Kreuzberg District, Schleyerhof 4, Hermann Family.
This was a three-story brick townhouse on the edge of the old city, with off-white walls, neatly arranged copper drainpipes hanging from the eaves, and a small, well-trimmed lawn in front, indicating that the residents were quite particular about their daily lives.
The paint on the wooden door of the porch was somewhat yellowed, but not peeling; the doorknob was wiped clean, and an unlit gas lamp stood on the right side.
It was the typical appearance of a middle-class family: simple, orderly, not pursuing overly luxurious display, but every detail indicated one thing.
—This family was doing well.
The interior was clean and tidy, with old-fashioned solid wood furniture with smoothly rounded edges.
A white-based, blue-bordered embroidered tablecloth was spread on the coffee table, with a small pot of freshly watered long-leaf flowers in the center.
Thick blackout curtains hung from the French windows, and the floor was made of dark brown wood planks that didn't creak when stepped on.
Several medium-sized photos hung on the wall, neatly arranged in frames, extending from the wall directly opposite the coffee table all the way to the photo stand next to the fireplace. Almost every single one was a record of the Hermann Family's "little princess"—Franka Hermann's growth.
Hmm, how to describe this little princess?
From a chubby baby photo at one year old holding a milk bottle, to a school uniform photo at ten years old with a bow in her hair and a victory sign.
This series of photos had one eternal theme:
Plumpness.
Hey, look at our little princess's current photo: full-figured and on the heavier side, with a round face and short chin, fond of wearing pigtails, and dressed like a "street doll."
Of course, if any manufacturer produced this doll, they would go bankrupt very quickly.
And look, every dress in these photos of the little princess flaunted her family's impressive taste; every cake and dessert hinted at comfortable living conditions; even the lace on her school bag had been changed several times.
However, despite the many photos, there was not a single one of her niece, Helena Harriet Berengart, who was staying with them.
Not even a blurry, cropped group photo.
As for why there wasn't one?
Is this question really that hard to guess?
Could it be that dear Miss Helena didn't like them?
You know, photos aren't precious antiques; they are a common household expense that the Shinra middle class can generally afford nowadays.
After all, it was now the year 1519.
As early as 723, a Shinra southwestern border exploration team discovered a set of ancient lens blueprints and accompanying silver salt processing instruction fragments in a low-grade Amber Field.
These manuscripts were labeled as—"Pre-Civilization Light Painting Technology Manuscripts."
Ten years later, the craftsman Julius Hannes successfully restored the first generation of imaging equipment in 734 based on this.
The earliest photos were a symbol of nobility, but after nearly eight centuries of development, cameras have now become a widely popularized household product.
It's no longer a rare thing for ordinary families to take family photos, growth photos, or holiday photos once a year.
So, if Helena's figure isn't in the photos, where is she now?
The answer, of course, is—the "room" under the stairwell.
Under the stairwell was a half-height small door, from whose cracks often wafted the scent of fine dust and wood shavings.
The doorknob was a later addition, made of stainless steel, reflecting a small patch of dead white from the dim living room light.
That was Helena's "room."
If it could even be called a "room."
She lived in the storage room under the stairs.
It was originally used to pile sundries, hang brooms, and stack firewood, but was later converted into a temporary sleeping space.
The Traces of transformation were obvious: the floor was made of pieced-together wooden boards, some of which weren't even the same color; a shortened cot was placed in the corner; there was no pillow at the head of the bed, only a towel folded into four layers to substitute.
There was no light inside the small room, only the faint light seeping through the door cracks.
Her belongings were so few that they could be seen at a glance: textbooks, exercise books, a box of nearly used-up pencils, a few bars of soap, and a folded portable water bottle.
All of these were stored in a wooden box, as if she was afraid of occupying any extra space in this home.
There were no photos or decorations in the room.
Only a small sliver of light filtering through the door crack provided a dim glow to this tiny room during the day.
Miss Helena's dreams, living here, often emerged from the ceiling cracks.
Whenever the lights flickered, she felt it was the mites speaking.
Thump, thump, thump—!
"Hel—e—na! Come out, my mother has something to tell you!"
Her cousin Franka's voice was like a fork stirring porridge, rude, drawn-out, and with the muffled syllables of lingering cake crumbs in her mouth, making the stairs creak outside the door.
