Suddenly, her mind raced, recalling the words she had read:
"Find your own answer. Believe that you can shape your life, even when the odds seem impossible."
The words echoed in her thoughts, stirring something deep within her. But as the reality of her situation set in, she realized just how far she was from home. She didn't know how to return to her kin or the Celestial City.
"I hope my kin is okay," she murmured softly, her lips forming a slight pout as she thought about the events that had led her here. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy on her, but she shook her head, trying to push the worry aside.
Her gaze swept over the room, and the state of the interior pulled her attention. Dust coated every surface, cobwebs clung to the corners, and the clutter was overwhelming. She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose in displeasure.
"Ugh, what a mess," she muttered as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing to stretch.
Her golden eyes scanned the room again, and she placed a hand on her waist with an exasperated sigh. "I can't stand this. Who could live in a place like this?"
Her frustration turned into resolve as she clapped her hands together. "Well, let's clean this up."
Standing in the center of the room, she extended her hands, her voice calm but commanding as she chanted:
"Phantom Shift."
Her body shimmered, leaving faint streaks of pale, silvery light in her wake. To anyone watching, it would seem as though multiple versions of her moved simultaneously, each completing a different task.
With graceful efficiency, she began her work. One afterimage dusted the furniture, another swept the floor, and yet another wiped the grime from the window. The room slowly transformed, the light from outside growing brighter as the layers of dust disappeared.
As she worked, something tumbled from the table with a faint thud. Nimfa paused, her shimmering form returning to normal as she turned toward the sound. Her eyes landed on the object—a book, its cover worn and faded with age.
"Huh, a book?" she murmured, crouching to pick it up.
Her fingers brushed the cover, and she felt a strange pull of curiosity. She turned it over in her hands, her brow furrowing as she considered opening it.
"Should I open it?" she whispered to herself.
Her mind wavered, torn between her growing curiosity and the nagging sense that it would be wrong to pry. "I guess... a little peek wouldn't hurt?" she mused, her voice uncertain.
But just as her fingers began to lift the cover, she stopped herself. "No, this is wrong. I shouldn't."
Her stubborn resolve kicked in, and with a shake of her head, she placed the book back where it belonged.
Pushing the distraction aside, Nimfa resumed her work with renewed focus. The room was beginning to look livable again, the air clearer and lighter without the thick layer of dust. Despite her initial frustration, she found a strange sense of satisfaction in tidying up the space.
As the last of the clutter was cleared, she stood back and surveyed her work, her hands resting on her hips. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"That's better," she said, her voice soft but pleased.
Though her thoughts still lingered on the book and her uncertain future, for now, she felt a small sense of control in an otherwise unfamiliar world.
As Nimfa surveyed the now-clean room, a sense of satisfaction settled over her. She dusted her hands off and took a deep breath. But then, a sudden thought struck her.
"Huh! Why am I cleaning someone else's house?" she exclaimed, her golden eyes widening in realization. "Wait... am I his wife or his maid?"
Her cheeks flushed at the absurdity of her own words, and with a sharp shake of her head, she slapped both hands against her face. "What am I even thinking?" she muttered, her silver hair swaying as she tried to banish the silly notion.
Before she could dwell on it further, a loud thud from outside interrupted her thoughts.
"Huh?" Nimfa blinked, her curiosity piqued. She walked to the door, pulling it open cautiously before stepping outside. Her eyes quickly landed on the source of the sound—a wild boar, its legs tied tightly with rope. The animal lay on its side, dazed, with its eyes crossed in a cartoonish expression of defeat.
"Well, you're awake," came a familiar voice.
Nimfa turned to see Noir standing nearby, his left hand resting casually on the hilt of a single-edged sword strapped to his waist. His crimson eyes glinted faintly beneath his hood, his expression unreadable but faintly amused.
"You're still here?" he asked, his tone teasing, though it carried a subtle edge.
Nimfa bristled at his remark, her cheeks puffing slightly as her frustration bubbled over.
"Huh? You should be thankful I cleaned your house!" she shot back, her voice sharp with indignation.
Noir raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Thankful? You did all that willingly. Didn't ask you to."
Nimfa's fists clenched at her sides. "Well, someone had to do it! Honestly, how could you live in such a mess? It was unbearable!"
Noir tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then, with a shrug, he knelt down beside the boar and began inspecting the ropes. "Mess or not, it's still my house," he muttered, his tone nonchalant.
Nimfa crossed her arms, glaring at him. "You're impossible."
He glanced up briefly, meeting her gaze. "And you're strange," he said, his voice quieter but tinged with amusement. "An angel cleaning a demon's house. Never thought I'd see the day."
The comment caught Nimfa off guard. She opened her mouth to retort but found herself at a loss for words. Her wings—hidden with her magic—itched faintly, as if reminding her of who she was and the boundaries she'd already crossed.
