Hogwarts Acceptance Letter

"For decades, what sustained me was the belief that I had to look after my comrades' families. I had a farm in Scotland, and every year I distributed the rent to them."

"I always felt that it was my responsibility, the meaning of my life. I was the only one who came back alive, so I had to bear that responsibility. Year after year, even those people I had never met gradually passed away, while I remained alive."

"When the last comrade's widow died, I had nothing left to hold me to this world."

"One day, the mayor suddenly told me that I had a distant grandnephew who needed looking after. That was you. They said you had suffered misfortune and needed shelter."

"I agreed. A few days later, they brought you here. That afternoon, I looked at that boy—his clothes were in tatters, he was barefoot, and he was covered in mud."

"You know what happened after that."

As Loren listened to Bates recount his past, his heart felt warm and settled. Yet when he looked at his pale beard and deep wrinkles, a wave of pity rose within him.

Because of an accident, this old man had carried guilt for his entire life, living alone far from other people. He should have been honored, yet he had spent his life in loneliness.

Loren did not know how to comfort him. He patted Bates on the shoulder. "Thank you."

Bates said nothing more. The two of them simply looked out over the Wilderness until late at night.

After that, Loren never brought up Werewolves again. He was also curious whether Werewolves feared Silver Bullets, whether they were impervious to blades and bullets, and whether they ate raw meat.

But whenever he looked at Bates's beard and wrinkles, he could not bring himself to ask.

And so, Bates occasionally taught him combat techniques and scouting skills from his time in the army. The rest of their days passed quietly.

Loren read the two strange books over and over, trying to discern what kind of world this really was. Was the person who had sold him the books Nicolas Flamel himself, or someone else?

Whenever he thought too hard about it, the name Nicolas Flamel seemed vaguely familiar, as though he had heard it in his previous life. But he never found an answer.

The ordinary days continued until 1991, when Loren turned eleven.

Summer in the mountains was much cooler than elsewhere. The pasture grass was at its most flavorful, the goats were scattered across the hillside, and Loren leaned against a rock with a book in hand.

He had already read the travelogue in the latter half of Complete Guide to Hieroglyphs many times, but there was little else to