Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 95: “Daddy ”

Dylan remained silent for a moment, the neighbor’s remark hanging in the air like something too fragile to be touched.

"It suits you."

He looked at the little girl, still clinging to Raviel’s skirt, her lollipop already between her lips, her eyes slightly squinting under the afternoon light. She was observing everything, saying nothing. Always in the background, but present. A discreet presence, yet whole.

And despite himself, Dylan felt a weight melt slightly in his chest. Something he hadn’t been able to name these past few days. Maybe fear. Maybe responsibility. Maybe... attachment.

Raviel, for her part, laughed softly, stroking the girl’s hair.

"She hasn’t said a word since she got here, except for ’daddy’ and ’grandma’. But that’s enough for us, right?"

"Words will come," said the neighbor with a wink. "What matters is what she finds here. And from the looks of it, she’s already found it."

He nodded and walked off down the path, empty basket in hand.

Dylan watched him disappear for a few seconds, then looked down at the little one, who was staring back at him, lollipop between her teeth. She wasn’t smiling. Not really. But there was something in her gaze—a softer, calmer light.

He crouched slowly, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you like it here?"

She didn’t answer.

But she nodded. Just once.

And that was enough.

Raviel came closer too, leaning gently against Dylan with a tenderness they hadn’t needed to express in a long time. They were together. And now... they were no longer alone.

Daylight waned. A light breeze passed between the tired walls of the house.

And Dylan, without knowing why, felt like believing that all this—the girl, the home, that hint of peace—was real.

Even if he knew neither its end... nor its beginning.

—-

Days passed. And something... changed.

At first, no one complained. On the contrary—it was almost a relief. There were fewer demonic beasts around. No howling in the night. Not a cry from a moonfang, not a distant growl. The woods seemed at peace, as if a veil of silence had settled over them.

People said it was a good omen.

Hunters returned empty-handed but uninjured. The sentries posted at the edge of the village had seen nothing, heard nothing, as if the threat had simply... vanished.

And yet...

There was a first disappearance. Then another.

A young boy, first, who never came back after fetching water from the stream.

Then an old woman who lived alone at the north edge of the village. Her door open. Her tools untouched. But she—gone.

And in the days that followed, more. A blacksmith’s apprentice. A merchant. A mother and her baby.

No screams. No tracks. Not even a footprint.

Only absence.

The rumors grew, first whispered, then louder, more tense. Some said it was a monster lurking, a silent predator that struck unseen. Others spoke of a curse. A sign from the ancients.

But Dylan said nothing.

He had noticed. Long before the others.

That the birds had gone quiet.

That dogs no longer barked at night.

That children avoided playing near the forest.

And most of all... that the little girl, for the past week, woke up each night, always at the same time, and sat alone by the window, eyes fixed on the woods.

Without ever saying a word.

He couldn’t suspect a child.

She was so frail. So silent. So... innocent.

Always clinging to Raviel, always barefoot on the creaking old floorboards, always staring at things as if she were still trying to understand the world. She didn’t talk. Didn’t laugh. Never cried.

And yet.

There was something in him—a deep, muffled voice, like a buried instinct—screaming of danger.

Not loud. Not harsh. But with that painful insistence, like a needle beneath the skin, embedded just deep enough to never be ignored.

He heard it at night, that voice.

When she rose, always at the same hour.

When she moved noiselessly to the window.

When she stood there, still, staring at the edge of the woods as if something was calling her... or waiting.

Dylan had tried to follow her gaze before.

But each time he met her eyes in the darkness, he felt... watched. Not by her, but through her. As if someone—or something—was hiding behind that gaze too calm to belong to a child.

And he hadn’t told Raviel.

Because he didn’t want to worry her.

Because he didn’t want to believe it.

Because the happiness they had found again felt too fragile... for him to dare question its nature.

Dylan hesitated for a long time that morning.

