Chapter 8

Zechart followed the woman at a slow pace. Maybe it was because the effects of the drug were still lingering—he felt oddly dazed, the sound of waves crashing leaving his mind hazy.

When Zechart arrived at the house of the resistance member Sasha, two people were standing out front.

“See you this evening, Sasha.”

“Yes, Edith. Take care on your way.”

After watching the two part ways in opposite directions, Zechart fell into brief deliberation.

Sasha and Edith—both names he’d seen on the documents.

Luckily, the decision didn’t take long. He already knew where Sasha lived, so it made more sense to follow the woman whose whereabouts were still unconfirmed.

So he trailed after her, boarded the train, and eventually arrived at the Kaprang coast.

A rendezvous, perhaps?

The fact that she’d come all the way out to this deserted winter beach suggested it might be just that.

Narrowing his eyes, Zechart kept his distance and continued following her.

She was a remarkably slow walker. It took only a few dozen meters for the sun to begin setting. As the light gradually turned red, the woman came to a stop.

She lingered for a while on the soft white sand where the waves didn’t reach, then finally rose to her feet as the sunset reached its peak.

After she left, Zechart picked up the paper she’d left behind. Fine sand slid off its surface, trickling down in small streams.

[To my Maximilian.

I’m in Kaprang right now. Even in winter, this place is as beautiful as ever. Have you ever seen Kaprang in winter?]

[When we came here, it was summer, wasn’t it?]

[To be honest, I’m not sure if Kaprang was beautiful in the summer. I couldn’t really see the scenery—I was too busy stealing glances at your profile.

For me, summer in Kaprang was nothing more than what I saw reflected in your eyes.

(…)

Maybe we’ll see each other again soon. When that time comes, please don’t scold me for coming too early—just hold me tight. I love you.

Hoping this letter reaches you, from Edith.]

“…Maximilian.”

Zechart quietly mouthed the name. The letter crumpled a little in his grasp.

By the time he finished reading, the woman was already far ahead. Zechart quickly closed the distance between them, the sound of crashing waves fading with every step.

Even though he still hadn’t seen her face beneath the black veil, Zechart was almost certain this was the woman from that night—the owner of the scissors. The realization made his breathing quicken, the mask covering his nose and mouth suddenly stifling.

Finally, he managed to catch her by the wrist. Spun around by his strength, the woman stumbled on the sand.

“Ah!”

A gasp slipped out from within the veil, her surprise clear.

Zechart’s gaze slid slowly down to her hand, which was moving frantically beneath the veil. Just by the bulge in her pocket, he could guess what she was trying to pull out.

A crooked smile appeared on Zechart’s lips.

“Wouldn’t it be better not to take that out?”

“……”

“I might overlook scissors, but I’m not generous enough to spare someone who points a gun at me.”

Her bloodless hand froze in the air, at a loss for what to do. Zechart’s grip tightened a little on her other wrist.

“So if I stay still, you’ll let me live?”

“…If you don’t move.”

His words, almost a whisper, fluttered Edith’s veil in the cold, dry wind.

By then, the sun had completely sunk beneath the horizon, coloring the entire world in a rose-tinted twilight.

As dusk settled over the shore, Zechart reached out and pulled off the woman’s veiled hat.

“What…!”

Her golden hair, thick and luxurious, tumbled down in a waterfall, fluttering in the breeze.

Edith froze, her breath caught in her chest. Even though it was only her hat that had been taken, she felt almost n*ked. It wasn’t just because she’d been forcibly exposed—she was also rattled by the fleeting tremor she’d seen in the man’s dark eyes for a split second.

Of course, she couldn’t be sure. She barely registered that subtle shift before her vision went black.

The man’s large hand covered not just her eyes but the bridge of her nose as well. With his own face masked, Edith couldn’t begin to guess why he would cover her eyes too, and she trembled faintly.

With one sense blocked, the others only grew sharper.

The warmth of the hand over her eyes, the faint sound of his quiet laughter, the scent of the man slowly drawing near then suddenly pulling away—it all stood out vividly.

