Chapter 25

[To my one and only Mac,

It feels like it’s been a while since I last wrote you a letter.

I’ve been busy with all sorts of things lately. My mind has been unsettled, too.

The business in Belen wrapped up relatively well.

Things turned out a little differently from what I’d planned, but the results were good.

Anyway, the King has fallen, and we achieved what we set out to do.

It looks like Loris and his group will be released from the camp soon as well.

(…)

Right now, I’ve moved my hideout from Sasha’s house to a small port city in the north of Hasmal.

I’m preparing to stow away. As soon as everything is ready, I’m planning to go to Glyssen.

I’m already excited at the thought of finally seeing Leon again.

He’s probably furious with me for being so late.

For a while, I’m planning to stay in Glyssen with Leon.

Or maybe… it’ll be forever. Not yet, but with everything that happened, there’s a chance they’ll find out who I am.

If that happens, I won’t be able to return, not just to Hasmal, but to Berg either.

It would be a lie to say I’m not afraid, but I’m trying to be brave.

Wish me luck.

From your Edith.]

Edith, who had spent several days unable to write past the first line with only the recipient’s name at the top, finally finished her letter.

She folded the page in half, the crisp feel of new paper pressing into her palm.

Words she couldn’t bring herself to write—“I’m sorry,” or “I have no excuse”—she decided to leave unsaid forever.

After pushing the diary deep into her suitcase, she got up from the desk.

Through the window, the night sky was crowded with stars.

She cracked the window open just a little.

Winter wind, salty from the sea, rustled her hair.

Her cheeks turned cold.

Maybe it’s the seaside, but the weather feels colder than in Belen.

Winter must be deepening, she thought, as the cool sound of the waves drifted in, almost like the sound of rain.

It was then, as her simple musings slipped off their track, that something changed.

Edith gently bit her lips, dried out from the wind.

The moment she thought of the sound of rain, “that man” surfaced in her mind, as always.

The man who left her flustered, who made even writing a letter to Maximilian feel hesitant and awkward.

‘…Don’t… do this…’

Even with her desperate plea, his hand clenched her jaw as if it might break it.

Helplessly, their lips pressed and meshed together.

His tongue, uninvited, swept through her mouth, rough and insistent, leaving only the slick sounds of wet friction.

Unlike that night in the rain, when her mind was clouded, everything now was too vivid—so much so that a shiver, almost fear, ran through Edith.

At last, as if delivering a punishment, he bit down hard on her plump lower lip and lifted his head.

All the while, Edith hadn’t managed to truly resist him.

He had been holding her face, yes, but even without that, she doubted the result would’ve been any different.

That was what shamed her.

The fact that she’d let it happen with a man who wasn’t even Maximilian…

‘No matter how much he resembles him, still…’

Overwhelmed by shame that came too late, Edith closed the window with a bang.

She didn’t realize how much force she’d put into it.

Not that it was the only thing she’d failed to do.

In fact, that night, there were so many things she should’ve asked him but didn’t.

Why had he broken into the Berg safehouse?

How did he know her name?

Why did he help her?

She didn’t even ask his name.

No, to be exact, she hadn’t even thought of those things.

She’d been so distracted by his very existence.

As her thoughts threatened to spiral again, Edith squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them slowly.

She shook her head, as if trying to shake off the dull ache inside, and felt a little clearer for it.

“It’s nothing. So don’t think anything of it.”

Even repeating his words to herself helped.

Edith finally lay down on the bed.

Through the window, faintly, the sound of the waves teased her ears.

Sounding so much like rain…

Edith rolled over.

The blanket rustled loudly.

***

His vision blurred by tears, Zechart lay in bed staring blankly at the hospital ceiling.

After a while, he slowly pushed himself upright.

Heinrich entered the examination room just then.

“Anything coming back to you?”

Heinrich asked as he pulled the IV from Zechart’s arm.

Even then, Zechart was still wiping away the endless tears from his eyes.

