Although I had already secured a place to live, I couldn’t move in right away. With nowhere else to go, I extended my stay at the hotel for a few more days.
Before long, I had become familiar with the front desk staff. We chatted whenever we crossed paths, exchanging small updates about our daily lives. They told me that no guest had stayed that long in years, and thanks to me, the hotel felt lively again.
The hotel itself had a surprisingly long history. It had stood for centuries and, in its heyday, had employed countless workers. But as Etatina declined, the family could no longer afford to keep such a large staff. One by one, people were let go until only the family remained, barely managing to keep the business alive.
Still, they cleaned the place diligently even during seasons without guests. Thanks to that effort, the old building, though worn by age, was far from unbearable. It was into that quiet, aging hotel that I had arrived.
Curious about how they managed to maintain such a large property, I eventually asked where the money came from.
The owner laughed and said the details were a family secret.
“We’ve always had a knack for chasing money,” he said. “We earn just enough to maintain the hotel and keep ourselves from starving.”
When I asked why someone with such a sharp mind had never moved up the hill, his answer was simple.
“The gap between the top and the bottom is like night and day. The people who live up there are from a world we could never reach. I’m satisfied with the life I have now.”
There was no resentment in his voice.
As we continued talking about ordinary things, I casually mentioned that I had bought a house on the hill.
The staff immediately congratulated me.
Not a trace of envy crossed their faces.
Instead, one of them recommended a cleaner who was supposedly excellent at move-in cleaning.
When I contacted the real estate agency, they told me they usually worked with a different contractor. Still, wanting to cherish the first connection I had made since arriving in Etatina, I decided to hire the person recommended by the hotel.
Unfortunately, that decision created an entirely new problem.
The cleaners lived below the hill.
To enter the residential district above, they first had to register and pass a screening process that seemed to have no end.
No matter how much I pleaded at the checkpoint, the guards remained unmoved.
“Rules are rules.”
In the end, the cleaners were denied entry, and I had no choice but to turn back.
Feeling guilty for wasting their time, I handed them an envelope containing a day’s wages and transportation costs.
A few days later, however, I found them waiting at the hotel from morning until evening.
They were there to return the money.
“It’s too much,” they insisted.
In the end, I was forced to hire a certified cleaning company through the real estate agency.
The payment amount was fixed.
I was explicitly told not to offer tips.
Not to offer food.
Not even to share a meal.
When I asked whether eating together would really be a problem, the agent repeated the same warning over and over.
“There is no benefit to breaking the rules on the hill.”
So I simply stood there and watched as the professionals cleaned the entire house.
The only thing left in my chest afterward was bitterness.
The house shone as though it had been polished into a mirror.
I joked to myself that I wouldn’t need to lift a finger for days.
But there was little joy in sitting alone inside a silent house.
So I decided to go outside.
Since the apartment occupied the penthouse level, I expected the elevator ride to take forever. Instead, there was a private elevator separate from the public ones, allowing me to descend directly to the first floor.
Outside, people wandered about peacefully.
Children ran through the playground.
Guardians watched over them.
Elderly residents walked slowly along the paths with canes in hand.
Office workers carrying briefcases passed by on their way home.
I greeted those I met with small nods and wandered aimlessly, wondering where to go.
Then I remembered something.
I hadn’t bought a car.
So I began asking for directions and headed straight toward an automobile dealership.
Buying a car turned out to be far easier than expected.
Before the consultation even began, the salesman gathered my personal information.
The moment he saw that I lived in a penthouse, his attitude changed dramatically.
“Please, choose whatever you like.”
One by one, he brought out models that had apparently been reserved for special customers.
Since I wasn’t particularly interested in cars, I simply selected the vehicle that most closely resembled the sedan my family’s chauffeur used back home.
The salesman stared at me with admiration.
“Someone with your decisiveness has a truly refined eye.”
He immediately began calculating prices and special packages.
Given Etatina’s cost of living, it was an absurdly expensive purchase.
He tried every possible tactic to tempt me with additional services, but all I needed was transportation.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I accepted only the bare essentials and paid on the spot.
Afterward, I purchased only the furniture necessary for immediate use.
With several important steps of my new life completed, I headed back down the hill.
Part of me wanted to say farewell to the hotel where I had spent my first days in Etatina.
Another part simply wanted to experience the scenery I had glimpsed from the taxi when I first arrived.
Beyond the gate at the foot of the hill stretched a lonely road.
After walking for several minutes through the drizzle, I found myself standing before muddy streets.
Rain had become such a constant companion that opening an umbrella felt less like a choice and more like a habit.
Holding it over my head, I stepped into a district lined with small shops.
