A Journey Unwanted

Chapter 476 - 465: To remember

[Realm of Little Alice]

Grimm did not immediately respond to the girl’s words.

For a moment, he simply watched her because something about the situation did not quite align in his mind.

He did not understand why this girl was speaking to him like this.

It would have been almost laughable to consider them close. By any reasonable measure, they were strangers. This was only their third interaction, and none of those encounters had been particularly warm or familiar. If anything, they had been defined by friction—irritation, blunt remarks, and a constant push against one another’s temperament.

And yet here she was.

Speaking in a way that was personal. Uncomfortably so.

There was no guarded distance in her words now, no attempt to maintain superiority or control. Instead, she spoke as though something had slipped through—a crack she either had not noticed or could not close.

("Is this just childish naivety?")

Grimm wondered.

That would have been the simplest explanation. The easiest to accept.

But even then, the fact that it was directed at him specifically made it strange.

So he studied her more carefully.

Her posture, though still composed, had stiffened—too rigid to be natural. Her small frame sat upright in the chair, but there was tension in the way her shoulders held, as if she were bracing against something that wasn’t even there. Her blue eyes remained on him, but they lacked focus—unfixed and distant, as though she were looking through him rather than at him.

Her expression tried to remain neutral.

And failed.

("Is the reasoning really that complex?") Grimm questioned himself, letting the thought sit for a moment. ("She’s a child.")

He considered that more seriously this time.

("Then perhaps, I should look at this through that lens.")

The conclusion settled as something workable. So maybe she was simply desperate, that thought came more easily than he expected.

Desperate for something she could not name. Something she could not recall. Something that gnawed at her in a way she could not resolve. Enough to make her fixate—on him, of all people—despite openly acknowledging how simple she found him.

There was still the matter of how "Alice" knew him at all.

But that was separate and complicated in a much different way.

Not something worth unraveling now.

The present was enough.

"Is your dream," Grimm asked after a moment, his voice quieter than before, "to be whole again?"

Alice blinked.

It was a small reaction, but it broke the distance in her gaze. Her eyes refocused, settling properly on him for the first time since she had begun speaking.

"I want to remember," she said.

The answer came without hesitation.

"I don’t care about being ’whole’ in the way you phrase it," she continued, her voice steady but carrying a quieter tone beneath it. "I want to understand." Her fingers shifted against her chest, pressing lightly as if grounding herself. "Why I like tea. Why I enjoy pastries. Why I feel compelled to act the way I do. Why I hold myself to certain standards without knowing where they came from."

Her gaze did not leave him.

"I want to know why I am the way I am," she said more quietly.

Then, after a brief pause—

"The ache in my chest when I look at you," she added.

("That last part’s a bit strange,") Grimm noted internally, but he did not comment on it.

"To remember, then," he said instead, folding his armored arms as he leaned back slightly. "But what’s the point in clinging to the past like that?" His tone remained calm, but there was bluntness in the question. "The past is fixed. It doesn’t change. Even if you understand it, it doesn’t alter what is. Knowing wouldn’t accomplish anything meaningful."

Alice let out a small, irritated huff at that, folding her own arms in response, mirroring him without seeming to realize it.

Her eyes narrowed.

"It’s not just about memories, you fool," she said, her voice sharper, though not as cutting as it might have been earlier. "It’s about ’why.’ That is what matters." Her gaze held his, unwavering. "Memories are just fragments. Without understanding the reason behind them, they are hollow."

She drew in a small breath, steadying herself.

"To me, you are an idiot," she continued, almost matter-of-fact. "A large, insufferable one who says whatever comes to mind without considering how it sounds." Her lips pressed together briefly. "And yet..."

She paused.

"...I cannot bring myself to hate you," she finished, quieter now. "No matter how much I try to justify it."

Grimm let that sit.

He did not respond immediately, his thoughts turning over the statement rather than dismissing it outright.

"If the whole of ’Alice’ knew me," he said eventually, "then that would imply something else." His head tilted slightly. "A different version of me, perhaps. Because I don’t remember you. Not in any form."

Alice’s expression shifted, just slightly.

"You may be an incarnation," she murmured, the words more uncertain than before. "Or something similar to that. A variation, a fragment, or a possibility that aligns with something I cannot access." Her gaze lowered for a brief moment. "I don’t have that answer."

