling onto the front of her clothes, spreading small, dark wet patches.
Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the frozen Swallow in her palm, tears trembling on her eyelashes, sliding down her cheeks at the slightest movement. She didn't notice Gwof's suddenly tense back or hear the deep, hoarse voice that seemed to crawl out from between the stones.
Gwof suddenly remembered what Leah had just said—"Once, when passing by The Statue, I heard a voice ask, 'How are you doing?'"
Could it be... Gwof raised a hand, gesturing for Leah to be quiet.
His fingertip lightly pressed against his lips, his green eyes conveying a signal.
Leah's sobs abruptly stopped, her wet blue eyes looking at him in confusion, then following his gaze to The Statue behind her.
She saw Gwof reach out, his palm gently pressing against The Statue's cold stone surface.
The stone surface was bitingly cold; even his warm palm couldn't heat it up in the slightest.
At that moment, the deep voice sounded again, as if directly drilling into his mind.
"Hello. Can you hear me?"
Gwof's fingertips tightened slightly, touching the ice crystals embedded in the stone crevices.
He could be sure this voice wasn't a hallucination; it came from this statue, from this pile of stones that had been silent for who knows how many years.
Leah watched his hand pressed against The Statue, then his tense profile, suddenly remembering her fear when asked "How are you doing?" Yet now, inexplicably, she wasn't afraid.
She held her breath, her small body leaning closer to Gwof, the edge of her cloak brushing against his arm, carrying a faint warmth.
The wind and snow swept past The Statue's broken sword, emitting a "woo-woo" echo, as if urging them on.
Gwof's fingertips still pressed against the cold stone surface, the faint vibrations crawling up his palm like a thawing stream in early spring, carrying a weak yet stubborn force.
He held his breath, hearing the gentle voice murmur in his ear, like someone who had held back for too long finally finding someone to talk to, every word wrapped in an urgency that couldn't be hidden.
"I am... what they built."
The voice paused, as if recalling distant events.
"Many years ago, when the Stonemason struck the first chisel, I woke up. I watched them lay the Foundation, carve the Scabbard, set Gems into the eye sockets... Back then, people always came to the Square. Children ran around me, the elderly sat on the steps basking in the sun, calling me 'the hope of the nation.'"
The wind swept snowflakes past the broken sword, the "woo-woo" sound tinged with a hint of melancholy.
"Later... somehow, fewer and fewer people came around me."
"But I'm still here, listening to the wind, counting the snowflakes, just like that, year after year."
It suddenly changed the subject, its tone floating with cautious concern, as if afraid of disturbing something.
"How are you doing? Are you dressed warmly? Can you eat your fill?"
Gwof glanced down at Leah beside him. She was staring at The Statue with wet eyes, her small hand tightly clutching the frozen Swallow, fingertips turning white.
His Adam's apple moved, but before he could answer, the voice pressed on, with a barely noticeable tremor.
"In this world... are there still people suffering? Are there still children running barefoot in the streets in winter like before? Are there still people hoarding food, watching others starve?"
A barrage of questions hit him, like stones falling on snow, leaving small pits.
Gwof could hear the anxiety in the voice, as if those pains weren't past events but scenes still playing out before its eyes.
After a long while, the voice lowered, carrying a gentle apology.
"Sorry, I asked too much. Thank God, I've met a living being who can hear me again."
It paused, adding a note of earnestness to its tone.
"Can you tell me what the world is like now? Are people in the Square laughing? Do children still sing around The Statue?"
Suddenly, the voice brightened, as if mentioning a treasure.
"Oh, right, have you seen a Swallow?"
"Its feathers are gray-blue, with a bit of white at the wingtips."
"It's my best friend, coming every day to tell me about the streets—which Bakery's Wheat Cakes smell good, which Child got beaten again... But lately, it hasn't come for a long time, hasn't talked to me."
"Is it... is it angry with me?"
Gwof's gaze fell on the Swallow in Leah's palm. The gray-blue feathers were still coated with ice crystals, the white at the wingtips particularly conspicuous in the snowy light.
His heart sank, and he was about to speak.
The voice lowered again, carrying a hint of shy apology.
"Sorry, I don't have anything to give you. Before, I could have the Swallow give you treasures from me, but now... I can only give you stones."
The vibrations on the stone surface gradually subsided, as if exhausted.
