Chapter 11:
Budding Trust and the Harvest that Heralds Spring
Spring had deepened, and in the fields that Akio and his companions had tended with care, the seeds and tubers they had planted were now sprouting vigorously, their bright green leaves spreading wide. The leafy vegetables, in particular, were growing fast — it looked like the first harvest would be ready any day now. Visiting the fields each day had become part of the children’s routine, their eyes sparkling as they watched the plants grow taller and stronger.
Between his farm work, Akio continued his quiet exchanges with Sylvia. He would venture deep into the forest, to where she was likely to appear, seeking her knowledge about medicinal herbs. Though Sylvia still maintained her prickly demeanor, she no longer hid herself or disappeared as quickly as before. Now, when Akio asked her questions, she answered bluntly but precisely.
One day, as Akio was gathering herbs for wound medicine under Sylvia’s instruction, he hesitated between two similar-looking plants. “Let’s see… was it this one…?” he murmured, reaching toward a poisonous variety—
“That’s the wrong one, fool! It’s the one beside it — the one with fine serrations on the edge of the leaves!”
A sharp, anxious voice cut through the air from behind the bushes. Akio snapped back to his senses and picked the correct herb. Sylvia emerged, frowning as if she had just bitten into something bitter.
“Are your eyes worse than a child’s? You can’t even tell something that simple apart?”
“S-sorry. You saved me, Sylvia,” Akio said, scratching his head in embarrassment. Sylvia turned away with a huff, but her pointed ears were slightly red. She seemed as confused by her own emotional outburst as he was.
After that incident, Sylvia began keeping a closer eye on Akio during his foraging trips — still from a few meters away, but nearer than before. From time to time, she would say things like, “That one’s not ready yet,” or “Don’t pull it out by the roots — leave some for next year.” Her words were harsh, but always accurate. In every remark, Akio sensed a deep knowledge of, and respect for, the forest and all the life within it.
Then, at last, the long-awaited day arrived: the leafy vegetables — something like turnip greens — were ready to harvest.
“We did it! Our first vegetables!” Kenta cheered.
Together with Akio and Ayane, the children carefully gathered the fresh, vibrant greens. That evening, Ayane prepared a feast: a hearty soup brimming with freshly picked vegetables, and simple fire-roasted greens.
“This is delicious! It’s way better than anything from a store!” Yume beamed, smiling from ear to ear.
Akio savored the taste of the crops they had grown with their own hands — it was deeply moving. From among the harvest, he chose a few of the best-looking vegetables, wrapped them neatly in clean leaves, and said,
“I think I’ll share some with Sylvia.”
The children chimed in eagerly: “Yeah!” “I hope she likes it!”
Akio placed the bundle in Sylvia’s usual spot in the forest. The next day, it was gone. Several days later, when he met her again, Sylvia glanced briefly at him and muttered,
“…That green stuff… wasn’t bad.”
It was the first time Sylvia had ever commented on their food. Her gruff tone couldn’t hide what Akio sensed — a quiet, genuine acknowledgment.
One afternoon, while Miko and Yume were chasing butterflies near the cabin, they spotted Sylvia in the shade of a distant tree, observing some herbs. She usually disappeared the moment anyone saw her, but today, for some reason, she stayed where she was.
“Hey, it’s the forest lady!” Miko called.
Yume noticed her too, and the two girls started running toward her. But Yume tripped on a tree root and fell hard.
“Ah!”
“Yume!”
Her knee was scraped, and her eyes filled with tears. Akio rushed over to check the wound—but before he could reach her, Sylvia silently knelt beside him. Without a word, she pulled out a small wooden jar from her cloak, dipped her fingers in the green ointment inside, and began to gently apply it to Yume’s knee.
“…For something like this, this will do. The pain will fade soon,” she said quietly.
Her slender white fingers brushed against Yume’s small knee. The sight made both Akio and Miko hold their breath.
Whether it was the medicine’s effect or Sylvia’s tender touch, Yume soon stopped crying. She looked up at Sylvia with tearful but shining eyes.
“Thank you, miss! It doesn’t hurt anymore!”
Yume’s bright smile made Sylvia’s expression falter. For a brief moment, she looked conflicted — confused, but also warm — showing a softness Akio had never seen before. Without replying, Sylvia stood and quietly walked back into the forest. Yet somehow, her retreating figure seemed smaller, gentler than before.
Akio couldn’t hide his astonishment at the change. Sylvia — who had once shunned all contact — had touched a child, tended to her wound. It was as if the frost encasing her heart was finally melting, warmed by the innocent kindness of the children, like spring sunlight upon lingering snow.
As the days passed, their table grew richer, new crops took root in the fields, and the cheerful voices of the children filled the air around their cabin. Having endured the harsh winter, the spring that had come to them carried a quiet, certain hope — and the tender sprouting of a new bond.
