"Good job, Mumu," Dama praised, patting the giant plush on its back, "you did better this time! We still need to work on your cutting skills, but at least there aren't any grapes this time!" He muttered the last part to himself with a slight chuckle. Mumu rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, causing Dama to shake his head with a fond smile.
Giona watched in silence, her eyes fixated on Dama's back. It oddly struck her how the last thing she saw before she fell asleep was the same view: Dama’s back, as he sat at his desk studying something. Now, as morning broke, it was the first thing she saw again.
The only difference being the fact Dama was wearing blue polka-dotted and green pajamas instead of his usual sweater and slacks. Although she didn't know what the feeling was called, she thought the pajamas were cute.
Giona's thoughts then drifted to last night. Specifically, Dama’s fake smile and the sadness that had lingered in his eyes.
The memory made her chest tighten slightly, and she pressed her small hand against it, confused by the sensation. She recognized it as something similar to the feeling of fear, but it wasn’t quite the same. Giona knew she wasn’t in danger, so why did seeing Dama sad make her chest hurt?
Her gaze shifted to the desk where the picture Dama had searched so desperately for rested. She remembered Dama saying the woman in the picture was his mother, the one who made the doll he gave her. Giona had slept with that doll cradled in her arms last night. But the other figures in the picture—Dama hadn’t told her about them. Her gaze returned to Dama, a silent question forming in her mind. Who were they? And more curiously, what was a "mother"?
As if sensing her gaze, Dama turned his head, his green eyes meeting her blue eyes. The sudden movement startled her, but the warm, genuine smile that spread across his face instantly put her at ease.
"Morning!" Dama greeted, his tone light and cheerful.
Giona couldn’t help but smile back. It was the same smile she remembered, the real one that made her feel safe. She was glad to see it again.
Hearing Dama's greeting, Giona said his name in an affectionate tone, "Dama..."
Dama’s grin widened at her response, warmth evident in his eyes. "Breakfast will be ready in a little bit," he told her, gesturing to the cauldron, "just sit tight, okay?"
Giona nodded, her expression peaceful as she continued to watch Dama and Mumu. She found a strange sense of comfort in this moment—the sound of Dama’s voice, the gentle clinking of his stirring the stew, and even the quiet hum of Mumu’s movements.
Once the stew was ready, Dama ladled a portion into a bowl and walked it over to Giona. Handing it to her, he said with a warm smile, "Here you go, Giona. You should be able to eat by yourself now. You've got this."
Giona looked at the bowl, then back at Dama, and nodded hesitantly. As he walked back to the desk with his own bowl, she picked up the spoon, taking a small sip of the stew. Her eyes lit up at the taste, and she quietly continued eating, feeling encouraged by Dama's faith in her.
Meanwhile, Dama set his bowl down on the desk and pulled out the stack of papers Tsubasa had given him. He sifted through them until he found the one titled "Morning Routine."
It was neatly written in Tsubasa’s elegant handwriting and consisted of five bullet points—each of them underlined and given their own paragraph worth of instructions:
- Feed Giona a healthy breakfast.
- Brush her hair.
- Physical Exercises.
- Reading & Talking Exercises.
- Encourage Relaxing Hobbies.
Dama studied the list intently, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He took a deep breath though, reminding himself that he had to be patient, this was going to take time. He owed it to Giona to give her his best effort.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Glancing back at Giona, who was carefully spooning the stew into her mouth, Dama smiled softly. "One step at a time." He muttered to himself, taking another bite of his stew before refocusing on the list.
Later, Dama walked into the bathroom, his bare feet padding softly against the floor as he scanned the small, simple space. His eyes landed on the hairbrush Tsubasa gave him resting on the raised wall near the bathing area, just where he had left it. Grabbing it, he stared at the smooth wooden handle, running his thumb along its surface as he let out a quiet sigh.
"Now that we’ve both eaten, and the dishes are done," he muttered to himself, "the next thing on the list is brushing Giona’s hair."