The wind and snow swirled in the Square, softening the gentle voice, as if waiting for an answer, yet afraid of hearing bad news, even its breathing lightened.
Gwof's voice sounded especially steady in the wind and snow, like a stone dropped into still water, carrying a reassuring force.
"People's lives are improving now. The porridge in the Soup Kitchen is plentiful, Soldiers no longer beat people, and even the Headmaster who used to bully others has been arrested."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the people receiving relief food in the corner of the Square, where children's laughter occasionally drifted over.
"In the future, more and more people will come around you. Children will come here to play in the snow, the elderly will come to bask in the sun, just like the old days you mentioned."
The Statue's voice suddenly rose, like a candle flame ignited, instantly brightening with unbelievable excitement.
"Really? Can it really go back to those days?"
"Yes, it can."
Gwof's gaze fell on the Swallow in Leah's palm, his voice softening further.
"But the Swallow you mentioned... you know, Swallows need to go south for the winter. The winters here are too cold; they can't stay."
"But he didn't go!"
The Statue's voice suddenly became agitated, like a harp string blown into disarray by the wind, carrying a hint of panicked sharpness.
"He never told me he was leaving! This winter, he built a nest on my shoulder, saying it's warmer here with me than in the south! Was he lying to me?"
Gwof fell silent for a moment, watching as Leah lowered her head and gently touched the stiff wing of the Swallow with her fingertip.
He took a deep breath and uttered that chilling fact:'So it froze to death. Right on your shoulder.'
The moment his words fell, the surrounding wind and snow seemed to halt.
The sounds of people gathering grain in the Square, the wind, and the falling snow all vanished, leaving only a deathly silence.
The Statue's voice was gone, and even the mournful sound of wind passing through the broken sword disappeared, as if the conversation just now had been an illusion.
Gwof frowned, reached out to touch the stone surface again—it was still cold, with not a single tremor left.
Just as he found it strange, his sleeve was suddenly tugged gently.
'Look...' Leah's voice trembled with a hint of timidity, her small finger pointing at The Statue's face.
Gwof followed her fingertip and looked up—his heart suddenly tightened.
He saw that from the hollow eye sockets of the stone statue, two streaks of moisture had seeped out at some unknown time.
It wasn't melted snow; the moisture slowly trickled down along the grooves of the cheeks, carving two clear trails on the cracked stone surface, like two belated tears.
As the moisture flowed past the corners of the mouth, it carried a faint warmth, dripping onto the snow on the base with a 'tap,' creating two small pits that instantly melted the surrounding snow.
'Is it... crying?'
Leah's voice trembled as she handed the Swallow in her arms toward Gwof.
'Is it because it knows the Swallow is dead?'
Gwof didn't speak, just stared at the two streaks of stone tears continuously flowing down.
They weren't like water; more like melted amber, carrying the weight of stone yet infused with the sorrow of a living being.
The wind blew again, and this time, from the hole in the broken sword came not a mournful sound but an extremely faint, choked sob, like a Child robbed of a treasure, silently weeping in the wind and snow.
'Are you grieving?'
Gwof's voice cut through the wind and snow, landing on the cold stone surface.
He watched the two streaks of stone tears continuously flowing down, watching them accumulate into small puddles on the base, reflecting the gray, shadowy sky.
The Statue's voice came intermittently, like strings about to be torn apart by the wind.
'I don't know... I just feel very pained hearing you say this.'
It paused, the tremors on the stone surface growing faint, as if suppressing something.
'It's like... standing here alone like this, with no one to talk to, no one to accompany me. It used to say it would bring me a winter jasmine flower when spring came...'
Gwof's gaze swept over the Swallow Leah carefully placed on the base, and he suddenly spoke:
'Then do you want to save him?'
'Save who?' The Statue's voice held confusion, as if stunned by the sudden question.
'That Swallow.' Gwof's tone was calm, his green eyes shining clearly in the snowy light. 'Do you want it to come back to life?'
The Statue fell silent for a moment, the stone tears flowing more urgently, carving two deeper grooves on its cheeks.
After a long while, it uttered an extremely faint syllable, trembling with disbelief.
'I... I do. But I have nothing to give you. If you need it, I still have a lead heart.'
Gwof then quietly looked at this statue.
