Was she giving me space?
Why wasn't she saying anything? Why was she just… looking at me?
But I could feel it in her eyes.
There was something in her eyes—not pity, not surprise. Just… quiet. Like she saw me clearly for the first time, and wasn't planning to look away.
My core gave a twitch. Not from pain. Not from fear.
From something worse. Something warm.
Nope. Not naming that. Absolutely not.
The silence stretched.
The silence that followed was the kind you'd expect after someone dropped both a love confession and an existential crisis at the same breakfast table.
Mom covered her mouth.
Dad's fingers tightened around his mug.
Grandpa… blinked twice, like he'd just seen a ghost solve a riddle in real time.
Then he finally spoke—slow, careful, like even he didn't know how to process this.
"Well," Grandpa said. "That was... quite the speech."
But he wasn't looking at Lyra.
He was looking straight at me.
"HUH?"
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
And then—
"…Did the dice just talk?"
It was Mom.
Her voice barely above a whisper. Disbelieving.
Lyra didn't answer. She was too busy smiling.
"…Wait, wait, hold on," Dad said, slowly setting his fork down like I might explode if startled.
"He's never done that before. Right? RIGHT?"
Something felt... off.
Then my brain fast-forwarded through the past five minutes like a panicked movie rewind—
—and it hit me.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
That whole confession.
That entire emotional striptease of the soul?
They heard all of it.
Mom.
Dad.
Grandpa.
I thought I was just talking to Lyra. I always only talk to Lyra.
But this time… it came out loud.
Out.
LOUD.
Since when could I even do that?! Was it something Lyra said? Some emotional unlock?
Whatever—it didn't matter right now.
Because I was having a crisis.
Again.
Hovering awkwardly mid-air like a burglar caught red-handed, I cleared my throat.
"Yeah, uh. Surprise?" I said weakly. "Turns out I can talk now. I guess if I can open a mouth to eat, then talking was just the next logical step and—I—I don't know, okay?! I'm freaking out!"
Pause.
"…Can I go back to being mysterious now?"
I dropped to the floor.
THUD.
Then, without another word, I rolled off to the corner in full panic mode, trying to find a hiding spot for my cube-shaped shame.
I spotted a glass.
Perfect. I tucked myself behind it. That would do.
Or so I thought.
Turns out the glass was transparent.
Everyone could still see me.
Like, fully.
Clearly.
Exposed.
And then—
A chuckle.
A giggle.
Lyra's.
"Mom, see?" she said proudly, holding me up like a kitten with attitude. "Told you. He's totally human. Just trapped inside this thing."
She pointed at me.
"Look! He's all curled up now, and he's turning kind of… pink? Like red-pink? I think he's embarrassed!"
"|#@$%^&*()—WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?!"
"Oh yes," Mom added, her eyes practically sparkling. "Even his size got smaller… He looks so cute now. Is this... mini Dan, Lyra?"
")(*&^%$$# DOES THIS MOTHER-DAUGHTER DUO HAVE A SHARED BRAIN DEFECT?!"
"DON'T CALL ME MINI!!"
I screamed internally. Again.
"Hehehehe." Lyra still giggling. Still evil.
Feels like I couldn't handle the embarrassment any longer.
My shame levels hit maximum capacity. Internal pressure rising. I popped out of Lyra's hands like a stress ball with legs.
I needed backup. A safe zone. A sanctuary.
Somewhere my dignity wouldn't be actively dismembered.
I hopped down—still glowing slightly red-pink, thank you very much—and scanned the area for potential allies.
Target locked: Grandpa and Dad.
I made the call.
First stop: Dad.
Worst. Decision. Ever.
I hovered awkwardly in front of him, hoping for comfort.
A nod. A pat. A "there, there" maybe?
Instead, Dad gave me the look.
You know the one.
The "You're emotionally entangled with my daughter and I don't even know what species you are" look.
It was intense.
Too intense.
I think I just triggered the father-daughter overprotective defense protocol.
I swear I could hear his inner thoughts screaming:
"Am I supposed to parent this situation?"
"Are you even a man?"
"He's a dice, James. A dice."
My internal systems started breaking down.
The red hue of my embarrassment began cooling—shifting slowly into blue.
Emotional overclocking: critical.
Retreat protocol: initiated.
Abort mission. Abort mission.
Safety: not guaranteed.
And just in the nick of time—
With the serene precision of a man who's seen three wars, Grandpa reached out and scooped me up like I was nothing more than a fragile puppy.
Then Grandpa looked at Lyra.
Really looked at her.
"Okay, now let's get back to your last question…"
Grandpa's voice softened, but there was a certain weight to it. "That reminds me of an old tale—the Autumnfall. You all know the story, but I'm not sure Dan does—especially since he's been... well, asleep for about thirteen years."
"A legend from before magic ever touched Eden."
The morning breeze outside went quiet, like it, too, was listening.
"Autumnfall was once a royal house in the Adam Kingdom. Long before its name changed. Long before anyone remembered what they did."
He leaned in, voice low and deliberate.
Not to frighten—just to remind them this story was older than memory.
"With their crown came a curse."
"A prophecy: that one day, a child would be born among them—harbinger of misfortune. The ruin of the line."
"They said the child's presence would wither the fields, silence the rivers, and draw sickness from the very air."
