I don't know when all this started.

  But without realizing it, I've developed a new habit.

  Writing.

  Not writing a teenage diary full of drama, but something I think is important.

  I'm using a small brown notebook I took from Dad. Its pages are starting to curl at the edges because I fold them too often. A sign that I'm wrestling with these papers more than playing with dolls.

  Besides, dolls will never be able to answer my curiosity that keeps piling up.

  It's been a month since we came back from that festival, and my memory of that old man's story still feels vivid.

  The history book Dad gave me, I've already read it more than twice. But don't get me wrong. I didn't read it like some genius who memorizes everything after one pass. I mostly just skimmed, because the reality is, this book is my greatest enemy. I'm not the type of miracle child you'd find in novels.

  Now, that book lies beside me, and in front of me is my notebook.

  I clip the pen tip between my lower lip and teeth, staring at the slightly filled page. My brain feels like it's being roasted over a small fire.

  "Ugh... what language is this?" I mumbled while massaging my temples.

  This history book really wasn't written for children. It's full of terms I don't understand, convoluted formal grammar, and vocabulary that makes me want to stop reading immediately.

  I was too confident at the start. I thought with the knowledge I got from Mom and a little determination, I could read it as easily as reading comics.

  The reality? In the first week, I only got through three pages and my head was already starting to smoke.

  "Ma... what does this part mean?"

  I finally gave up and called Mom, using the tactic of pretending to be clueless so she'd explain the terms that were too difficult.

  Mom approached with an amused smile at my frustrated expression. She didn't explain all the content. She just translated the difficult words into simpler language.

  That's how I survived: not reading everything, just looking for keywords that I marked with small pieces of paper until the book looked like a hedgehog in my hands. Little by little, the big picture started to appear.

  Time then crept by without me noticing.

  Another month passed with the same routine. Reading, asking, taking notes. Until finally, I arrived at this point.

  At the very top of my notebook page, I'd already written in capital letters: ALLAIN VAELMORATH. Below it, two columns that I divided with a center line from a ruler.

  Left column: HISTORY BOOK

  Right column: OLD MAN'S STORY

  The history book says: Allain was the son of General Kaine. Military noble blood. Born with extraordinary talent.

  The old man says: Allain was an ordinary kid. His mother a cook. His father a ship mechanic.

  I pressed the pen tip to the paper harder than necessary.

  This isn't just two different versions. They directly contradict each other. Both can't be true at the same time.

  I sighed and opened the history book to the page I'd marked. There it was, written in brain-draining formal language:

  'Allain Vaelmorath, born from the bloodline of General Halcyon Kaine, showed extraordinary prowess since childhood. His courage surpassed his age and status as the son of a respected general in the navy...'

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I closed the book, then opened it again, then closed it once more. Not because the content was confusing, but because it was too smooth.

  Too neat. Like the writing of someone who already knew the conclusion before starting to write.

  This narrative feels like propaganda polished to a shine.

  "Sera, lunch is ready."

  Mom's voice from the direction of the kitchen broke my concentration.

  "Just a sec!"

  I didn't move. My hand floated to the bottom of the page, to the remaining empty space, then I wrote the question.

  WHO'S LYING?

  There are two logical possibilities.

  First: the old man's wrong. That old man telling stories at the festival might only know the folk version—stories that have changed from mouth to mouth for hundreds of years until the details got distorted. Allain, who was originally a general's son, could've turned into "a cook's kid" because it's more dramatic and easier to remember.

  Second: the history book's wrong.

  I tapped the pen tip to my own forehead, remembering something I actually already knew. Knowledge from my old life.

  History is written by the winners, and winners aren't always honest. They write what needs to be written so their narrative stays clean.

  But more precisely, history is written by those who have access to literacy. Because there's no point changing records if no one can read them.

  And a great hero from a poor family, from ordinary people who had nothing... could be uncomfortable for those sitting on top.

  Easier to say he's noble-born. Easier to say his greatness was a birthright, not luck and the courage of a common person.

  I stared at my columns again. Two versions, one truth, and I have no way to decide which is right from just one book.

  Looks like I'll have to read a lot more before I can conclude anything. But for now, I'll let that question hang at the edge of the page.

  I closed my notebook and went to eat lunch.

  Afternoon came quickly.

  Dad came home from work and sat reading in his favorite chair. I approached him, carrying the history book I'd already marked.

  "Dad."

  He lowered his tablet slightly. "Hmm?"

  I put the history book on his lap and pointed at the paragraph about Allain. "Does Dad know about this?"

  His right eyebrow rose slightly as he read briefly. "Is Sweetheart comparing something?"

  "Yeah. The old man said the Hero was a cook's kid. But this book says he's a general's son."

  I immediately climbed onto his lap without being asked. "Which one does Dad believe?"

  He was silent for quite a while. Not silent because he didn't know, but silent like someone choosing their words. I'm used to that by now.

  Even though he often acts silly, Dad always thinks before speaking. He's started being careful with me.

  "Sera," he finally said, closing his tablet and placing it on the chair's armrest. "Have you ever heard the same story twice from two different people?"

  "Yeah."

  The story about the hero from Dad and the old man alone was already different.

  "Exactly the same?"

  I frowned. "No."

  "Because it never is." His hand tapped the history book's cover gently. "This book was written by people who were paid. That old man learned from his great-grandfather, who learned from his ancestors. Two different paths, two different interests."

  Dad was basically confirming my suspicions.

  "So which one's right?" My eyes blinked up at him.

  A thin smile appeared on his face as he pinched my cheek gently. "Maybe both."

  The pinch released, then he picked up his tablet again. "Or maybe neither is completely right."

  I stared at his face for a long time. Until he stared back at me.

  Dad... that's not the answer I expected. But somehow, that's exactly what makes me more certain there's something that hasn't been told.

  If he himself doesn't know which is right between the two, maybe no one really knows. And maybe, that's the point.

  He's also just a human trying to understand the world, same as me. And I think that's more honest than any answer he could give.

  Since I was already sitting on his lap, I decided to take advantage of this position a bit more. I opened another page I'd marked and lifted the book toward him.

  "Dad..." My finger pointed at a row of long, unfamiliar words. "Why is the writing so complicated?"

  A small laugh sounded. "Hmm? Which one?"

  "This one."

  My vision started getting dizzy just looking at it again. Rows of dense letters, as if they'd just been spun in a blender.

  "Reading it's exhausting. My head hurts."

  He glanced briefly at that page. His eyebrow rose slightly. "Hmm. This book really isn't for children."

  The book was returned to my lap, then he leaned back more comfortably in his chair.

  "Huh?" I looked up. "But I want to know..."

  "Because the language in this book really wasn't made for kids Sera's age."

  A gentle tap landed on my forehead. "But Sera keeps reading. Why?"

  I stayed silent.

  Wait, why are you turning the question back on me? I'm reading because *you're* the one who gave me this book!

  "Because... I'm curious?"

  A smile spread across his face. "There. That's what's important. If you just wanted to finish, of course you would've stopped at the first page. But because you're curious, you keep trying to understand."

  The history book was taken from my hand, then casually flipped through.

  "Difficult language isn't a barrier. It's just... a filter. So only those who really care will read it."

  "That's so mean..." I mumbled while pouting.

  A free laugh sounded. "Not mean..."

  A gentle pat landed on my head.

  "If this book was written in easy language, everyone would read it. But not everyone would understand the context. That'd actually be dangerous."

  "Why dangerous?"

  "Because knowledge without understanding is like a sword without a sheath. It can wound its own owner."

  I fell silent hearing that.

  For a long time.