Alchemist’s Handbook

“To entrust one’s life to another’s memory is as if life itself is lengthened just a little”—I prayed so fervently for her to remain in my life longer, but as I repeated my prayers, I never imagined that all of this was nothing more than a grand jest played by the heavens.
—Excerpt from Theresa’s Alchemical Journal

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Dimaca Town, like countless other small towns in the Empire whose names and administrative boundaries have remained unchanged for centuries, was exceedingly ordinary. Its only distinguishing features were its fairly fertile soil and agreeable climate. Generations of townsfolk lived by farming, rising with the sun and resting at its fall.

It was the golden season of autumn. Leaving the town limits, one was greeted by vast stretches of fields, the wheat heads swaying in the breeze, carrying the hope of a bountiful harvest. The day neared dusk; after a full day’s labor, the farmers emerged from the fields in twos and threes, relaxed and content. Even the fine drizzle falling from the sky did nothing to dampen their cheerful spirits, finally able to rest after their toil.

Night was falling. Two farmwomen, lagging behind the main group, took a shortcut up a gentle slope, stumbling now and then as they hurried back to town. Halfway up, the rain mixed with a faint floral scent wafted toward them. For a moment, they were distracted, and in that instant, they saw a small figure perched on the other side of the flower field—a child of seven or eight, who had apparently been sitting in the rain for quite some time, alone, head bowed, huggin