Aria would never be an adult, as far as she knew. Seven years is a long time to wait for anything, let alone maturity.
"But look," her father would counter. "Here's how tall you were on your last birthday" – he would tap the notch he carved in the doorframe – "You might grow taller than me next year." It was an obvious exaggeration that earned him a smile from his daughter every time, which pleased him to no end. To any outsider, it was a strange scene.
Aria's father was a dark wizard who consistently dressed the part with black, feathered robes. His beard was full and well-kept. His stare looked like it could turn you inside-out. One would never guess he could ever foster a nurturing side, but he was never more excited than when he discovered he would be a dad.
As for Aria, she was strange in her own way. Any child would be strange if they grew the way she did.
It was a unique ability that she didn't understand, but Aria could change ages at will. At age seven, the oldest she could go was a young teen, though her upper limit increased with practice. And she held her body at that limit as long as she could.
The apple does not fall far from the tree. If Aria's father had any complaints that she pushed herself too hard, he had no one to blame but himself. The man could be running a fever that would kindle a fire, but that was no excuse to sleep it off. "Parents don't get sick days," as he would say. Aria, however, could have a break if she sneezed during flu season.
That's why the old wizard collapsed in his workshop late one evening, leaving behind an incomplete teleportation spell, an incomplete collection of ingredients, and a long pen stroke on the page trailing off an incomplete word.
When the doctor arrived with the nurse, the girl was already tending to the patient with a warm cloth and soup.
"Good evening, Aria," the doctor greeted. Her greying hair was held back tightly, showing light wrinkles around her eyes and a light smile on her lips. In contrast, the nurse had a face so smooth it looked like he never expressed an emotion in his life.
"Hello, Doctor Minako. Hello, Seung-Gil." Aria did not have much to smile about.
The wizard was too delirious from fever to greet them, or even realize they were in the room.
"Thank you for taking care of him, Dear. Why don't you fetch a bowl of water for us? We'll start examining him."
She did as instructed with a polite nod. Very slowly. Looking over her shoulder at her father one last time before she left the room.
Outside, at the well, she took her time. She had just reached the understanding that "Why don't you help by doing this?" actually meant "Why don't you leave for a bit, so you don't get in the way?"
She glimpsed her own reflection in the water. Even in a form twice her true age, she was still useless. But she would fix that.
She hoisted the heavy bowl in her arms and stumbled to the front door, but before she entered, she could hear Minako say, "Aria's too young for this. I'm too young for this."
"That's an awfully quick prognosis. Are you sure?" Seung-Gil asked.
"Definitely. He has all the symptoms." There was a wobbling in her voice.
"What can we do?"
"Get him some ice. Keep the flies away. Let his family spend time with him."
Aria opened that door so forcefully, if it had been locked she would've broken it to splinters. Her cheeks were already smeared with tears and flushed red with grief. Her skirts were soaked with the water she abandoned in the broken bowl on the porch.
"Seung-Gil, would you get some towels?" Minako asked, petting Aria's back as she sobbed into the sheets. Minako didn't say much of substance for the rest of the night. Just reassurances and gentle cooing.
Eventually, Aria drained herself. Of tears. Of feeling. Soon, she couldn't hold her form as a teen and became her true age. She had no choice but to drag herself to bed, despite having no urge to sleep. Minako embraced her once before tending to the wizard again.
From then on, Aria slept in fitful bursts, sliding into dreams only to jerk back awake. When the moon was so high that she was certain they were gone, she crept back to her father's room. If she couldn't sleep, at least she could have some peace of mind keeping vigil over him.
Seung-Gil was changing the towel on his brow.
"Oh, you're awake," he said.
It was the first time that night Seung-Gil spoke to her. He returned to the task at hand.
"Look. People weren't made to last forever," he said. "I'm sorry you had to learn like this."
"I see you're as tactful as always." There was a bitter edge in her voice. It was not undeserved.
"There's something I never thought I'd hear from a five-year-old."
"Five-year-olds frequently misuse verbs. I'm seven." Five? Really? The audacity.
"I see. Is the very mature seven-year-old going to stand there, or is she going to have a seat?" He kept his eyes and his focus on the patient.
Aria paused at that. She assumed that he'd herd her back to bed, not invite her to stay. Granted, he'd probably learned that he'd have as much luck herding finches. Silently, but not without confidence, Aria slid a plush chair closer to the bed-frame so she could hold her father's hand.
"We can't do anything to help him?" she asked.
"The only thing that can help him now is divine intervention." To Seung-Gil's credit, he did sound remorseful. Almost sad.
The brutality of his answer should have upset her. It should have twisted her organs like a mangled, dirty hand. Instead, it elated her. She could fix this. The certainty of it washed over Aria and lulled her to sleep, curled in the chair like a cat who'd never known hardship.