The little rascal was almost out of sight when I noticed a shimmering trail of energy—a faint, luminous path that seemed to beckon me forward.
My heart raced, a fierce resolve igniting within me.
"I'm not losing my bread today!"
Finally, I cornered him in a narrow alley, the walls closing in around us like the jaws of a trap.
He stood there, grinning mischievously, handing half of my precious loaf to another scruffy child who loomed nearby, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
My anger boiled over like a pot left too long on the stove, and I shouted, "Hey!"
Adrenaline coursed through me, and without thinking, I instinctively punched his shoulder—not hard, mind you, just enough to assert my authority.
"You!" I gasped, clutching my remaining loaf as if it were my last lifeline in this chaotic world.
The adrenaline pumped fiercely, drowning out the remnants of despair, and all I could think about was how my culinary dreams were crumbling before my eyes.
Each moment intensified my resolve to reclaim what was rightfully mine, the taste of victory hovering just out of reach.
What a day, right?
Who knew being a runaway would come with so many plot twists—and missing bread?
As the boy clutched the loaf, I narrowed my eyes. There was no way I was letting this little thief get away with it. Without thinking, I reached out and gave him a light tap on the head with my knuckles—a harmless, corrective thwack.
"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing his forehead furiously. "What was that for?!"
"For stealing my bread!" I snapped, grabbing the loaf from his hand with a victorious flourish. Holding it triumphantly in one hand, I grabbed the boy by the collar with the other and hoisted him up.
"Let go of me!" he squawked, his legs flailing wildly in the air as though he could kick his way to freedom. "Auntie, this is unfair!"
Auntie?!
My eye twitched. "Who is Auntie here?!" I barked, shaking him slightly for emphasis.
"You are!" he cried indignantly, still rubbing the spot where I'd tapped him. "Only old ladies hit people on the head like that!"
Before I could retort, a soft tug at the hem of my dress stopped me mid-rant. I blinked and glanced down, the boy still dangling awkwardly in my grip like an unruly cat.
There, standing at my feet, was the smallest, most adorable child I'd ever seen. Her oversized boots looked like they belonged to someone three times her size, her cheeks were rosy, and her wide, innocent eyes sparkled as she held onto the fraying hem of my dress.
"Please, beautiful siswter," she lisped, looking up at me with the kind of imploring gaze that could make even the coldest heart melt. "Don't hwrt my brwother. He was dust trying to get breaed for me."
I felt a sharp pang of guilt, though the absurdity of the situation made it hard to keep a straight face.
The boy, still dangling in the air, groaned. "She's not a beautiful sister; she's an—"
I gave him a quick shake, shutting him up instantly. "Finish that sentence, and you'll wish I'd kept the bread."
The little girl tugged again, her doll clutched tightly in one hand. "Plewse, siswter," she repeated. "I-if you're mad, you can pumish me. But don't take our baread."
My grip on the boy slackened as I stared down at her. Something about her tiny voice, her messy hair, and her unwavering bravery in standing up for her brother made me feel...terrible.
And maybe just a little flattered.
"Beautiful sister, huh?" I muttered, lowering the boy to the ground and setting him on his feet. He stumbled slightly, still clutching his forehead, but I ignored him. "Fine. You can have the bread."
The girl's face lit up instantly, her little hands clasping together. "Really? Thantk you, prettty siswter!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I grumbled, crossing my arms in defeat. "Just don't go calling me auntie ever again, or I'll—"
"Hit me on the head again?" the boy quipped, grinning cheekily.
"Do you want to find out?" I shot back, raising an eyebrow.
He gulped and quickly shook his head.
With that, I handed the bread to the little girl, who hugged it tightly as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "Thank you, siswter," she said softly.
"Don't mention it," I muttered, already regretting my soft heart.
But my regret would deepen the moment I opened my front door and found the same two kids sitting at my table, casually munching on what little food I had left.
"You—you—!" I stammered, pointing at them as if they'd grown extra limbs.
"Welcome~, Siswter!" the girl chirped happily, crumbs dotting her face.
The boy raised his hand in a mock salute. "Got any more bread?"
I stared at them, slack-jawed, wondering when exactly I had signed up to babysit two miniature bread bandits. Mozzarella cheese would have to wait...again.
.
.
.
.
The three of them sat at the rickety dining table in her small, humble kitchen.
"Sigh"
Deventhia's head throbbed as she stared at the two little bandits munching unabashedly on her bread, their feet swinging under the table as if they owned the place.
Leaning forward, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
"We're in trouble," she began, her tone dangerously calm.
"So what exactly are you both doing here?"
The little girl looked up with wide, innocent eyes, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth.
"Browther said we can have yummy food if I go wif Auntie!"
Deventhia's eye twitched.
Her head snapped toward the boy, who merely shrugged, his expression a picture of nonchalance.
Feeling someone looking at him, he raised his head and said in a nonchalant tone, "What?" while leaning back in his chair.
"You are old, and it is customary for older to assume responsibility for the younger generation. Isn't that the established norm?"
Old.
The term lingered in the atmosphere, heavy and explosive.
Her hands balled into fists.
Her teeth pressed tightly together.
Old!
Old?