The sky had a strange hue, too pale, almost washed out, and the air seemed to hang in a suspense only he could feel. The little girl was still asleep, curled near the window, unmoving, and Raviel was preparing breakfast as usual. Everything seemed normal. Far too normal—it was unsettling.

"Maybe I should stay," he murmured, drying his hands.

Raviel looked up, her gaze soft but firm.

"Come on, Dylan. You’ve been saying that every day since she arrived. You worry too much."

He hesitated. Again.

Then Raviel approached and cupped his cheek with her hand, a tender, familiar gesture he hadn’t received in so long.

"I’ll watch over her. Promise."

He sighed, gave in to that look that always convinced him, and left the house reluctantly, dragging behind him his wooden cart and his old back.

He didn’t go far. Just a few kilometers.

Not far enough to feel gone. Just far enough for the weight in his chest to grow too heavy to bear.

So he turned back.

—-

The smoke.

He smelled it before he saw the flames.

A thick black column was rising above the village rooftops. The sky had darkened, as if the day itself had curled up under a blanket of ash.

Dylan ran. As fast as his legs could carry him.

He passed the old fountain. Heard screams. A metallic clash. Weeping. A chant? No... a prayer.

Then he arrived at his house. Or what was left of it.

The flames licked the collapsed roof. The shattered windows threw off heat and cinders. Around it, about twenty villagers—torches, pitchforks, shovels—and faces frozen in fear.

Dylan staggered forward, hands reaching toward the blaze.

"RAVIEL?!"

No one answered.

But a man—the same neighbor with the easy smile—stepped forward. His mouth black with soot, his eyes hollow.

"It had to be done. She was protecting the monster."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

Another voice shouted from behind:

"It’s the girl, Dylan! She’s not human! We found the remains of the missing ones... in the well. In the foundations of your own house!"

He was no longer listening.

Dylan rushed forward, tried to enter the house, but two men held him back.

And then, he saw.

Through a breach between two charred beams, he glimpsed a burnt shape.

Curled up.

Small.

Fragile.

And it was what was left of Raviel... his wife.

The world collapsed with a dull thud, and yet, everything was silent. Dylan fell to his knees. The screams around him became distant echoes. The torches, distant stars. He didn’t feel his tears. He felt nothing.

Raviel. The one who loved him despite everything. The one who brought life back to this house. The one who smiled until the end. Burned alive. And no one here seemed to doubt. They believed they were doing the right thing.

They believed they had saved their village.

And meanwhile, the child was there. Sitting on a stump, a few meters away.

No one had touched her yet.

She was looking at Dylan.

Her small bare feet in the ashes, hands resting on her knees.

And still... that emptiness.

She hadn’t cried, nor screamed, nor even gotten angry.

Only silence.

Night fell without warning.

A night heavier than the others, without stars, without a moon—just this shroud of silence and soot covering the village.

The voices were quiet. The torches no longer crackled. Some villagers had walked away, confused, unsettled by Dylan’s lack of reaction, by the stillness of the girl. The more fervent ones stayed, standing at a cautious distance, weapons lowered, but eyes still full of dread.

And he...

He hadn’t moved.

Kneeling before what remained of his house. Of Raviel.

His hands rested on his knees, exactly like the little girl a few moments earlier. His head bowed, eyes fixed on the charred mass he recognized only because he knew.

Because he didn’t need to see to know.

Raviel. His heart. His anchor. Gone.

Not killed by a beast, not devoured by evil, but by human hands. People he knew. People who had looked him in the eyes for years. People who said: "It was necessary."

A creak behind him.

Soft.

Almost tender.

He didn’t lift his head right away.

But he felt the presence.

Small. Thin. Silent. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Tiny footsteps, barely a rustle in the ash.

Then warmth. Against his side.

He slowly looked down.

The little girl was there, standing beside him.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at Raviel.

Or at least... what was left of her.

And without blinking, without changing her tone, without crying or smiling, she simply said:

"Daddy."

The word slipped into the air like a silent blade.