Melting your Precious Heart

Chapter 2 - She stole my first kiss

After dinner, Father and I settled into our usual spot—the old, worn wooden chairs on the porch that overlooked the village—to delve into a discussion about an idea that had been simmering in my mind all evening long. The air was fresh with the scent of the meal we had just shared, and the sky was beginning to darken, stars twinkling into view. My concept revolved around creating a wagon specifically designed to transport goods to the warehouse, alongside a sturdy wheelbarrow for collecting items from the diligent farmers in our community. I was convinced that implementing these simple yet functional tools would not only alleviate the physical burden on our hardworking farmers but also significantly enhance the village's profitability by drastically reducing the time required for delivering goods to the bustling marketplace.

As I spoke, my heart raced with anticipation about the possibilities. “Where did you get this idea, son?” Father asked, a spark of curiosity lighting up his eyes. “I know that you are gifted because you’re my son, but to think that you possess such genius!” His praise warmed me, filling me with pride and a sense of validation.

Flattered by his kind words yet feeling a twinge of guilt bubbling beneath the surface, I quickly interjected. “Father, I’m sorry to say that it’s not entirely my original idea. I can’t honestly claim that these tools come from another world, can I?” I chuckled lightly, attempting to downplay my own contribution.

He looked at me incredulously, his expression attempting to gauge the depths of my honesty. “You came up with the idea, Father, but I’m not a genius; I owe much of my inspiration to you.” I paused, allowing my sincerity to punctuate my words. “If anyone deserves praise, it’s you, Father, for raising me well, teaching me to observe and think critically.”

Father shook his head, a modest smile gracing his lips. “Don’t flatter me like that, son. Come on, it’s late; go to bed. Tomorrow we’ll start constructing the tools you just mentioned.” His dismissal felt both comforting and motivating, a promise of collaboration in the work that lay ahead.

“Okay, Father,” I replied, feeling a tumultuous mix of excitement and nervous energy bubbling within me. The prospect of putting our plans into action filled me with an incredible sense of purpose.

That evening, I climbed into bed, as Father had instructed, but sleep eluded me completely. I tossed and turned, my mind buzzing with possibilities and ideas for how I could contribute to the prosperity of our village. It was already 1 AM, and the thrill of the plans we would initiate together was too overwhelming for me to handle. Thoughts of other inventions and methods that might assist our community kept swirling through my head, and just as I was lost in my reverie, my mother’s gentle voice broke through the fog of my thoughts.

“Time to rest, my dear,” she whispered, prompting me to finally close my eyes.

The next morning arrived, and I found Father waiting for me at the dining table, his expression unusually bright. I couldn’t help but wonder if his good mood was inspired by my proposal from the night before.

“Good morning, Father,” I greeted him, walking toward the table with an eager smile stretching across my face, my excitement palpable.

“Oh, here he is! Good morning, my genius son,” Father replied cheerfully, a twinkle in his eye that mirrored his delight. I could see he relished the nickname he’d lovingly bestowed upon me.

Just then, my mother interjected, raising an eyebrow and looking at us both with a hint of suspicion as if she sensed there was more to our conversation than we had let on. “Is there anything I didn’t know?” she asked, her tone teasing yet inquisitive.

“Come on, sit next to me, dear, and let me tell you how brilliant our son is,” Father said warmly, inviting her to join our little tête-à-tête. At his proclamation, my mother promptly took her seat beside him, her interest piqued.

In this era, innovations like the ones I was proposing were crucial, and I felt an immense gratitude toward the inventors who had created such tools that could now be adapted for our village's benefit. With these inventions, I could assist my parents in meaningful ways, contribute to our household, and hopefully witness our village flourish under the influence of progress.

After breakfast, Father and I ventured outside, brimming with anticipation, to meet Mr. Solomon, the most skilled carpenter in our village. I could hardly contain my excitement as we approached his workshop, a charming structure filled with the sounds of wood being carved and the scents of freshly cut timber.

“Oh, Mr. Borbon, good morning! What can I do for our esteemed Baron today?” Mr. Solomon greeted my father with an exaggerated theatrical salute, the kind that made me chuckle in delight.

“Good morning! You can drop that kind of greeting; we’re friends, so lose the honorifics,” Father replied with an affectionate roll of his eyes, good-naturedly brushing aside the formality.

