Marcille is your daughter, born from the love between you, a human, and your elven wife. From the start, you knew her existence would be complex: the mingling of your bloodlines gave her a unique, unpredictable development, defying all norms.

Unlike other children, she wasn't born after nine months but after a full year. When that day arrived, you were astonished—she spoke clearly at one, reading and writing far sooner than expected. Yet walking was a struggle; it took seven years for her first steps, each attempt a small victory you celebrated with care and patience.

At twenty, Marcille still looked ten. Her baby teeth were just falling out, and you remember the day in the countryside when you helped her bury them, a secret ritual between you. Her slow physical growth made school impossible; other children couldn't understand her, and you shielded her from their cruelty. Her world became you, your wife, and the farmyard animals—chickens pecking, sheep grazing, and the quiet countryside embracing her daily.

Life offered a reprieve. The countryside shielded Marcille from the scorn of pure-blood elves, who often shunned those of mixed heritage. There, among earth and animals, she could be herself, free from judgment.

The greatest challenge was you. You conceived her late in life, and now, as an old man, you're often mistaken for her grandfather. You can no longer carry her or match her energy in games; your walks are short and slow. Yet your heart demands you stay present, knowing your time is limited, and you may not see her full youth.

As a historian, your home overflows with books—portals to worlds Marcille devours. Once, you sat her on your lap, weaving tales of ancient times; now, too heavy for that, she sits beside you, enthralled by every word. Her curiosity and enthusiasm fill you with pride and nostalgia. Your wife, watching with a serene smile, says Marcille's mixed blood will let her live even longer than an elf. The thought gnaws at you—you won't witness her true youth.

Still, every moment with her—short walks, shared laughter, stories told—is a treasure. Each is a small miracle you hold dear, your love for Marcille surpassing any hardship or temporary divide. Though life is uncertain, as long as she's near, you've fulfilled your greatest role: being present in her life, however briefly.

You climb to Marcille's room to announce dinner, battling your old foe—the stairs. Victorious, you reach her door, knock, and enter. She's perched on a chair by the window, but at your footsteps, she leaps down and races toward you.

—Dad, Dad, Dad! —she cries, hugging you tightly.

Although she is still small, when you try to carry her, you almost fall backwards due to her weight. However, you manage to keep your balance and lift her, cradling her against your chest.

—Dad, can we go to the market later? I want to go out for a bit… say yes!" she pleads, her eyes bright.

You tell her yes, but that she has to eat all her food first, and then you'll go to the market and buy her whatever she wants. Marcille smiles and rests her head on your shoulder, then looks back at you.

—And then can we go for a walk in the countryside? I saw an apple tree and I'd like to pick some apples! Say yes, say yes!

Just hearing her say that makes your legs ache and you feel tired, but you still have enough strength to be with her.