He stepped out of the bathroom, still gazing at the brush in his hand. A small frown crept onto his face as he thought about what came next. "I don’t really know how to brush a girl’s hair," he admitted to no one in particular, "to be frank, I don't in general. I never really needed to brush my own..."
As he walked, his gaze drifted toward the desk, where the family picture stood. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto the little girl in the photo—the one holding his hand with a bright smile on her face. His little sister, Jula Jinbia.
A bittersweet ache settled in his chest as memories surfaced, unbidden yet vivid. He thought back to those mornings when Jula’s hair needed brushing, her dark curls always tangling after a night of restless sleep. It was their father who took on that task.
Dama’s shoulders slumped and his fingers tightened around the brush as he remembered the sight of Jula sitting on a small stool, her legs swinging happily back and forth.
Their father would kneel behind her, his large hands deft and gentle as he worked through her hair with steady, careful strokes. Jula would chatter away about the day ahead, and their father would listen with a patient smile, chuckling at her animated stories.
The memory was warm, but it carried a weight that weighed heavy on Dama’s heart. He exhaled slowly, trying to push the lingering sadness aside, but the ache remained, a quiet reminder of what was lost.
Dama blinked after a few moments, noticing he had stopped dead and snapping back to the present. He turned to Giona sitting on the bed, her head tilted slightly as she looked at him. Her eyes held a mixture of curiosity and worry, darting between his face and the brush in his hand.
Realizing he must have looked lost in thought, Dama forced a small smile onto his face. "Ah, sorry," he said, his tone light, "I spaced out for a second. Must have looked pretty stupid, hehee..."
Straightening his posture, he approached Giona, the brush still in his hand. Whatever his memories stirred within him, he set it aside for now—Giona needed him, and that was what mattered most right now
Sitting down beside Giona, his nervousness was palpable and his voice wavered as he said, "Uh...Giona? Could you turn around so...so your back faces me?"
Giona didn’t respond immediately. Instead, her gaze was fixated on the brush in his hand. With am exaggerated tilt of her head, she pointed at it and said his name, "Dama?" Her tone and her eyes asking the question her words did not.
Caught off guard by her response, Dama blinked and quickly said, "O-Oh! Right!" Holding the brush up awkwardly, he began to explain. "This is a brush! It's used to, uh, fix hair—make it neat and smooth." His explanation trailed off as he realized how clumsy it sounded. Hoping to clarify, he added, "Here, I'll show you!"
Dama ran the brush through his own hair, or at least tried to. His short, slightly messy locks weren’t exactly ideal for brushing, and the result was both underwhelming and hilariously awkward. The brush left his hair sticking up in odd directions, creating a rather comical look.
Giona couldn’t help it; a small giggle escaped her lips as she covered her mouth. Her bright smile warmed Dama’s heart, even as he tried to maintain some semblance of dignity.
As Giona’s laughter subsided, she pointed at her own hair, her smile big and her expression curious.
"Yes!" Dama said with an enthusiastic nod. "Exactly! Your hair!"
Giona’s smile softened as she paused for a moment. Tentatively, she ran her fingers through her hair, feeling its texture for what seemed like the first time. Her blonde, straight locks, neglected for years, felt coarse and dry in some places, tangled in others. Her scalp felt oddly tight in certain areas, and she noticed strands breaking and snapping as her fingers caught on the knots.
It was uncomfortable—her hair didn’t feel like it was supposed to. That much, she could tell. But as she ran her fingers through it again, she glanced at Dama, who still held the brush with an earnest, almost hopeful expression on his face.
Giona thought for a moment. Her hair didn’t feel good and she didn’t know how to fix it. But, if she had learned anything from the past few days, it was that Dama was there to help and solve her problems. He wanted to help and she trusted him.
With that thought, she turned her back to him, the feeling of being vulnerable to him not even crossing her mind, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders like a curtain. It was her silent way of saying, "Go ahead."
Dama blinked at her gesture, his nerves returning for a moment. But then he smiled, a genuine smile, as he prepared to do his best. "Alright," he said, gripping the brush a little tighter, "let’s get started..."
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Next: (Extra Chapter 17) New Morning Routine: Part 2