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It ends with the withering of a single flower
It begins with the salting of a single tear
Because of that lingering sorrow
You once cast aside all cries like worthless rags
But time is no healer
It gnaws through this armor and proclaims
If you do not acknowledge it, you shall never be saved
He has been dreaming. Ever since he awoke, he has been dreaming.
For Silent Salt, who had slumbered deeply for thousands of years, there was no difference between dreaming and waking in the present moment. Whether in the days when he did not yet feel that the world’s sense of reality was like a bubble made of lies, or in the present where waking and sleeping were one and the same, he had never ceased to wield the sword in his hand.
Thus, in moments where dreaming was equivalent to swinging his blade, he could always return repeatedly in his dreams to that day: the day when all his tears turned to salt crystals, dried upon dough and crumbs that had hardened into clumps, and a magnificent, epic era staged its prelude to death. The form he once possessed, stained by countless dough and crumbs, retained only the emerald and white of bygone days—now merged into a black that blended with all the world’s hues. This jet-black form was also irrefutable proof that he, clutching that sharp sword, had turned countless lives to ash. And since he had resolved to seal away the companions who, alongside him, should have borne the noble wish of saving the world yet had all fallen, dragging the entire world into a sea of fire and an irredeemable abyss, he had wielded this sword—once a source of pride, now a source of despair—in the same dream, time and again.
Yet once a dream begins, one must inevitably wake from it. Silent Salt’s dreams were like those of any other ordinary, fragile Cookie—no matter how soundly he slept, there would always be a moment when he jolted awake from a nightmare. Each time he suddenly sat up from his dream, bean-sized beads of sweat turned to salt crystals and fell through the gaps in his helmet to the ground, adding a few more tiny grains of salt outside his sleeping bag. And each time, he would find White Lily sitting beside him, his gauntleted hand having clenched hers so tightly that the thin, delicate dough of her palm bore deep, red indentations. At first, he would feel profound remorse and unease—waves of regret for having done wrong again, for straying from the path in a moment of impulse, and anger at himself would surge through his heart. But as time passed, he realized that no matter how he resisted or blamed himself, once exhaustion reached its breaking point, he would fall asleep regardless, and the dream of that day would return.
When the initial remorse and self-blame piled up through repeated occurrences, he finally abandoned the useless apologies and guilt. So it was this time too: after a heavy sigh escaped his form—a hollow shell gnawed away by time—he released his grip on White Lily’s hand. He did not look up at her. Even after their reconciliation, though he acknowledged her beliefs, he still maintained the silence he had grown accustomed to. Useless apologies and regret only deepened his muteness. So after withdrawing his hand, sleep eluded him. He climbed fully out of his sleeping bag, draped his pitch-black cloak over his shoulders, and went alone outside the tent they had made their temporary refuge. He sat before the fire, whose flames had not yet fully died out, letting the night wind seep through every crevice in his helmet, hoping to bring clarity to his dazed mind.
In such moments, he was not truly on guard against attacks from dessert beasts. For in years of marching, his innate strength and natural aptitude had honed his instinct to sense changes in his surroundings to perfection. The sword stood beside him, a third of its blade seemingly embedded in the soil—yet he could draw it as easily as one would wave a bamboo skewer. And White Lily Cookie, with her expertise in wilderness survival, was nothing short of a master among Cookies. Even though she appeared fragile, as delicate as the flower in her name, Silent Salt—who had witnessed her prowess in the Silent Lands—knew well that they shared an underlying essence.
Beneath that seemingly harmless exterior lurked a deadly side. Fate’s elaborate design for this trait had let the entire world—save him—learn to fear its terrible power. But this was not the reason he had distanced himself from her after agreeing to travel with her. At the very least, it was not the only reason.