"They tried to rewrite fate. Delay it. Cleanse it. Deny it."
"But the prophecy was clear: misfortune cannot be killed. It must be contained."
A breath. A pause.
As if even now, the tale itself hesitated.
"Then the signs came—drought. Death. Silence.
The sky stayed dry. The rivers gave no fish. Children fell ill. Fields withered like they knew what was coming.."
"And once the message became undeniable, they acted."
"Some say a tomb was built in secret. Others claim a ritual was performed—to bind the child's soul into an object. To lock misfortune away."
"No name remains. No grave. No portrait in the palace."
"Only whispers passed through generations. Stories told in hushed tones around firelight. Too afraid to name the child aloud."
He looked down at me—quiet, unmoving in his hand.
"Even in an age without magic... they believed a soul could be bound."
"And if binding was possible—maybe unbinding is too."
He placed me gently on the table.
"The how?" He shook his head. "I don't know that."
"No one ever said what became of the object. Or the child. Or whether the curse truly ended."
His gaze moved to Lyra, softened by something that felt like both warning and wonder.
"But whatever Dan is now... whoever he once was… there's a reason he ended up like this."
"And somewhere, in this world—or beyond it—there may be a way to set him free."
He let that hang in the air.
"But once you step onto that path…"
"You don't get to walk away."
A beat.
"You'll have to find the answer yourself, Lyra."
And just like that, the words settled.
Like dust across an old page... finally turned.
"That's a cruel story," I whispered.
I hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Grandpa gave me a sideways glance—then smiled.
"Oh? Not so shy anymore, are you?" he teased, gentle as ever.
Then, more softly:
"Yes... it is a cruel story. And I can see why you said it.
You felt the child's pain. That's not something many can do.
You've got a kind soul, Dan."
He let that sit a moment, then added with a chuckle:
"Even back when James was hurt at the market, Lyra kept saying your anger was real. Fierce.
That you were the one who came out and saved the day.
It's still her favorite story, you know. She's proud of you."
Grandpa looked at me—serious now, but not unkind.
"So, as her grandfather… I'm asking you."
"Keep guiding her. Keep protecting her. Care for her like you always have."
"She may be strong. But even strong hearts need someone watching their back."
I groaned.
"I told you before, Gramps—don't go all sentimental on me. I'm built for sass, not soul talks."
I hovered a little closer anyway.
"But ugh, sure. Why not."
"I've been keeping her in check since I dropped into this world like a divine babysitter keychain."
"Even if you didn't ask me to"
"I'm a man with pride and dignity, alright? And she's out there actually trying to save me from this cube curse."
"If I ever let her break... I'm not a man anymore."
"Because that's the least I can do."
"She's risking everything for me—so yeah."
I paused.
Just long enough to feel it settle in my core.
"I promise, Gramps."
"I'll protect her. Not just like I always have..."
"...but with everything I've got."
My voice dropped—lower, steadier.
"You trusted me with her."
"And I'll carry that to my grave."
"For as long as I'm able to roll."
There was a pause.
Grandpa studied me—not like a dice, not like a curiosity.
Like a man.
Then he smiled.
"Well all I asked was for you to look after my granddaughter..."
"Didn't expect you to say it like—that."
He chuckled, eyes narrowing just a little.
"Sounded more like a wedding vow than a protector's promise, if you ask me."
He sipped his tea, eyes twinkling.
"You've got quite the tongue on you, boy. Careful where you point it."
"Hey—Gramps!" I rattled, flustered. "You misunderstood me!"
"I was only saying I'd protect her with my life, okay? That's a given, right?"
I hovered lower, mumbling without thinking.
"In this lonely world, inside this dumb cube… she's the only one who ever really felt me."
"Felt my loneliness. My pain. So yeah—it's just natural I'd care back the same."
Grandpa tilted his head. "You did it again, lad."
"What nonsense are you talking about, Gramps—?"
And then I noticed it.
Something about the atmosphere felt… off.
Suspiciously strange.
Like I'd just tripped a divine-level trap card.
"...Why is everyone staring at me like that?"
That's when it happened.
Not Mom.
Not Dad.
Lyra.
She covered her mouth—eyes wide, ears pink—like she'd just heard her entire future accidentally get proposed.
Dad's fork clinked against his plate. His mouth opened... and promptly forgot how to form words.
And then—
Mom chuckled.
Calm as a storm before thunder.
"Oh boy..." she said, sipping her tea.
"Levin's in big trouble now."
"Huh?" I tilted. "Why is he in trouble?" I asked, completely oblivious.
Mom leaned back, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't know?"
"No??"
"Sweetheart, you just made a declaration."
"A romantic one. The kind girls write about in diaries and sob into pillows over."
"...What?!"
I rattled.
"That wasn't romantic! That was just—me being a man with dignity and responsibility!"
"Uh-huh," Mom nodded.
Then, turning to Lyra—
"Oh girl, I'm so jealous. I wish your dad had even one ounce of Dan's tongue."
Lyra's ears went red.
Her ears flushed so red, it looked like her heartbeat forgot where to hide.
Just as she opened her mouth—
BAM. The door creaked open.
And in walked Levin Frei—all sunshine grin and perfect timing.
Right behind him?
His dad, Kevin, looking like he'd smelled drama from two villages away.
Mom chuckled.
"Oh, this is an interesting morning."