Helena sat on the edge of the bed, an old world popular science book open on her lap, its pages already curled at the edges, but her iris-green eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses still moved, word by word.
She didn't get up immediately, only pushed up her glasses with her index finger.
They were silver-rimmed, round-framed glasses, and wearing them on her face did not detract from her beauty in the slightest.
Behind those glasses—her brow bones were defined, her nose bridge straight, and her lip line thin and clear.
"Three knocks mean a fire alarm, four knocks mean the neighbor's cat is stuck in the chimney."
Helena murmured, "And five knocks mean Franka has eaten too much again."
She didn't move.
Because she knew that if Aunt called her to the living room—it was never for anything good.
Most of the time, the seats at the dinner table were already fully occupied by "our little angel."
What she ate was either the hard bread left over by Aunt, or the cream that her cousin had licked the edges of.
She was accustomed to slowly closing her book in three seconds amidst these knocks.
These three seconds were the time poor Miss Helena prepared a bit of "psychological armor" for herself.
She stood up, her off-white cotton shirt neatly smoothed, buttons fastened all the way to the top as always, covered by a dark gray vest with a slight fray at the cuffs.
Her dark blue-gray pleated skirt just passed her knees, and the sock cuffs were slightly loose from repeated wear.
This was an outfit deliberately chosen to conceal her figure, but it couldn't hide the subtly developing "girlish silhouette"—her shoulders and back were straight, her waistline clear, and though her chest was bound, there was still a faint, undulating curve.
Her dark brown short hair lay smoothly against her neck, the ends naturally curled, giving a sense of "casually cut cleanliness."
When she didn't speak, she was like a still statue of a beautiful goddess.
But if she were to even gently smile;
That shallow dimple on her left cheek would be like a window thrown open by sunlight, making people unexpectedly lose themselves.
Unfortunately, she wasn't smiling at the moment, nor did she particularly like to smile.
She just closed her book, put on her shoes, and opened the door.
The door opened with a "click," and sure enough, that chubby face was waiting outside.
Outside, her cousin Franka's chubby, triumphant face suddenly squeezed into the door crack, as if it wasn't a person waiting there, but a hot dog stuck in a can opening.
Her pink dress had more lace, her hair was tied into thick pigtails, and she held a small piece of bitten cream pastry in her hand, with a trace of un-wiped frosting at the corner of her mouth.
"Why do you always shut yourself in this rat's nest? You're such a weirdo."
Helena's tone was calm:
"So what do you want with a weirdo now?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Her cousin Franka sneered, turning her head to shout downstairs:
"Mom—she heard you, she'll be down in a bit!"
Then she turned back, her gaze scanning Helena up and down, a hint of provocation on her lips.
She had been the princess of this house since she was little, and Aunt always called her "our little angel."
So it didn't matter if she broke a vase, stole jam from guests, or caused trouble at a neighbor's house…
But if Helena's books weren't put back in their place, then she was—"raised too wild."
This kind of protection had long since spoiled Franka into an arrogant personality.
She walked around the house as if she owned it, and she was equally arrogant at school.
Especially after growing up, the Hermann Family's "little angel" became even less tolerant of Helena.
Both were girls of eleven or twelve, so why was Helena thin, cold, pale, quiet, and beautiful…
More importantly, why did boys always stare at her?
Even the boys who usually greeted her would secretly look back twice when they met Helena in the hallway.
Her cousin Franka was mad with jealousy, but she never confronted her directly, only spread gossip behind her back, led others in mocking Helena for being unsociable, or deliberately bumped into her when the hallway was crowded, then feigned innocence:
'Oh, didn't you watch where you were going?'
Helena never argued or made a fuss.
But her words were sharp enough, her actions firm, and she never let Franka manipulate her.
She always resisted.
Just like now.
"Alright, but… don't put your face close to other people's faces after you've eaten," Helena said.
"What do you mean?!" Franka's eyes widened in anger.
Helena glanced at her, her expression cold:
"It means no one intends to lick the cream left on the corner of your mouth—no one at all."
Her cousin Franka's plate-like face instantly flushed hot:
"Don't talk to me in that condescending tone, Helena."
"Who do you think you are?!"
