The first signs

But he saw nothing wrong with it.

Klein had known for a long time that he read these books. He still remembered every word Klein had said that day.

"You like reading this? You think it's abnormal? Not at all. It proves you're really capable. This is your talent. You might become an amazing doctor someday."

But Freddy's silence did not make Paul King let up. Instead, his deliberate harassment only intensified. Paul's brows knitted fiercely, his knuckles turning bluish-white around the whistle clenched in his hand. He took a few steps forward. The teacher's rough fingers suddenly seized Freddy's arm, gripping hard enough to dig into the fabric of his clothes, and dragged him to the starting line for the shuttle run. His knuckles rapped against the white line on the ground as his coarse voice came crashing down, laden with malice.

"Don't want to pair up with anyone? Fine, then train alone. Everyone else does two runs, you do five-and don't even think about leaving school today until you finish."

The place where his arm had been gripped ached faintly. Freddy's lowered lashes trembled, but he neither looked up nor struggled. He simply freed himself from that hand in silence, stepped half a pace back, and took his place at the starting line.

The laughter around him had yet to stop. Some people stole glances at him, their eyes full of mockery and glee at his misfortune. Those scattered sounds fell on his ears like wind passing through dead leaves, light and insubstantial, unable to stir a single ripple. They did not dare discuss him loudly, though, because a black-haired, black-eyed boy would come looking for them.

Paul King raised his chin and looked down at Freddy, moving his muscular legs half a step to the side. In a deliberate, threatening gesture, he blocked the sunlight in front of the boy, casting a shadow that swallowed his entire four-foot-seven frame like a heavy stone pressing down.

His gaze swept over Freddy's lowered eyes, which remained fixed on him. Their gloomy intensity sent anger flaring inside him, and he kicked at the track line beside him.

"What are you dragging your feet for? Waiting for me to get physical?"

The wind swept dust from the field against Freddy's sun-reddened skin. He did not move, his gaze still locked on Paul King's bulging leg muscles, while his mind automatically traced the distribution of the muscles, the paths of the tendons, and the contours of the bones.

The anatomical illustrations from that yellowed medical magazine overlaid them clearly. Even the lines of Paul's calves, taut with anger, became the most vivid reference. Klein's words sounded softly in his ears. They seemed to carry a hint of encouragement.

The stifled frustration of being picked on, the disgust at being harassed, slowly gave way to a secret, eager excitement.

At last, he moved, lowering his chin until it almost touched his chest. As his feet passed over the track line, he caught sight of Paul still standing there glaring at him. The curses spilling from his mouth drifted over with the wind, but Freddy took none of them to heart-at that moment, all he could see was that powerful, clearly defined "human specimen."

The first run, the second. His breathing gradually grew heavier. A thin sheen of sweat appeared at his temples, dampening the stray hair against his forehead, yet he still did not slow down.

Paul King stood at the turnaround point with his arms folded. Seeing him approach, he deliberately shifted toward the middle of the path, his leg slightly bent, plainly intending to trip him. Freddy caught sight of the leg blocking his way out of the corner of his eye. His steps faltered briefly, but rather than charge straight ahead, he abruptly sidestepped half a pace and ran past, brushing against Paul's arm. The breeze stirred by his clothes swept over Paul King's wrist, darkening his expression further.

"Run faster! Dragging your feet like a little girl!" Paul King's rebuke rang out behind him. He also kicked a pebble at him, which flew past his ankle and struck the ground with a faint clatter.

Freddy neither looked back nor answered. He simply kept running. His mind was not on running at all, nor on the scolding and laughter behind him. All that kept flashing through his mind were those diagrams.

He thought about Paul's movements just now, about how those muscles contracted. What would happen if one of those muscles were severed? He swallowed. An idea rose in his mind. He wanted to try it.

After the fourth run, his lips had pressed into a pale line. Sand clung to the knees of his school trousers, and his palms were slightly sweaty, but he still persisted with the fifth run. This time, Paul King did not harass him again. He merely watched with a dark expression, saying nothing even after Freddy crossed the finish line and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting.

When school let out, he stood at the school gates on time, waiting to go home with me. As for the harassment that day, he never mentioned it.

The autumn wind blew bleak and cold. The chill had come unusually quickly that fall, and both Freddy and I had long since put on thick coats.

It was the weekend. Yawning, I went downstairs to fetch the mail from the mailbox, darting out and then back in like Nova getting drenched with cold water. Even so, I could not help shivering.

Freddy had gotten up early too. After feeding Nova, he was folding the clothes he had brought in from the balcony. We were both growing fast. Clothes bought this year would no longer fit the next, and some were even still quite new. I planned to sell them at the Springwood Village market today. Throwing them away would be a shame, and it would give our savings a little boost.