The silver-gray moonlight and the night wind fully sobered his mind, which had been reeling from the dream. He lifted the hand that had just clasped White Lily’s. This hand had once held many small, delicate Cookies. Before he fell, when ancient virtues still retained their luster, he had countless times grasped the thin, fragile hands of Cookies born weak and powerless. Unlike ordinary Cookies—who had to strive a hundredfold to temper their crisp bodies, possessing the tenacious strength of bitter salt—Silent Salt Cookie, born with a mission and thus inherently perfect, had been gifted with an innate, formidable physique. So in the past, when he held other Cookies’ hands, he would deliberately loosen his grip, lest his strength be too great and his gauntlets bruise them. But now? He could not even control his strength. He had neither the confidence to gently hold any Cookie’s hand again nor the self-restraint of old to avoid clutching too tightly. The wounds of that day had left an indelible mark on his dough; cracks had formed in his inherently perfect shell, and time had poured all its regret and pain into those fissures as seeds. In the time since waking, he had strived to erase all the wear and tear that years had inflicted—but when it came to dreaming, he could not avoid it, no matter how hard he tried.
The inability to freely control a part of his body—especially the hands he once mastered so well—filled him with frustration, a stark reminder of the reality of his fall. Even though White Lily had told him time and again that though his virtues had faded, his worth could be reclaimed, the time needed to achieve this was nearly as long as the path to fulfilling his grand wish of freeing all Cookies. And he did not truly believe he would not commit another irreversible act before that goal was achieved. Thus, the clear awareness of his body’s aberration made it impossible for him to easily set aside this heavy burden. Once, he had been eloquent—able to strengthen others’ resolve with a few words. Now, all that remained of his own predicament was silence. Lost in such thoughts, he did not notice her approach.
White Lily Cookie sat down before him, separated only by the dying embers of the fire. That he did not sense her coming was only natural. Though he was acutely aware of danger, the fall of a gentle flower was as unnoticeable as the brush of evening wind. So until she spoke, his eyes—hidden behind his helmet—had been fixed on the burning flames, gazing through them at the days he had forever lost.
“…Silent Salt Cookie, are you alright?”
When this voice of concern did not enter his ears, but instead echoed directly in his chest, in his mind, Silent Salt realized he had drifted too far in his thoughts. So far that his other half had to use the resonance of Soul Jam to catch his attention.
“I’m fine. Just thinking, as always.”
A faint clatter of metal came from his heavy armor as he shifted his posture, but it did not drown out his deep, hoarse voice. Each word that issued from beneath the pitch-black armor might easily be mistaken for the echo of the metal itself, not a conversation with a Cookie. But White Lily’s experiences spanned nearly all the creatures and wonders—named and unnamed—of the Cookie World. She had never minded his oddities, not even this subtle, undeniable intentional distance. She would never take his silence as a sign that all was well. At the very least, since the day she had resolved to share half the radiance of her soul to illuminate his withered heart, an ineffable bond had formed between their souls.
He could sense her emotions without needing to read her expression. He could hear her words without her needing to speak. This delicate connection was as thin as a thread, yet it left enough space for both to take time to digest this double-edged sword—something that seemed to deepen their bond, yet could easily violate each other’s privacy and spark resentment. But fortunately, White Lily’s feelings had remained steady since she had firmly embraced the path called freedom. And he had never felt annoyed at being able to hear her voice. So he had silently allowing her direct communication with his mind. After all, some things could never be conveyed by words alone.
When he answered that he was “as always,” she immediately understood everything that had transpired. It was nothing more than another dream—of that day, when the jam ran like rivers in the Silent Lands, when he lost all control over his anger, when he could no longer gently hold any Cookie’s hand.
“More than me… is your hand alright now?”
He thought there was no need to dwell on that pitiful past. He was not one to wallow in bygone days, but those scars had become an inescapable, instinctual pain. Compared to these wounds that only time could heal, he was more concerned about White Lily’s hand, which he had bruised. Through the gaps in his armor, his gaze fell on her hand, still red and swollen beneath the green wristband. But her response was a gentle smile—and that remorse surged again in his heart, drawing a heavy sigh that tasted of bitter salt.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s alright. I know you can’t control it. And this little injury will be gone by morning.”