This was my first proper visit to the area below the hill.
The curious glances directed at me immediately made me uneasy.
As I walked, I considered how best to approach the locals.
If I acted too familiar, I might seem suspicious.
If I approached them too formally, I might leave a poor impression.
Since I planned to visit frequently, neither option seemed ideal.
Eventually, I concluded that no amount of theorizing could compete with actual experience.
And, more importantly, I was hungry.
Following that very basic instinct, I entered a restaurant that looked as though it might collapse at any moment and ordered a bowl of soup.
The food arrived shortly afterward.
A pale, whitish broth.
A handful of mysterious chunks floating within it.
The aroma wasn’t unpleasant.
Still, the appearance gave me pause.
When I finally tasted it, the broth proved surprisingly good.
The solids, however, were another matter entirely.
They had almost no texture.
Chewing them felt like chewing a wet cardboard box.
Curious, I tore one apart with my fangs and examined the cross-section.
The interior was densely packed with strange zigzagging fibers.
When I looked up, I met the owner’s gaze.
He had been watching me the entire time.
A faint smile rested on his face.
He had undoubtedly seen my expression twist in discomfort, yet he showed no sign of offense.
Unable to finish the mysterious chunks, I settled for drinking the broth.
Afterward, I stood and approached the register, handing over my card.
The owner stared at it for several seconds.
Then he smiled again.
“You can just go today.”
“…Pardon?”
A painful thought crossed my mind.
Was my reaction while eating really that terrible?
“We only accept cash,” he explained. “It looks like you only have a card, so we won’t be taking payment today.”
“That won’t do.”
Even after I offered a specific date and promised to return with cash, the owner simply waved his hand dismissively.
He seemed determined to send me away.
After several rounds of argument, I realized that continuing would only make it appear as though I was bullying him.
Physically, I was far stronger than he was.
Reluctantly, I gave up and left.
The situation felt absurd.
I visited several street vendors and shops afterward, hoping to buy something.
Every single one accepted cash only.
Each time, the owners told me not to worry and simply take what I wanted.
Each time, I refused.
I couldn’t bring myself to accept charity from strangers.
By the time I checked my watch, evening had already arrived.
After spending the entire day wandering between cash-only shops, I decided to explore one final alley before returning to the hill.
The alleyways below the hill were already dim.
As darkness deepened and the rain continued to fall, they seemed even more oppressive.
There was no proper electricity.
No sunlight reached these places.
One by one, shopkeepers removed their signboards and closed for the night.
Combined with the steady patter of rain, the scene felt strangely eerie.
And yet, whenever our eyes met, people smiled.
A faint smile.
A polite nod.
Every single person.
Not once.
Not twice.
Everyone.
After witnessing the same expression countless times since arriving in Etatina, I began to seriously suspect that the townspeople might actually be robots controlled by someone else.
Back in my homeland, people blindly followed the orders of their elders as well.
But at least they had families, status, and purpose.
Here, most people seemed to live without dreams or hope.
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps they had all been drugged into obedience.
Turning a corner and leaving the crowded marketplace behind, I noticed a small light glowing in the distance.
Compared to the surrounding buildings, the bulb was surprisingly bright, though it flickered occasionally from an unstable power supply.
At first, I assumed the shop must be receiving special treatment.
But as I approached, I discovered that the building was just as old and dilapidated as everything else around it.
The wooden doorframe had partially rotted away from years of poor drainage.
I wasn’t even convinced the door still functioned properly.
There wasn’t a signboard anywhere.
From the outside, it was impossible to tell what kind of business operated there.
Despite knowing it was rude, I pressed closer to the window and peeked inside.
A bookstore.
For some inexplicable reason, it was a bookstore.
Shelves overflowing with books stretched upward until they nearly merged with the ceiling.
Colorful spines filled every available space.
A ladder hung nearby for reaching the highest shelves.
There was a cashier’s desk.
Several small tables.
A few chairs.
An utterly ordinary bookstore.
Which only made its existence all the more extraordinary.
This was a place where people seemed to have barely enough money to survive.
A stagnant town where culture appeared to be a luxury beyond reach.
And yet here stood a store containing not a handful of display books, but thousands upon thousands of volumes stacked to the ceiling like a library.
The study I had frequented back home was infinitely grander.
The layout was better.
The shelves were better.
Everything was better.
Yet books themselves knew nothing of status.
Knowledge carried no rank.
No matter where they existed, they remained innocent.
Then I realized something.
Since arriving in Etatina, I had never once seen a book below the hill.
Suddenly curious about what kind of culture ordinary people possessed, I decided to step into the bookstore just before it closed for the night.