The oatmeal on the stove bubbled away, its sweet fragrance spreading through the room. With a ding from the toaster, the fried eggs and ham were also brought to the table.

I packed everything up, putting the clothes we had outgrown into the large suitcase. Freddy hated crowds and declined my suggestion that he go out and have some fun, so he stayed home.

The market was quite lively. Nearby farmers came to sell agricultural produce and other farm goods, and there were some old, unused amusement rides. Of course, some people also came to sell unwanted household belongings. A great many people gathered here, with people coming to do business from towns dozens of kilometers around.

I found a spot sheltered from the wind, spread out a blanket, and laid the clothes on it. They sold well; after all, the prices were very reasonable, and the quality was good. I had not even been there two hours before the full suitcase of clothes I had brought was snapped up.

I wandered around idly too, planning to bring Freddy a little gift. Before long, as though guided by some mysterious instinct, I came upon a small stall with just a few things scattered across it. There was very little there, but I immediately spotted the antique-looking dagger, its brass sheath and hilt inlaid with colored stones. The blade inside, however, had long since rusted fast.

I looked up at the seller. I did not think I had seen him around here before. He wore a loose felt robe to keep out the cold and wind. His heavily bearded face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He looked rather odd.

I picked up the dagger and asked him.

"Hello, excuse me? How much is this?"

He raised his head and glanced at me. His eyes were strange. They were yellow and bloodshot, yet his pupils were a clear yellow.

A rough, muffled sound rolled from his throat, unusually hoarse. The shadow beneath his hat brim shifted. Coarse fingers emerged from his sleeve, their knuckles prominent and black dirt embedded beneath the nails. He indicated just one number-five.

"Fifty cents?" That was acceptable enough. Instinctively, I reached for my money.

"No, five dollars."

My eyes widened. He certainly had the nerve to ask an outrageous price. At the meat stall next door, an entire smoked pork leg cost less than three dollars.

For such a battered, rusty little knife, the most valuable part was that bit of brass on the outside, yet he wanted five dollars.

Before I could speak, that voice drifted over again, with a rasp like grit scraping against stone. "Buy it. You won't lose out. That boy will absolutely love it."

My heart lurched. My grip on the dagger tightened, the brass sheath pressing into my palm. The inlaid colored stones rubbed painfully against the pads of my fingers, and rust from the grooves in the sheath stained my fingertips a dull red. Those yellow eyes stared at me.

Almost instinctively, I asked, "How did you know?"

He chuckled softly, the sound muffled inside his robe, like wind sweeping through a torn paper lantern.

"Some things simply have an affinity with certain people... as though they've been waiting just for them."

He gave another muffled chuckle and looked up. Those clear yellow pupils swept toward me again, bloodshot threads winding through the clear yellow like crushed strands of blood wrapped around amber.

"And you're giving it to him. Just right."

In short, as though something had bewitched me, I bought the dagger in a daze. By the time I came back to my senses, I was already on the road home. I had even forgotten to contact the village hunter about buying wood for the winter.

Even now, those words of his still echoed in my head.

"No need to make a point of removing the rust. In its owner's hands, it will slowly grow sharp on its own."

I was getting more and more confused. Just who was that man? Not only did he know I was going to give it to Freddy, he even knew Freddy liked sharpening things?

In any case, I never saw him again over the next few days. Even when I asked at the butcher's stall beside him, the brutish-looking owner merely rubbed his face and recalled that there seemed to have been such a man. As for anything else about him, he could not remember a thing.

I kept finding it strange. The dagger remained in the drawer in my room, and I had not given it to Freddy yet.

Yet over those very two days, a pair of brown eyes with a greasy gaze watched me from the crowds and the corners, maliciously, greedily, fixed unwaveringly on me.

A sixteen-year-old boy was beautiful, of course. As Klein grew older, his features had taken on a more Eastern appearance, his brows and eyes as lovely as a painting. His temperament was gentle too, yet it held the fresh vigor of a willow just beginning to bud-his clothes fluttering as he ran, light shining in his eyes, the slight lift of his fingertips as he handed something over. Even the way he bent down to pick things up was fresh and clean, like spring's new green softened by the wind, making people feel happy at the mere sight of him.

Looking at him, some people would remember their own youth, the spirited vigor of their younger days; others would feel their hearts soften, remembering their own children who had yet to grow up, and want to reach out and ruffle his soft hair. This was hope, this was youth. People could not help turning their eyes toward him.

But what should never, ever exist were those disgusting, perverted thoughts. People like that deserved death by a thousand cuts.

That greasy gaze was like a fleck of mud on a fresh willow, clinging stickily to him, coarse and greedy, making one feel sick with unease.