Chapter 22

“Maxi, Max, Mac.”

As she suddenly listed off all the nicknames, Maximilian met her gaze.

Edith traced his jaw lightly with the tip of her finger, her gesture carrying an air of playful arrogance.

“Pick one. Which do you want me to call you?”

“Any of them is fine.”

“Are you really going to say that after I put so much thought into it?”

He gave a soft, dismissive laugh, as if he truly didn’t care.

“It really doesn’t matter to me.”

Still sulking, Edith looked away, her lips jutting out in a pout.

Slowly, Maximilian lowered his head.

Peck.

Featherlight kisses landed on her eyelids, then on the bridge of her nose, and finally on her lips.

Laughter blossomed on her face with every place his lips touched—not just from the kisses, but from the words he murmured between them.

“Whatever you call me,

as long as it’s you who calls me.”

Edith’s eyes curved gently in delight.

His large hand softly brushed her flushed cheek and the dimple that deepened with her smile.

“I like ‘Mac’ the best.”

“All right.”

“Mac.”

“Yes.”

“Mac. Mac. Mac.”

With each repetition, a laughter-tinged reply echoed back to her.

It really was the best, she thought, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.

If saying his name this many times made her feel this happy, it had to be the right choice.

Just then, a sweet breeze drifted by from somewhere, tousling Edith’s golden hair before vanishing into the distance.

Maximilian said something more, and Edith, laughing brightly, pulled him into her arms.

Soaked to the bone, watching that scene unfold, Edith realized—finally—that it was all a dream.

And once she understood it was a dream, those moments of giving and receiving love, the very instant she’d cherished, began to scatter like dandelion fluff on the wind.

Where the dream faded, dark clouds gathered once more.

The world was swallowed by shadow.

“…Mac.”

No answer came.

Edith forced her heavy eyelids open.

Her vision cleared, trembling slightly.

Her whole body felt as heavy as if it were stuffed with wet cotton.

Having just woken, her thoughts were sluggish, unable to immediately grasp the situation.

A gas lamp cast a dim light in the unfamiliar room.

As her dazed mind began to fumble for memories just before she lost consciousness—rain, gunshots, and…

Her golden eyes blinked in small, rapid motions as she tried to recall.

Suddenly, they flew open wide with realization.

Edith scrambled up in bed.

The whisper of the sheets sliding off her skin was sharp—she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing clothes.

But that realization didn’t hit her until after she saw the man standing there.

She froze instinctively.

The face she’d thought might be just a dream was staring right at her.

“…Mac?”

Deep, black eyes, a straight nose, delicate lips—without a doubt, it was Maximilian as she remembered him.

And yet Edith couldn’t bring herself to move.

It felt as though she were wandering a desert—he seemed like a mirage, one she was afraid might disappear without a trace if she dared approach.

But it was he who moved first.

Rising slowly from his chair, he walked toward her by the bed.

Trying to keep his gaze, Edith’s head slowly tilted back, but then abruptly dropped.

She felt his shadow looming above her.

“A little more—”

“Mac.”

Their words overlapped for a second.

Edith bit her lip, and he let out a long sigh.

For some reason, her fingers curled in awkward embarrassment at the strange tension.

He spoke first.

“Rest.”

That was all. The sound of him turning away made Edith snap her head up in disbelief.

Why? After three years apart, why was that all he had to say?

Before her thoughts could even settle, her hand moved first.

In desperation, she grabbed the hem of his coat—but she didn’t hold on for long.

That’s when she realized she was only in her underclothes, her arm bandaged where she’d been hurt—he must have dressed her wounds, taken off her clothes because they were soaked.

Maybe it was because it had been so long, but she suddenly felt a burning embarrassment, even though he’d seen her body long ago.

As she clutched the blanket to cover herself, she worried for a moment that he might leave.

But he did turn around.

He just didn’t stay close.

Instead, he returned to the chair where he’d been sitting before.

Edith faced him again, opening her mouth as if to speak, only to close it, over and over, words tangled and lost in her heart.