“Morning”—he turned the word over in his mouth. A morning was no more than eight hours by the clock, but to him, the hours of night were often an endless eternity. In one night, he could turn an entire land black as charcoal. In one night, he could trap other beasts within the Sealing Tree, spend a night that seemed never-ending as they were torn to pieces by silver forks. He knew she was not show off your strength, but he still wished things could change. So after a moment of thought, he made a proposal:
“I think… to avoid hurting your hand by clutching it in my sleep from now on… perhaps starting tomorrow, you should let me rest alone?”
As for why they shared a tent—it had been White Lily’s suggestion in the first place. The irony of it was that once, Silent Salt had been more accustomed to sleeping among his knights, while White Lily had preferred traveling alone. How times had changed. The one who once slept on the ground, crowded with soldiers, now could not adapt to sharing a tent with a woman. It was not that he had improper thoughts about her—rather, after repeatedly bruising her hand unconsciously, he knew this could not go on forever. But clearly, White Lily did not agree with his proposal. Before he heard her refusal, her emotions reached him first—a complex mix, contrary to the rich, pure fragrance of lily flowers. Everything about White Lily was overly complicated, save for her unwavering persistence in seeking the truth—that was her only discernible trait.
“You know I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t believe you clutch my hand unconsciously in your dreams because it’s your fault… at the very least, it’s not because of the regret in your dreams.”
This was a familiar opening. Even in his long life, he had rarely met a Cookie as wise as White Lily. Contrary to her appearance were her eyes—everything they scrutinized revealed its true nature in her mind. It was because of those sharp eyes that he could hardly hide any truth from her. Even the shame he deemed unforgivable—the great lie he and the Fairy King had woven to deceive the world, framing his punishment as divine retribution for sin—had unraveled into countless loopholes beneath her gaze.
“…I wasn’t trying to deceive you, White Lily. It’s just… no matter what the reason is for my actions, I can’t keep hurting you.”
Silent Salt broke off a twig, held one end in his hand, and poked it into the fire—turning over the charred wood and adding new kindling to ensure the flames would not die out during their conversation. The fire, fed by fresh fuel, spat sparks in the wind. The air,distort by the heat, cast a hazy veil over their gazes as they looked at each other. It was true that he did not want White Lily to refuse his proposal—even though sleeping each night to the scent of flowers had indeed soothed his mind. As the only one immune to the poison in her floral fragrance, he could fully enjoy all the healing effects of White Lily’s flowers. But he did not want her to suffer any more harm for his sake. This desire to protect her was not inherited from his friend’s last wish; it was a step toward change, a realization that he could no longer wallow in his fall.
Regrettably, when it came to resolve, the one sitting before him was the only equal he had in the world.
“But is this truly harm? No, I don’t think so.”
“We’ve never talked properly about this, Silent Salt. You’re only pushing me away unilaterally. I know this feeling… acting on your own, refusing help from friends, rejecting aid from others. Believing in your own choices, only to end up bearing everything alone. We’ve both been there.”
When she spoke of acting alone, he distinctly felt a fleeting flash of anger and helpless bitterness in her emotions.
“But I learned from my friends—sometimes, if we just show that vulnerability, we might find a different path.”
After saying this, she did not remain seated across from him. She stood up, grasped her lily staff, and sat down beside him. Then, before he could respond, she took the initiative—without hesitation— to take his right hand, the one he used to wield his sword. Surprisingly, even though he was certain he was awake, he still tightened his grip on hers instinctively. So tightly that he could immediately feel the faint creak of her delicate palm being pressed by his gauntlet. He tried to pull his hand away, but White Lily only clasped it more firmly. This surprised him again.
“Why… why is this happening?”
Silent Salt stared in astonishment at their clasped hands, then turned his head to look at White Lily beside him. A look of “as I thought” crossed her face, but he did not understand—why would he have such an instinctive reaction when he was not dreaming?
