Chapter 45
My Dearest Little Sister (Serios’ POV)
From the moment I heard that I would have a younger brother or sister, I had been unable to contain my excitement for the day of their birth.
Mother began knitting a lace swaddle for the baby, and Father watched over her with gentle eyes… We were so, so happy.
But as her belly grew larger, Mother eventually became unable to get out of bed.
And as if in proportion to that, Father’s expression grew darker day by day.
Then one day, I happened to overhear my parents arguing.
It was the first time I had ever seen the two—who always got along so well—fight, and I instinctively hid behind the door.
“Emilia, no. The doctor said your body won’t hold out. I’m sorry, but we must give up on this child.”
“Absolutely not. This is our child. Besides, I can feel it—this child is someone the world needs.”
“I care more about you than the world.”
“I’ll be fine, Ernst. You know I’m strong. Neither I nor this child will die—absolutely not.”
“Emilia…”
Even though she said that, Mother’s condition only worsened, and she grew more and more frail.
Father pretended to be calm in front of her, but I knew from the steward that he had been drinking more heavily out of worry.
And then came that fateful day.
From Mother’s room came a sound I had never heard before—Father’s heart-shattering wail.
When the doctor beckoned me inside, I saw Mother lying motionless on the bed, while Father clung to her, sobbing uncontrollably.
Beside them stood a priest with a grave expression—the one Father had begged the church to station with us, skilled in healing magic.
“Mother…”
When I quietly approached from the other side, the gentle hand that always stroked my head no longer squeezed back when I held it.
Even without anyone telling me, I understood that her life was gone.
Not even the priest’s desperate attempts at healing magic had saved her.
A creeping, overwhelming sorrow began to consume me.
But unlike Father, I couldn’t bring myself to cry aloud.
For some reason, I felt I must not interrupt Father’s grief.
I stifled my voice, trembling shoulders, staring only at Mother’s unopening eyes.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
Eventually, I wondered what had happened to the newborn baby—the one no one in the room had even looked toward. I approached the abandoned cradle.
Inside was a baby with soft, fluffy pink-blonde hair—just like Mother’s.
The baby’s eyelids, framed by lashes of the same color, were firmly shut. Without even a single cry, the tiny hands were clenched, the little body unmoving.
Ah… This child must have followed Mother into death, I thought, reaching out with a trembling hand—
—when suddenly, that tiny hand weakly grasped my finger.
“Doctor!”
I shouted in panic. The doctor rushed over, and upon seeing the baby holding my finger, his eyes widened. He immediately called for the priest.
The priest cast healing magic on the baby at once.
Still, the baby didn’t cry.
When I looked at the doctor in confusion, he gazed down at the baby with a troubled expression.
“It seems… this child is in a state of suspended animation.”
“Suspended animation? What does that mean?”
“The body is technically alive, but… there is a possibility the child may never wake.”
He spoke in a low voice, so as not to be heard by Father, who was still crying.
I couldn’t help but protest.
Because that tiny hand was warm. Alive.
I couldn’t let this child simply die.
“But she’s holding my hand.”
“There is primitive reflex, so there is hope… but I cannot promise anything.”
I later learned that primitive reflexes are instinctive responses newborns are born with. If present, there is at least a chance of recovery.
It wasn’t a conscious action—just a physiological reaction.
But even if that was all it was, it gave me a sliver of hope.
“She will absolutely wake up.”
Mother chose to give birth knowing her own life was at risk.
Mother, Father, and I—we had all been so excited to welcome this child.
No matter how famous the doctor, no matter how high-ranking the priest, I would bring them all if I had to.
I would never, ever let her die like this.
The baby was a girl. She was given the name Mother had chosen before her death—Leticia.
After that, since Father was unable to recover from Mother’s death, I searched desperately for a healer who could use advanced healing magic.
By great fortune, I found Dr. Robert, a man highly skilled in healing magic.
He had resigned from his post to care for his own sick child, only for that child to pass away despite his efforts. Perhaps seeing Leticia reminded him of the child he lost, because he threw himself wholeheartedly into her treatment.
But even so, Leticia’s eyes never opened. Only healing magic sustained her life.
Father, still unable to stand before her, never once came to see her condition. I alone visited her room each day.
Balancing house duties under the steward’s guidance in Father’s place was incredibly difficult.
Even if people praised me as a prodigy since childhood, I was still only six years old then.
But with Father unable to function, I had no choice but to bear the burden.
And in those long days, looking at Leticia’s face was my one and only source of comfort.
But as time passed and she still didn’t wake, even I began to think I might have to give up.
—Until one day.
Leticia’s body suddenly began to glow.
Her pink-blonde eyelashes trembled, and from beneath them appeared a pair of beautiful violet eyes that opened and looked straight at me.
