Dinner was quiet.
The only sounds were the occasional clink of the wooden spoon against ceramic and the low bubbling of the stew pot still simmering on the stove.
Her father's hands were weathered, the kind that knew work. She watched the way his fingers curled around the spoon, the small tremor that betrayed more worry than his voice let on.
Lilia sat stiffly at the table, poking at the vegetables in her bowl more than eating them. Her father sat across from her, eyes tired but alert, watching her more than he watched his food.
After a while, he sighed. "You're really not hurt?"
Lilia shook her head. "No. Just… a little shaken, that's all."
"I see." He leaned back in his chair. "Still. You shouldn't have been alone. This isn't the capital, but it's not all safety and roses either."
"I know… I didn't think it'd be that bad."
And yet… something about his scolding felt more like fear than anger. A quiet kind of panic, wrapped in protective gruffness.
"Trouble doesn't usually warn you before it shows up," he muttered, scratching his beard. "But thank the stars your professor was there."
Lilia gave a small nod, eyes lowered.
Still weird to be called someone's daughter. Or a student. A week ago, I was filing reports and yelling at printers in an office.
Now I get detention from handsome wizards.
She took a small breath, glanced up at him. "…Dad?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"
"I was just… wondering. About Mom."
He blinked. The spoon paused midway to his mouth.
"What about her?"
Lilia hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "…I just noticed you haven't mentioned her much lately. I mean, it's been quiet here, and I thought…"
Her father gave a small sigh. "Ah. Right."
He lowered his spoon.
"You don't talk about her much either these days. I figured you'd buried it by now."
Lilia tensed.
Buried it?
"…She's been gone a long time now," he said, voice lower. "Six years. But it still feels recent some days."
He didn't look at her—just stared quietly into his bowl.
Lilia's throat tightened.
She didn't know this world's mother. Didn't know her face, her voice, her scent. But somehow, hearing the loss said out loud still hurt.
"Fever took her," he continued. "We couldn't afford a high healer. And even if we could've… maybe it wouldn't have changed a damn thing."
His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white for a second before he let go.
"I tried to be enough after that. For you. But I know I wasn't. You got quiet. Grew up fast."
The original girl—the one whose shoes she was fumbling through—had grown up under the weight of grief. And here she was, playing house in the ruins of her story.
Lilia forced herself to nod, as if the story fit into a memory she didn't really have.
What kind of woman was she? Would she have had her laugh? Her eyes? Would she have hated or loved the idea of an outsider living in her daughter's skin?
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked at her then, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then he softened.
"Not your fault, pumpkin. You were just a kid."
Pumpkin? Oh god… that's what my real dad used to call my sister. This world keeps messing with my head.
She cleared her throat, blinking fast.
"Thanks for the stew," she said, trying to sound steady.
"Eat more of it," he grumbled, standing up to clear his dish. "You look like the wind could knock you over lately."
She managed a weak laugh.
No wonder the original Lilia kept to herself. She lost her mother. Her father's barely holding it together. And now I'm here… pretending to be her. Living someone else's life.
Lilia took another spoonful of stew and swallowed it down, heart heavier than it had been all day.
The rest of dinner passed in silence.
Her father finished his bowl and rose with a grunt, muttering something about going to bed early. Lilia stayed behind, still nursing her half-eaten meal, the cooling stew untouched now.
Once his footsteps faded down the hall, she finally exhaled.
The kitchen lantern flickered gently above her, casting long shadows across the table. Her fingers traced the rim of the bowl as thoughts swirled through her mind like storm clouds.
So… the real Lilia lost her mom when she was just a kid. And her dad's been doing his best to keep it together since then. And now I'm in her place. Walking around in her shoes… literally.
She leaned back in the wooden chair and stared at the ceiling.
I'm not her. I'm just a guy who played her sister's dating game on a whim. Who fell asleep and woke up with boobs. But everyone here… they see Lilia. They trust Lilia. Even he does.
Her father's face, drawn with exhaustion but filled with warmth, flickered in her mind.
And then the memory of him calling her "pumpkin" — so casually, so affectionately — made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't prepared for.
This world doesn't know who I really am. But that's okay. Because maybe… just maybe… this is my chance to do something right.
She stood up and carried her bowl to the sink, rinsing it out quietly.
Outside, wind stirred faintly against the shutters. The quiet hum of nighttime life — a faraway dog barking, the creak of cooling walls — made her feel both grounded and impossibly small.
Her reflection in the window caught her off guard. Big round eyes. Soft features. Long hair. A girl.
A stranger.
But not entirely.
How many times had she told herself this was just temporary? That she'd wake up and laugh about all this with her sister someday? But tonight... it didn't feel temporary
Lilia pressed her fingers against the glass and whispered, just to herself, "Don't worry, father. I'll make you proud."
She smiled faintly — not her usual sarcastic smirk, but something softer.
"This is the least I can do for the real Lilia."
And if she was going to wear this name, this face… she'd better live up to it.