Azriel Capoue - The secrets of Al

Chapter 04

I kept my gaze fixed on my nebulous reflection in the window, straining to discern the features of my own face. While a mirror would have provided a more accurate depiction, I found solace in the obscured image presented by the hazy glass. It mirrored the internal conflict I felt—existing and yet not fully present, like a soul detached from its corporeal vessel or a body lacking its spiritual essence. Despite being certain of the intactness of my soul, an undeniable emptiness pervaded me.
Waking up to a world drastically different from the one I knew, or even to a transformed version of myself with elongated and sturdier bone structures, a matured and lengthened face, and a deeper voice, was far from the realm of normalcy. In the initial months of grappling with this surreal awakening, I clung to the belief that I had entered an alternate universe. This conviction stemmed from the stark contrast between my last memory as a nine-year-old, fifty-two-inch girl—possessing short arms, cropped hair, a petite nose, a modest set of teeth, a diminutive voice—and my current form.
I stood much taller, and every aspect of my physicality had undergone a profound metamorphosis.
"How is this even possible? This can't be real!" These were the nightly and morning mantras that echoed in my mind as I grappled with the surreal nature of my existence. There were moments when the fear of falling asleep gripped me, a dread that I might awaken in a time even more disconcerting than my current reality, as if my current reality wasn't already the pinnacle of despair. It was an undeniable fact—I had slept and then woken up after a span of eight years. I had drowned and slipped into a coma, or at least, that's what Aunt Liz had relayed to me. While I lacked concrete memories to confirm the narrative, I chose to trust her account. The aftermath did resemble a coma, especially in the initial stages post-awakening. My eyes felt unused, as did my entire body, as if it had lain dormant for an eternity.
What confounded me during those early days was the mystery surrounding how I had drowned. I possessed no recollection of interacting with anything that possessed a drowning hazard. In our town, we had a well. A well that I had consciously avoided, adhering to our parents' warnings and fueled by an instinctive aversion to its dark and eerie appearance even from a distance. I

despised the mere sight of it because it made me uncomfortable. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I hadn't met my incident in that ominous well. The question still lingered: how, then, had I drowned?
"Azriel...!" Aunt Liz's voice called from downstairs. "Come down for breakfast." "Cominggg!" I responded, projecting my voice to make sure she heard.
Leveraging my blackthorn shillelagh stick, I pushed myself upright. Despite four months passing since I woke up, my right leg lagged behind in the recovery process. With a deliberate motion, I advanced my right leg alongside the shillelagh, relying on the sturdy wood to support my weight as I followed through with my left foot. It was a slow but functional method that allowed me to move about.
"Oh, crap!" The realization hit me as soon as I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down with worry etched on my face. My ultimate challenge that I'd forgotten about loomed ahead—ascending and descending the stairs. I detested this part of my routine; it made me feel vulnerable and feeble, a stark reminder of my compromised health. While the vertical spaces between the steps were vast, the horizontal width seemed narrow. It was simultaneously long and short, and not just in terms of the staircase's overall dimensions.
The process of ascending and descending the stairs remained a source of frustration. At one point, I had suggested to Aunt Liz that I relocate to the downstairs room for easier access to the dining room, but she promptly dismissed the idea, providing a sound rationale that left me with little room for argument. Despite understanding and agreeing with her reasoning, there were moments when I wished I had simply tuned out when she began explaining. Once spoken, the logic was irrefutable—recovery hinged on exercise, and navigating the stairs provided the needed physical challenge.
Barely managing to descend the stairs without a near mishap, I found myself relying on the narrow space between the wooden handrail and the walls for added support.
Upon reaching the dining room, Aunt Liz was already seated, while Mirabel took her place as soon as I arrived at the table.