"Who do you think fed you to grow up!!!"
Helena responded lightly:
"Thank you for the reminder, I will cherish every bite of cold rice left by your family with a 'non-relative' attitude."
Saying that, her slender body passed by her cousin Franka's fortress-like body.
Thump, thump, thump—
As she went downstairs, she heard the floor groaning.
Poor floor, it had given too much to this house.
In the living room on the first floor, Aunt Castina sat in the center of the sofa, her skirt spread over half the cushion, her dark blue printed dress and metal apron buckle reflecting a cold light under the coal lamp.
She was wearing that dark blue printed long dress today, with a metal apron buckle pinned to her chest, her smile as gentle as ever, but her foundation was slightly powdery, and her nostrils showed a heavy blush.
Aunt and cousin were indeed a mother and daughter pair.
They were both plump and round, and both loved to dress up, eager to polish themselves shiny in front of the mirror, then secretly speculate on the fate of others behind their backs.
Castina Hermann, this seemingly kind but privately harsh housewife, was now smiling with a gentle face, as if a saint specializing in receiving "problem orphans" was sitting on this sofa.
The most frequent things she said to Helena were:
"I'm doing this all for your own good."
"You need to be grateful."
"Don't forget who feeds and clothes you."
And at this moment, she smiled especially kindly, as if she truly cared about Helena.
"Here you are, little Harriet, sit down."
Helena didn't sit.
She stood by the door, her hands naturally hanging, her shoulders and back straight, her whole being like a bowstring pulled taut.
Behind her silver-rimmed glasses, her iris-green eyes gazed calmly at the round face in front of the sofa, without any extra expression.
"Oh, little Harriet is here."
Aunt Castina smiled and patted her knees, putting on a show of caring for a junior.
"Come, sit, I have something to discuss with you."
Her tone was like reading a cake recipe, easy, smooth, and without a ripple.
Helena didn't move.
She didn't like to sit and have her fate announced; it would make her seem like a prisoner resigned to her destiny.
"What is it?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but each syllable was like a standard pronunciation extracted from a dictionary.
Castina didn't mind her coldness either.
What she was best at was slowly dropping sugar-coated bullets when others were wary.
"You're almost thirteen, you know, girls always have to plan early."
"Your Uncle and I have discussed it—we think you could go to a railway vocational college before your birthday."
She paused, a smile of "kind arrangement" appearing on her face:
"It's a good place, you can learn a skill—like train operations management, signal operation, inspection and maintenance…"
"Later on, you can support yourself without relying on others, how respectable."
Helena didn't reply.
Her gaze fell on a corner of the nearby sofa.
Uncle Rudolf Hermann—the middle-aged man who always wore a suit—was sitting there, flipping through a crumpled newspaper.
He was always like that.
Silent, standing by, living like an unlit lamp in the corner of the room.
If someone asked for his opinion, he would probably look up and say:
"She's not mine, it's fine as long as she's quiet."
It was the same now; he just took a sip of beer and mumbled:
"Helena, you should thank your Aunt."
Just like this child's fate, it could be twisted away as easily as changing a light bulb.
"Your Uncle also said this is a stable matter," Castina added, "Anyway, you don't have any other plans right now."
Just then, a heavy thudding sound came from the stairs, as if they were about to give way.
Her cousin Franka came down.
She had changed into an even more flamboyant dress, with a bit of dessert cream still clinging to her cuff.
Her chubby face, upon seeing Helena, broke into a standard provocative smile.
"If she really goes to the railway college, will she end up becoming that… little person waving a flag on the platform?"
She exaggeratedly waved her arm, as if mocking a struggling, low-level worker.
Then she covered her mouth and laughed, pretending to lower her voice:
"I heard from Lily that some of the Originium signal lights on the railway are like living Originium blah blah blah, and I heard workers have to stare at them for three whole hours, and if they stare for too long, their eyes can crystallize."
She then put on a mysterious, gossipy look:
"Some people also say that if you stand in that position for too long, you'll get the stone disease, and your arms will start to crystallize in less than half a month…"
"Don't scare your sister."
Aunt Castina smiled and patted her, "Our Helena is going to learn a proper job."
"It's much better than those girls who run around aimlessly and have no stability."
"Right?"