Ensnared by him, Edith became numb to everything else. The constant wind, the sound of the waves smashing to pieces on the rocks—all the world’s noise faded away. All she could sense was the man in front of her, as if he were the entire world.

And for Zechart, it was the same.

That pale gold hair, those glistening golden eyes made brighter by tears, the flush that colored her fair cheeks, and those vividly red lips…

The woman’s face, revealed at last without her veil, was uncannily similar to the one Zechart had so often conjured in his mind.

Still, just in case, Zechart covered her eyes with his hand, his fingers brushing her heated, trembling eyelashes—so soft they tickled like the wings of a butterfly.

It was only sight, but the knowledge that he was suppressing some part of her gave Zechart a strange sense of satisfaction.

He felt a sudden urge to restrain even the faint breath slipping between those soft lips. That burst of impulse startled him, and he realized what he’d nearly done just as their noses almost touched—not of his own accord, but because she had flinched away.

For the briefest moment, their mingled breaths were hot and sweet.

Zechart straightened, letting go of her eyes and freeing her vision. With her eyelids half-closed, Edith slowly raised her gaze.

Their eyes met in the ocean wind.

Normally, she would have wet her lips with her tongue, but now, unable to do so, Edith’s lips parted dryly.

“…If I stay still, will you really let me live?”

A faint, crooked smile played across Zechart’s lips.

It was ridiculous. This woman who begged for her life every time they met—and himself, who truly spared her every time.

“Yes.”

For a moment, the woman’s eyes seemed lost in thought. She looked as if she were troubled, or perhaps as if she were observing him. Whatever the reason, Zechart’s gaze remained fixed on her.

That was when the small hand, which had been clutching her skirt, started to reach out toward him.

Just before her fingers touched his mask, a low voice spilled out.

“If you look, I’ll kill you.”

She hesitated.

Her hand stopped for a moment and her gaze flickered.

But when her hand started moving again, her eyes didn’t move. At a distance so close she nearly touched his mask, the woman whispered softly.

“I won’t look.”

Bolstered by the man’s silence, Edith finally, slowly, caressed the mask. When her fingers traced the prominent bridge of his nose beneath the mask, and then the sharp line of his lips, her whole body began to tremble.

No way.

By the time a chill ran down her spine, the man suddenly stepped back. Her pale, trembling hand hung suspended in the air.

The man who had appeared without warning left just as abruptly. Instead of saying goodbye, he gently put her hat back on and slowly turned away.

Only once he’d left did she become aware again of the wind and waves soaking into her skin.

He grew smaller and smaller until, at last, he disappeared as a single dot on the horizon. Edith sat down hard in the sand, stunned.

Her whole body trembled like a leaf.

She’d felt it the first time, but tried to convince herself it was a mistake. No matter how she thought about it, it couldn’t possibly be.

And yet—

The man’s dark eyes staring into hers, the nose and lips she’d traced with her fingers—those were unmistakably…

They were Maximilian’s.

“That can’t be…”

Edith shook her head hard.

“They just have similar eyes. After all, all I ever saw were his eyes, right?”

She tried to dismiss the wild, foolish idea from her mind. But suspicion—no, hope—kept welling up inside her.

“Then what about his voice? What if even his voice is the same?”

Adding in the things she hadn’t noticed that first night—when fear and wariness had dulled her senses—the evidence kept piling up toward an impossible conclusion.

‘Maybe—just maybe—he really was alive…’

Looking back, there were too many strange things.

Starting with the records left in the Ministry of the Army.

His age, origin, career—even his family history—were all different from what Edith knew. Even the photograph didn’t match. The man in the photo had the same hair and eye color as Maximilian, but that was all.

At first, she’d thought Maximilian had simply lied to her—maybe, because of his position, he couldn’t tell his family the truth.

But—

“We found evidence of forgery in Captain Lindel’s file. Martin almost missed it, but the analysis showed that, unlike other agents’ files, Captain Lindel’s was updated quite recently.”

That’s when Edith knew.

Someone had deliberately erased Maximilian from the world.