Its sword was broken, its eyes gone, its body wrapped in white snow, like an abandoned Child.
He thought of what Eric had said—in our country, there is a Magician who can revive others.
Since I'm just traveling casually, what's wrong with traveling to his country?
This definitely isn't because I'm moved by their bond.
I just should go see Snow White.
But before that, I still want to say something.
Let me see if, in the Fairy Tale World, love can truly conquer all.
That sentence is:
'If you want to, then move.'
Gwof looked at The Statue's body, eroded and mottled by wind and snow, at the worn engravings on the base smoothed by time, and suddenly raised his voice, as if challenging this stone that had been silent for too long.
'Don't just huddle in this Square base, letting the wind and snow wear down your edges, letting time gnaw your name into dust. Look down—'
He pointed toward the broken sword at The Statue's side; the hilt was still firmly embedded in the stone hand, its patterns blurred but still showing the care of the craftsman's carving from years past.
'You still have the hilt, don't you? Grip it, hold it tight! Pretend the blade is still there, pretend it's still the way it was when it split chaos and protected this land.'
The wind and snow carried his words, crashing against the stone surface and bouncing back with an undeniable force.
The Statue's hollow eye sockets faced him, the tears on the stone surface slowly flowing along the grooves, as if struggling silently.
'Don't worry about how many pieces it's broken into, or how thick the rust has crusted over it.'
Gwof stepped forward, his boot soles grinding over the ice shards on the ground, emitting a sharp, crisp sound.
'Remember its original weight—when you lift it, your arm will feel slightly heavy;
remember the tremor in your palm when gripping the sword—when you swing it down, you can feel the wind whistling past your ear;
remember the sound it makes when splitting the wind—like thunder rolling across the plains, making evildoers' legs go weak!'
'As long as you still believe in your heart that it's your sword, it isn't truly broken, and you haven't truly lost to those who smashed and destroyed it!'
Leah stood nearby, her small hand tightly clutching Gwof's coat hem, her knuckles turning white from the effort.
The shadow of the wide-brimmed hat fell on her face, covering half of it, revealing only her slightly trembling lips and reddened eyes.
She looked at Gwof—this Boy not much taller than herself, yet now standing as straight as a little adult, his voice carrying a seriousness and strength beyond his years.
When he spoke to The Statue, his green eyes shone startlingly bright in the wind and snow, like two flickering little flames.
The wind whipped snowflakes against her face, stinging a bit.
Leah blinked hard, holding back the tears welling in her eyes, but her vision still gradually blurred.
She didn't understand what Gwof meant by 'revival' or 'hope,' only knowing that when he said these things, his voice trembled, and his hand gripping the sword hilt trembled too, as if struggling against someone or against himself.
'I'll point you in the right direction.'
Gwof raised his hand and pointed into the distance, where a crack in the clouds revealed a sky dyed golden-red by the sunset.
He paused, his gaze falling on The Statue's stone hand gripping the hilt, his tone suddenly sinking with a nearly cruel clarity.
'But you have to go and beg for it yourself.'
'Beg?' The Statue's voice held confusion for the first time, the tremors in the stone cracks growing hesitant.
'Yes, beg.'
Gwof spoke word by word.
'You have to move the boulders blocking your path yourself—those stubborn rocks heavier than your base; don't expect anyone to push them for you;
you have to cross the frozen river yourself—the ice shards will cut your stone feet, the river water will freeze your bones stiff; no one will warm your feet for you;
you have to pass through the mist in the Black Forest yourself; those stone-eating monsters will watch you, and you have to raise your broken sword, even if it's just the hilt, to let them know you're not to be trifled with.'
He looked at The Statue and continued.
'You have to beg that Magician, beg him to consider your journey from afar, beg him to remember your bond with that Swallow.
The wind, snow, pain, and loneliness along the way are what you must endure—because if you want it to come back to life, you have to pay a price a hundred times greater than'standing and waiting.'
'The hope of reviving him isn't in my words, nor in the Magician's hands; it's under your own feet.'
Gwof's voice softened slightly but still carried an unshakable force.
'Take one step, and you're closer to hope; stop one step, and you're farther from it.
Whether to keep standing here, letting the snow bury you into a new grave, or to drag your stone body and walk that possibly endless road—you choose.'
So... will you move?
For that Swallow.