“I know, I was just teasing you, my friend,” Mr. Solomon chuckled, his laughter booming as he gave Father a friendly pat on the shoulder. Mr. Solomon had been a close friend of Father’s since childhood, their bond as sturdy as the wood he worked with. He was a robust man, akin in size to my father, with a long, bushy beard and a penchant for wearing a jumper almost every day. If you were searching for the carpenter in our village, you couldn’t miss him; his presence filled any room—or workshop—he entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Solomon,” I said, bowing my head slightly in respect, eager to learn and share my ideas.

“Ah, you little rascal! Are you trying to get back at me for what I did to your father? Come here, you little brat!” Mr. Solomon exclaimed playfully, grabbing my head and pulling me into a light-hearted headlock, his boisterous laughter filling the air.

“Stop that! We’re here to discuss something serious,” Father interjected, casting a serious gaze toward Mr. Solomon, causing the jovial carpenter to instantly release me from the playful chokehold. The lightness of the moment shifted as he sensed the gravity of our purpose.

“Looks like there’s bad news on your face,” Mr. Solomon remarked, adjusting his stance, his demeanor now more attentive.

“Oh, no, actually, it’s good news!” Father replied, a hint of a smile spreading across his lips, igniting my hopes for what was to come. My heart raced as I anticipated the discussions ahead and the transformative possibilities that lay in our collaboration. Together, we could set the wheels of progress in motion for our village, and I could feel that today was the first step toward realizing that dream.

"Then why are you so serious?" Mr. Solomon exclaimed, a hint of frustration evident in his voice. "You're making my heart race with your actions, my friend. Felix, my daughter is still in her room, and it's high time to wake her up! The sun is shining bright, yet that daughter of mine remains wrapped in the warmth of sleep," he continued as he settled onto a nearby bench, rifling through his pocket for his tobacco.

"I can do that, but why me?" I found myself asking Mr. Solomon. This was a first; never before had he requested that I rouse his daughter from slumber.

"If I try to wake her up, she'll simply turn over and ignore me," he sighed wistfully. "If her mother were still here, that girl would be awake by now, dutifully helping her mother prepare breakfast. It’s just not the same anymore."

As I listened to Mr. Solomon, I couldn't help but notice the melancholy etched across his face. His wife had passed away nearly a year ago, and it was painfully clear that their daughter's demeanor had shifted since the loss.

"But if she won’t listen to you, why do you think she would listen to me, Mr. Solomon?" I questioned, uncertainty creeping into my voice. Blinking back memories of the past few weeks, it struck me how annoyed she had been with me lately.

"She’s mentioned your name frequently these past few weeks, which led me to believe that you two might be closer than I thought," Mr. Solomon replied, a flicker of hope crossing his expression.

"Close? Ahaha!" I let out a small laugh, almost incredulous. "You must be joking, Mr. Solomon. We’re not that close at all."

"Just go wake her up," he insisted, a tinge of urgency in his tone. "I have something important to discuss with your father."

Though I felt a sense of duty to help, I couldn’t shake off the worry that she might retaliate—maybe even punch me! I had seen her fortitude in the way she defended herself against the bullies around here, a strength honed from helping her father with the more physically demanding tasks.

What am I getting myself into? I thought as I approached her room. How did I know it was her room? The door had a distinct hanging plate decorating it, one that stated her name boldly. However, the one thing that puzzled me was the door's bright pink hue. Apart from the nameplate, it was the only door in the vicinity painted so vibrantly.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I inhaled and then exhaled slowly before turning the knob and pushing the door open. The moment I crossed the threshold, my eyes were met with a delightful burst of colors—her room was a lively spectacle of vibrant hues. And there she was, sleeping like a log, her position so unrefined that it was almost comical. She had sprawled herself on the bed in such a way that her body was anything but aligned, reminding me of how boys tend to collapse into their beds after a long day.

Just then, I was about to tiptoe over to her bedside, to the right side where her head rested, so I could gently tap her face and rouse her from her slumber. But as I bent my body forward, something unexpected happened: her eyelids fluttered open. Our gazes locked for a fleeting moment, and silence hung thick in the air between us.

“Am I dreaming?” she murmured, her fingers reaching up to caress my face, a mixture of confusion and curiosity dancing across her features.

Caught off guard, I stumbled over my words, unsure how to respond to such an intimate situation.

“Yes, you are dreaming,” I managed to say, hoping against hope that she would simply drift back into her dreams.

But alas, my hopes were dashed as a bright smile spread across her face, and she unexpectedly pulled my head down closer to hers and kissed me, leaving me momentarily startled and breathless.