“No… nothing.”

He replied, sounding as if he were still drowning in the depths of unconsciousness.

It felt like he’d seen something truly horrific, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

When he tried to dig any deeper, a crushing sense of dissociation hit him.

The panic attacks that had lain dormant for a while had returned.

“Hah… haah…”

His breathing collapsed, and his pulse raced out of control.

Heinrich recognized how serious things were and quickly pushed Zechart back onto the bed.

“Breathe deeply. Take a deep breath, Zechart.”

Heinrich’s voice sounded muffled, as if he were hearing it underwater.

Against his will, fragments of his splintered memories began to hack at his consciousness.

Pain he’d forgotten surged in like a tidal wave.

Screams and wailing, endlessly echoing in his head, all of them his own.

“Zechart! Pull yourself together, Zechart…!”

Heinrich’s urgent voice was no help.

In the end, Zechart’s still-wet black eyes fluttered and finally closed.

When he opened his eyes again, all that lay before him was a barren wasteland, as if it had all been a lie.

Sometimes—no, often—he found himself abandoned here.

He’d tried to find a way out, once, but it was a Möbius strip, leading him in circles.

In the dust and ruins, he curled up like a baby bird fallen from the nest.

A bitter cold pressed in around him.

‘…I’ll do it…’

A single ray of sunlight fell before his eyes.

It was so delicate, so faint, that Zechart began to crawl toward it with desperate longing.

As he reached the spot where the light poured down like a spotlight, warmth finally began to seep into his frozen body.

“…rt.”

“…”

“Zechart!”

He exhaled the breath revived by that warmth and opened his eyes.

Through blurred vision, he saw a stark white ceiling.

As his breathing gradually stabilized, Heinrich finally let out a sigh of relief.

“No matter how busy you are, make sure to come in for treatment on schedule next time. Look at the mess we’ve gotten because you let it go over two weeks.”

Zechart, still trembling, nodded faintly.

In truth, with everything that had happened lately, this was the first time in a month he’d managed to come see Heinrich.

It was only natural that the sturdy walls Heinrich had built for him would start to crack.

Before long, Zechart pushed himself up from the bed.

Heinrich tried to persuade him to rest a little longer, but he stubbornly refused.

He looked ready to leave the hospital at any moment, but his steps came to a halt when he’d only half-opened the door to the room.

“…Doctor.”

Heinrich, who had been tidying up the empty IV bag and needles, turned around.

His faded, wrinkled blue eyes looked at Zechart with innocence.

Zechart hesitated, reluctant, before he finally spoke.

“Is it possible to mistake a completely different person for someone else, due to trauma?”

It was a question he’d never asked before, and Heinrich looked momentarily surprised.

But then he nodded, as if it were only natural.

“Of course.”

“…”

“You may not want to admit it, but psychology can have a profound effect on all living things. More than you might imagine. Especially delusions born from desperate desires—they’re very common, and sometimes the most powerful of all.”

Seeing Zechart’s doubtful frown, Heinrich added,

“Think about how female mammals with phantom pregnancies can even start producing milk. Even someone as strong as you can be shaken by psychological trauma. Isn’t that clear enough?”

Zechart let out a self-mocking laugh.

Well, that’s true.

As he left the hospital room, he recalled the file he’d seen a few days earlier—one about “Maximilian Lindel.”

It was a ridiculous thing to do, but Zechart had gone out of his way to find and look at it.

‘But really, they said he looked so much like me, no, exactly the same.’

He’d been a little curious.

Just how much did they look alike, for her to mistake him for her husband?

But when he actually checked the photo of Maximilian Lindel, there was no resemblance at all.

The only things they had in common were black eyes and black hair.

That fact left Zechart feeling oddly empty.

So she was so desperate to see her husband again, she mistook me for him just because of that?

‘…Mac?’

Somewhere, a woman’s voice drifted through again, slicing painfully across his heart.