A small tension returned to her voice.

"Unlike the other Alices," she added, almost begrudgingly.

"I see," Grimm said at last, the words leaving him in a low tone as he leaned back further into his chair. "Then tell me this," he continued after a brief pause, tilting his helmeted head just a fraction in her direction, "how many other ’Alices’ are there exactly?"

"Only two others besides myself," Little Alice answered without hesitation, though the ease of her reply did not match the irritation that surfaced across her features. Her lips pressed together for a moment, brows knitting ever so slightly as if even acknowledging them left a bitter taste. "We converse from time to time, if that is what you would call it," she added, her tone dipping. "Though frankly, they are so unbearably insufferable that even putting it like that feels generous." She let out a small scoff, turning her gaze away as if the mere thought of them was enough to sour her mood. "Truly, they make you look like an Angel by comparison, and I do not say that lightly."

"That bad, hm?" Grimm mused, the smallest hint of dry amusement threading through his otherwise flat voice. His head inclined slightly more, as though considering the image she painted. "So, despite being fragments of the same origin, you do not get along with your own selves. That sounds inconvenient."

Alice huffed softly at that, her shoulders lifting in a restrained, almost indignant motion before settling again. "We may all originate from the same ’Alice,’" she said, her voice steadier for a moment, "but that does not mean we resemble one another in any meaningful way. In fact, it is quite the opposite." Her gaze turned back to him, looking sharper. "Personality, temperament, even appearance—we diverge in ways that make the idea of us being the same person feel almost laughable." She folded her arms tighter across her chest. "We are not duplicates. We are more like divisions. Aspects, carved apart and left to stand on their own."

"I see," Grimm repeated, quieter for a moment, as if placing that detail somewhere in his thoughts. "Then I suppose it stands to reason..." He let the sentence linger for a moment before finishing it with simplicity. "They took what you would consider the ’superior’ aspects."

Little Alice’s expression darkened almost immediately at that, a small scowl forming that felt strangely at odds with her otherwise delicate, doll-like features. But the emotion behind it was genuine.

"Yes," she said, the word coming out sharper than before, tinged with something other than mere annoyance. "Memories, emotions, and ideals." Each term was spoken with a slight pause, as if she were naming things she could see but never quite touch. "Everything that gives meaning, everything that gives direction." Her fingers curled slightly against her arms. "And they are not subtle about it either. They enjoy reminding me of that fact—repeatedly."

Her gaze dropped for a brief second before lifting again.

"One of them," she continued, her tone shifting, "was particularly ecstatic when she learned you were here. Far more than I expected." A small crease formed between her brows. "If I had to name it, I would say she carries the aspect of admiration. For you, specifically." She said it as if the notion was questionable. "The other..." She hesitated, just briefly. "The other is different. Much more hostile. There is a clear sense of disdain there—perhaps even hatred." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And yet even she cannot seem to rid herself of that same admiration, despite not possessing the aspect tied to it."

Grimm was quiet for a moment after that, letting the implications settle before responding.

"That’s just fantastic," he said dryly, the flatness of his tone making it unclear whether he found any humor in it at all. "So I have one version of you that admires me, another that likely wants me dead, and you—somewhere in between, deciding how you feel on a whim." He tilted his head slightly again.

He paused, then added, more pointedly, "But if that is the case then I assume there is a reason neither of them has come to me directly yet. If they are aware of my presence, I doubt they would simply sit back."

Little Alice nodded at that, and this time a small smile formed, small but almost smug in its own way.

"I make sure of that," she said, her voice softening. "I keep your presence obscured from them. Not entirely, of course—just enough to delay." She tilted her head slightly, watching him now with a small glint in her eyes. "I like being spiteful, you see. It gives me something to do."

Grimm stared at her for a moment in silence.

There was no real surprise in his posture and no visible reaction beyond the silence. If anything, the confirmation only seemed to settle something he had already known.

She was a child, after all.

Petty in the way children often were.

So as his thoughts moved quietly beneath that helm, he realized he had gleaned something more from her words than she likely intended to give.

That was not the only reason she kept him close.

Spite alone did not explain the way she spoke, or the way her gaze lingered, or the importance behind what she chose to reveal.

There was something else there.