“I’ve thought it strange from the start—why you would want to clutch my hand in your sleep. Nightmares usually reveal our deepest desires, but every time, you do this in your dreams… so I guessed. Maybe it’s not the nightmare that makes you clutch me unconsciously. No, more precisely—it’s that you unconsciously want to clutch someone.”
“Just now, when I took your hand, you reflexively gripped mine tightly. That only confirmed my guess. Silent Salt Cookie. I think… perhaps the nightmare isn’t the reason you hurt me. It’s the longing you’ve been suppressing in your heart, a longing that grows harder and harder to contain.”
“In the memories the Fairy King showed me, I saw your past… the Light of Freedom was first called the Light of Unity, wasn’t it? As the Unity Salt, you dedicated yourself to uniting all Cookies. But after you fell, what your heart felt was despair at seeing Cookies—weak and blinded by lies and desire—splintered and divided. So you’ve been suppressing your worth, your virtues. But as the silence’s hold fades, this suppression has instead emerged from the depths of your heart.”
“After all… in so much pain, who wouldn’t crave to clutch another’s hand? Especially someone who was once the Unity Salt.”
“It’s alright… I understand your heart. After all, we are the only halves in this world who can truly understand each other, aren’t we? You don’t have to hide that longing from me anymore. If you wish for someone to hold your hand… then from now on, let me be the one to hold it.”
Even if it means you get hurt? He stared blankly at White Lily. Her words—laying bare his heart so clearly—left him speechless. Even his final question could only be expressed through silent gaze. But she answered with silence too—with a wordless act, tightening her grip to match his, conveying her resolve. This reminded him of a long time ago, when he led the Black Salt Knights back to the barren lands after a long march. A young Cookie had drooped in sorrow, upset that the flower he wanted to give him had wilted. He had said something similar: Even if the flower wilts, the sentiment remains eternal.
Since that day when his tears had dried up, the long years had not tempered his body and mind—instead, they had ravaged both his will and his heart, leaving them tattered and broken. He had never bloomed like a flower; he had achieved eternal withering the moment he completed his task. Such was the nature of salt, to endure the erosion of time. But now, after all this time, he had once again gained a beautiful, ever-blooming flower.
The first time this fragrant White Lily had firmly taken his hand was in the Silent Lands, facing the monster born from his obsession. Confronting that demon roaring with grief and anger, she had stepped forward with unwavering resolve, clutching tightly—without regard for danger—the hatred that had dried his tears and parched his jam. The second time, this flower had faced his despair and anger, his soul whose faith had dimmed, and shown fearless courage. Bearing her own past of falling, she had revealed her determination to bear all sins. The third time—now—this beautiful, steadfast bloom clasped his palm. Even though this hand, after years of wielding a sword, could no longer easily hold back its strength, she did not fear the pain, did not even furrow her brow at the force of his grip.
Through their shared soul, all he could feel was warmth. Like the roots of a plant sinking into cracked earth, filling every crevice—this sense of fulfillment made him more dazed than any dream, too profound for words. But when he lowered his head, his rigid armor shrinking with his movement, becoming like branches as he rested his forehead on her shoulder, the rich floral scent seeping into his heart answered his unspoken question of whether he was still dreaming.
No, this was not a dream. So he no longer hesitated whether he should hold her hand. He also understood now why his dear friend had sacrificed his life to awaken her. It was not regret, nor penance—it was hope. For he knew well that after all the world’s so-called strong and unbreakable things had crumbled on that day of bitter despair, only this seemingly fragile flower had traversed countless hardships to stand before him.
The ideal he had once so fervently desired was no longer a distant future, nor the pain of being one step away yet giving it up with his own hands. Freedom was not on the horizon—she was here, holding him fast, and in turn being held fast by him.
Thus, on a certain night that spanned endless time, he made his vow once more:
“This time, I swear—no matter what may come—I will never again let go of the hand that holds you (Freedom).”