A small chuckle escaped Aunt Liz as my weight settled into the chair. I locked eyes with her, then engaged in a silent gaze with Mirabel, our unspoken communication taking place until we both redirected our attention to her.
"You checked, didn't you?" Aunt Liz remarked, her eyes fixed on me. "I—checked?" I asked, puzzled.
She smiled knowingly. "You checked who was taller."
"Oh—" I chuckled. "Of course... Of course, I did. Hmm, I mean, it feels somewhat reassuring to know that some things haven't changed despite every other thing that has, the passing of these many years. Being taller than Mirabel is one of those constants, if not the only one." I said with a hint of jest in my voice though I spoke with facts.
Mirabel responded with a slight shake of her head and a gentle smile. "You know, tall people get a serious waist injury when they grow old?"
"Well, short people also get... um-- I don't know, short people are... short." "Ha-ha, very funny," she retorted, shaking her head in mock disappointment. I smiled and shook my head. This brat had never laughed to my jokes.
"Let's eat, girls." Aunt Liz instructed.
Breakfast consisted of soft, piled-high mixed berry pancakes, generously drizzled with maple syrup. I didn't bother counting the layers, but my estimation hovered around ten, if not more. The stack was so colossal that I could effortlessly conceal one of father's giant alchemy books beneath it, and no one would be the wiser. Aunt Liz was undoubtedly indulging me, overfeeding me, but I refrained from commenting. Any objection on my part would be met with the familiar response: "You need loads of nutrients and energy to recover. And how else would you acquire them if not through food?"
Well, copious amounts of food. I just hoped that, once fully recovered, I wouldn't develop a penchant for gluttony.
Without hesitation, I eagerly dug into the meal.

I moaned softly, savoring the moment. A smile graced my face with both eyes closed as the soft, warm piece of pancake melted in my mouth. The maple syrup spread across my tongue, creating a taste akin to candy.
"How is it?" Aunt Liz inquired.
"As always, Aunt Liz, it's amazing," I replied.
Aunt Liz was an exceptional cook. Every dish she crafted possessed a unique and astonishing flavor. Even a simple glass of water from her held a distinctive quality. Cooking was more than a skill for her; it was a passion, and her love for it radiated in every dish. Her expertise seemed more like an innate talent than a product of hard work or experience.
"That's my mother for you," Mirabel chimed in. "I know, right!"
We exchanged smiles and continued to relish the delightful breakfast. Mirabel's pancakes weren't as towering as mine, and within a few minutes, she was already halfway through her meal. In contrast, I had barely consumed one-fourth of mine. Part of the reason was my tendency to chew slowly, meticulously breaking down each particle into its finest finish before swallowing. This deliberate pace allowed me to savor the complete taste experience before sending the morsel to my stomach.
"So, do you miss it?" Mirabel murmured softly after a while. "Hmm—?" I queried with a mouthful.
"Do you miss it? Your mother's cooking..."
Aunt Liz immediately turned her eyes to Mirabel, her expression fraught with warning. It seemed evident that Mirabel had been cautioned not to broach any topic related to my family. The apologetic look on Mirabel's face mirrored the consequences of her unintentional transgression, akin to a scolded dog.
"I'm—I'm sorry for bringing it up, Az—"
"No—it's fine, Mira. Honestly," I interrupted. "I appreciate you bringing up the topic. I know Aunt Liz avoids talking about them, about my family, to spare me

pain. But I want to talk about them. I... I still don't understand what happened to them, or how, or who's responsible for it. I don't want to forget about them. I don't want the memory I have of them to fade away, and talking about them reassures me of that."
I paused for a while, felt tears rolling down my face.
"My days of crying and grief might not be over—I don't want them to be. I feel like I'm in a never-ending nightmare. So please, don't stop talking about them. I want them in my mind as if they were here. I know it will hurt every time, a lot... and I want it to. And yes, I do miss my mother's cooking. I miss the taste of her omelets... I miss the smell of her meatballs... I miss... miss her smell..." I said softly.
An image of Mother in the kitchen surfaced randomly in my mind, and more tears came down from my eyes. I missed them so much... Mother... Father... Azra...
Aunt Liz delivered the grievous news on the night of my awakening: "Your father, your mother, your sister... they are no more."
Confusion engulfed me, pushing me to the edge of despair. Questions swirled in my mind, making me question the very nature of my own existence.
Why did I wake up to such heart-wrenching tidings? If this was to be my introduction to consciousness, perhaps it would have been better not to have woken up at all.
The weight of the tragedy pressed down on me, leaving me grappling with the incomprehensibility of such a profound loss within our lives.