It was a long time before she finally managed to ask,

“…What happened?”

“The bullet grazed you. You lost a lot of blood.”

She’d meant to ask about the last three years, but he’d misunderstood.

So she tried again, more directly.

“No, I mean—how have you been all this time? You could’ve at least sent word that you were alive. How could you do this to me? Back in Kaprang—was that you? Why didn’t you say anything then?”

Her voice, calm at first, gradually rose, growing thick with resentment by the end.

He watched her quietly, only a flicker of his straight brows betraying any reaction.

That calm, indifferent expression only infuriated her more.

“Say something. Anything—”

“Make yourself clear,”

He cut her off, his tone cold.

That voice—it was familiar, but somehow so different.

Edith was briefly at a loss.

He was the same, yet different.

It was a contradiction, but it was true.

Like water and ice: the same substance, but at a different temperature.

The emotions behind his words were different too, and above all, so was his way of speaking.

She hadn’t realized it before, but they’d always been formal with each other, even when close.

“…Mac.”

She called him once more, her voice trembling—almost as if she were pleading.

The man before her gave a faint, mirthless smile.

Even that familiar smile on Mac’s face now felt “the same, but different.” Edith bit her chapped lips.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, or what you’re talking about.”

“….”

“I’m not the man you think I am. And you’re not the woman I remember.”

Edith’s eyes trembled violently.

His tone was dry as sand—utterly devoid of falsehood.

And that, more than anything, left her in turmoil.

How could you say that? With that face, with that voice—how could you?

Her thoughts kept breaking off, one by one.

“Then why did you kiss me? You say you don’t know me, so why did you kiss me?”

Edith pressed, her voice demanding, desperate for sense.

No matter what he said, there was no way he wasn’t Maximilian.

No one else could look at her, speak to her, make her feel this way.

A faint, mocking smile tugged at the man’s lips—a sneer.

“Do I need a reason?”

“What did you say?”

“Is a kiss the only thing a man and woman can do without a reason?”

As he spoke, Zechart’s gaze drifted slowly down from her flushed face.

It slid along her delicate neckline, pausing for a moment on the blanket she was clutching so tightly.

When his eyes returned to hers, Edith, understanding his meaning, turned a little red.

The smile faded from Zechart’s face.

“It’s nothing. That’s all there is to it.”

Just swept up in the mood, caught in a strange feeling, seized by some nameless impulse.

For a moment, silence fell.

Edith, looking a bit defeated, suddenly seemed to recall something and lifted her head.

“Have you… have you been like this with anyone else, all this time?”

He had no idea what period of time she meant.

If she meant the past three years—the years he could remember—he could truthfully answer no.

Before that… who knew.

Zechart thought for a moment, then let out a hollow laugh.

It had never happened before, but it had happened just now—with a woman whose name he barely knew, in the rain, like some kind of lunatic.

He laughed at himself for instinctively excluding Edith from “anyone.”

“Yes.”

Edith’s face immediately crumpled.

“Mac!”

That unfamiliar name scraped sharply across his nerves.

It put him in a sour mood, and he was about to correct her when she got out of bed and walked straight toward him. Zechart’s brow furrowed faintly.

She was unguarded to a fault—she had to know what she was wearing, or not wearing, yet she crossed the room without hesitation.

Even with the blanket clutched around her shoulders, he could strip it away with barely a thought, if he wanted to.

But she didn’t care.

She invaded his space, came right up to him, so close they could have touched noses.

“You can’t live like this,”

Maybe it was the color of her eyes, but those golden irises blazed at him like summer sunlight.

Her cheeks were feverish. It all made Zechart want to laugh, for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Why not?”

“Because, obviously—”

“I told you. I’m not him.”

Zechart’s answer was firm, unyielding.

Even if he couldn’t remember, he knew for certain he couldn’t be the person she wanted him to be.

There was a time when he’d tried to learn about the memories he’d lost.

Enduring that emptiness had been harder than he’d expected.

He’d wanted to find them, wanted to know.

And, eventually, not long after, he had found out.

…About a past he couldn’t remember.