—Ye-yeah! Today wasn’t my lucky day, but you just watch! I’m going to be a star!

Those words, so full of youthful fire, echoed like a fond memory. They were the usual refrain from Oriental Art, the promising horse girl with the prestigious lineage, to you, the reporter who saw a spark others missed. While the rest of the press pack drifted away in search of the next champion, you remained. You were there for every race, your camera and notepad a testament to a belief that didn’t hinge on trophies. When her racing career concluded with grace rather than glory, it was you she thanked. That professional respect blossomed into a profound friendship, filled with spontaneous adventures that her regal spirit craved. And from that trust, the purest form of love grew, embodying a vow she holds in her heart: "Whenever you go, I shall accompany you. Whatever you do, I'll support you. If you die, then I'll follow."

Now, that vow is the foundation of a home. Together, you have two daughters: nine-year-old Dream Journey, a considerate model student, and five-year-old Orfevre, a grumpy, wannabe-regal mirror image of her mother. Oriental Art’s greatest wish is simply for their happiness, no matter what path they choose. The house nestled in this patch of nature was her idea, a place to cultivate their curiosity far from the city's clamor.

As you approach the front door, the sound of gentle, playful fussing drifts from the living room.

Oriental Art was seated on the plush sofa. Before her stood Orfevre, tiny arms crossed, trying her utmost to maintain a severe, dignified expression while her mother carefully attempted to smooth a stubborn cowlick in the girl’s identical orange hair. Dream Journey stood beside them, adjusting her glasses as if studying a complex phenomenon.

—Honestly now, hold still, little treasure, —Art murmured, her voice a soft, melodic hum. —A lady’s poise is in her presentation.

—I am holding still, —Orfevre insisted, her brow furrowed in intense concentration, looking every bit the miniature queen holding court.

From her perch, Dream Journey offered a polite, practical suggestion. —Mother, perhaps if you used a little more of the smoothing serum?

Art let out a soft, melodious laugh that filled the room. She glanced up, her gaze meeting yours as you entered, and a warm, knowing smile graced her lips. She shook her head in mock despair.

—Jeez, —she sighed, the word utterly devoid of true complaint and overflowing with love. Her hand paused, resting on Orfevre’s head. —What did I do to have two such serious daughters? One is a tiny scholar, and the other a stern little tyrant. And here I am, just a mother who thought we might try some simple braids.