Noir, noticing her sudden silence, returned his attention to the boar. He hoisted the animal over his shoulder with ease, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly under the weight.
"Well, thanks for cleaning," he said casually, his tone light but sincere. "Guess I owe you one."
Nimfa blinked, startled by the unexpected gratitude. Before she could respond, Noir turned and began walking toward the edge of the property, the wild boar slung over his back.
"Wait!" she called out, taking a hesitant step forward.
He stopped, glancing at her over his shoulder.
"What now?"
Nimfa hesitated, her thoughts swirling. There was something about him—something she couldn't quite place. Despite his aloofness, there was an air of quiet sadness about him, buried beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference.
"Why are you living here?" she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself.
Noir paused, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice softer than before, he said, "Because it's quiet."
With that, he turned away and continued walking, leaving Nimfa standing in the doorway, her thoughts a whirlwind of curiosity and uncertainty.
As Noir stepped inside the house, he set the wild boar down and began preparing the meal. His movements were methodical, his focus unwavering.
"Hm, how should I cook this?" he muttered to himself, eyeing the boar as he carefully butchered and sliced the meat into even portions.
Once the meat was ready, he laid it out on a wooden cutting board. "Let's see if I have any ingredients left," he said, glancing toward the small cupboards and shelves.
As Noir searched high and low, his crimson eyes caught sight of the house's sparkling interior. The dust and grime that had once coated every surface were gone, replaced by a clean, fresh atmosphere.
"Huh," he murmured, pausing for a moment. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "She really cleaned it. What a strange angel," he said softly, the praise genuine despite the oddity of the situation.
Returning to his search, Noir eventually gathered a small collection of ingredients: red wine, vinegar, onions, carrots, celery, and potatoes. He laid them out on the table beside the meat, nodding to himself.
"Hm, I guess boar goulash will do," he decided. The recipe was one he had learned from Henry, who often stopped by to check on him, occasionally bringing fresh vegetables from the village.
Noir worked with practiced efficiency, chopping and dicing the vegetables, searing the meat, and letting the mixture simmer with spices and wine. The rich, savory aroma began to fill the room, curling through the air like an unspoken invitation.
Nimfa's POV
Sitting outside, Nimfa found herself growing restless. Half an hour had passed, and the quiet was starting to weigh on her.
"What is he even doing in there?" she muttered, propping her chin on her hand. Her golden eyes drifted to the sky, where streaks of sunlight filtered through the clouds.
Her thoughts wandered, lingering on her predicament. How am I supposed to get back to my kin? To the Celestial City? The uncertainty gnawed at her, though she tried to push it away.
Then, another thought crossed her mind. "And him," she murmured. "He's so... odd. My kin always said demons were merciless, cruel creatures. But he's nothing like that."
She shook her head, letting the thought fade, but a sudden growl from her stomach broke the silence.
"Huh?" Nimfa looked down, startled for a moment before a sheepish expression crossed her face. "I guess I am hungry... Makes sense, considering I haven't eaten all day—well, since yesterday, actually."
Just as she finished speaking, an irresistible aroma wafted through the air, pulling her attention toward the house. The scent was rich and savory, with a hint of spice that made her mouth water.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door creaked open, drawing her gaze. Noir stepped out, holding a steaming pot of goulash in one hand and a set of tableware in the other. His expression was calm, but there was a subtle satisfaction in his crimson eyes.
"Food's ready," he said simply, glancing at her.
Noir set the pot down on the table with a soft thud and carefully removed the lid. A burst of steam escaped, carrying the rich, savory aroma of the goulash into the air.
Across the table, Nimfa's golden eyes widened as the scent reached her. Her mouth watered involuntarily, and she quickly wiped at the corner of her lips, embarrassed by her own reaction.
"Here," Noir said, handing her a set of tableware. He scooped a generous portion of the goulash into her bowl, the hearty mixture of tender meat and vegetables glistening in the steam.
Nimfa hesitated for a moment, glancing at the bowl now resting in front of her. Her stomach growled again, louder this time, breaking the silence. She flushed, unable to refuse the food—not just because of her hunger, but also out of gratitude for Noir's gesture.
"Eat slowly," Noir said, his voice calm but with a faint trace of concern. "I bet you haven't eaten anything since yesterday."
Nimfa nodded, her silver hair shimmering as she lowered her head to take her first bite. "Mmm," she murmured softly, surprised by his unexpected thoughtfulness.
As she ate, she found her gaze drifting toward Noir. For the first time, she began to see him in a different light. Her kin had always described demons as merciless creatures, driven by bloodlust and cruelty. Yet here he was, offering her food with quiet kindness.
Nimfa's POV
"Could demons really have this kind of warmth? Or is he... different?"
She glanced down at the bowl of goulash in front of her. The steam rose lazily, carrying the tantalizing aroma of spices. Her doubts and preconceptions melted away as she took another bite.