He was in a shallow sleep when he had the dream.

He knew it was a dream — he had experienced it before — yet his nerves remained painfully taut, as if he were reliving it.

Even through his blurred vision, one image stood out with piercing clarity: a cascade of golden hair glowing softly beneath the languid afternoon sun.

Although his ankle had swollen from a viper bite, his vision had faded into a dull haze and everything around him had become indistinct, his blue eyes never once wavered from the girl pressing her lips to his wound.

“What is your name?”
“I want to know your name.”

His voice came out faint, his throat burning with pain.

“Just once… look at me.”

But his desperate wish was in vain.

The girl disappeared, swallowed by the crowd approaching him.

“Heather.”

At the sound of someone calling her name, her heartbeat, which had previously been quiet, surged violently.

In the dream, the girl quickly grew into a woman.

Like a mirage, she appeared before him, only to turn her back on him once more, as if fleeing.

His longing for her fueled his growing desire, which was becoming increasingly dangerous.

“Don’t go.”

Unable to bear it any longer, Andrew caught the woman as she turned away and pulled her into his arms.

Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he inhaled her scent deeply, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

The woman he had searched for so desperately was finally before him.

Though her face was veiled as if in mist and remained hidden, Andrew knew without a doubt that it was her.

An overwhelming sense of possessiveness surged through him, bringing his restless emotions to the brink.

From the moment he first saw her, Andrew had witnessed the dawn.

Like the first light breaking through the dim horizon of the early morning sky, she illuminated everything — distant, radiant, and almost beyond reach.

“Heather.”

The desire to delve into her depths—to fill her completely with himself—bloomed like a dangerous flower of longing.

Even knowing it was only a dream, Andrew could not endure the thirst he felt for the woman in his arms.

“Don’t try to escape me.”
“Please… don’t go.”

His yearning, steeped in desire, had already grown far beyond the point of return.

“Heather.”

As that name lingered on the tip of his tongue and slipped out unconsciously, a sudden, unpleasant sensation caught in his throat.

The damp scent of lilies drifting from the woman in his arms unsettled his hazy mind.

“You already know me.”

The familiar voice clenched tightly around his heart.

The instant he sensed that something was wrong, Andrew’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in his chair.

Already dressed and ready to leave, he headed straight for the lobby and reached for the telephone without hesitation.

From the moment he had glimpsed a woman who resembled his wife upon arriving in the capital, he had been forcing himself to restrain — time and again.

“I need the case files related to the train accident in Southfirth five years ago.”

—“Pardon? What do you mean all of a sudden?”

“Even the smallest detail. I want everything—nothing left out.”

—“Ah… understood, Your Grace.”

Derek’s voice, on the other end of the line, quickly steadied itself.

Once everything was settled, Andrew turned and walked across the quiet lobby.

As he stepped outside, the soft breeze stirred his navy greatcoat.

He took a metal case from his inner pocket, took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

Through his lowered gaze, the Roman Department Store came into view across the street.

The cigarette flared to life, and soon pale smoke drifted upwards, blurring his vision.

He drew in a long breath, his cheeks hollowing slightly. As he exhaled, the corner of his lips curved into a faint, crooked smile.

‘Madman.’

Perhaps it would be easier to admit that he had lost his mind.

Even though it had only been a dream, the scent of lilies lingered at the edge of his consciousness, making him feel light-headed and unsteady.

The image of that woman was so vivid that it stirred memories of an incident from five years ago.

He could no longer deny it.

His throat shifted as he exhaled another stream of smoke. Clenching his jaw, he tried to suppress the surge of emotions within him — feelings that even he could not understand.

He had known from the very beginning.

The golden-haired girl he had met at the hunting festival could not have been Heather Bricklin.

In truth, he had never been certain that she was Heather at all.

When he discovered that the girl he had spent so long searching for — Heather — was a Bricklin, his interest waned, as though everything had been based on a lie.

Even after he had instinctively realized that the girl etched in his fading memories was the same woman who continued to unsettle him, nothing changed.

Even if his wife were still alive, nothing would change.

And yet, the mere possibility that she might still be alive left him restless.

His wavering reason mocked the restraint he had maintained for five long years since hearing of his wife’s accident.

Not once had he tried to trace her steps to find out whether she had lived or died.

It had been the choice of a coward, a way to protect himself from falling apart.

Perhaps the image of his dead wife was nothing more than a delusion he had created for himself.

Then why—

Her sorrowful face, once pleading for his attention and begging for his love, blurred his vision through the drifting smoke.

What was this longing?

He tried to push the thought away, but no clear answer came to mind; only a bitter, self-mocking smile.

With a casual flick, he brushed the ash from his half-burned cigarette. A nearby doorman stepped forward and offered him a glass ashtray.

After stubbing it out, Andrew nodded briefly in thanks and started walking.

His long strides were unhurried, his polished leather shoes striking softly against the stone.

He stopped abruptly after a few steps.

The hand tugging at his tie moved with quiet restraint, like a predator that had just caught sight of unexpected prey.

Tilting his head slightly, he curled the corners of his mouth into a cold, merciless smile.

Across the street, in front of the Roman department store, a woman passed by.

She wore a pale pink dress beneath a brown coat, with simple lace draped over her shoulders that fluttered gently with each light step.

The unmistakably old-fashioned design felt strangely familiar.

A wide-brimmed hat concealed her small face entirely, its ribbon swaying softly in the breeze. From time to time, she adjusted the brim or lowered her head, deliberately avoiding eye contact with passers-by.

“Y-Your Grace. It’s time to leave for the board meeting scheduled this morning. I’ll escort you—”

The driver, who had served as both chauffeur and attendant since their arrival in the capital, hurried towards Andrew anxiously.

Having searched for Andrew for quite some time, the driver was now covered in sweat and his face was red.

Without sparing him a glance, Andrew lifted a hand, silently signaling for him to stop.

The driver froze at once, instinctively holding his breath.

His gaze followed Andrew’s, only to snap back as the figure drifted further away.

“Your Grace!”

“Wait.”

“Pardon? B-but the morning board meeting—what will you—!”

Leaving the flustered driver behind, Andrew began to follow his chosen prey.

He gradually closed the distance between them, ensuring that she had nowhere to escape to.

Confronting her might finally provide him with the answer he sought.

Was he chasing an illusion, or a thirst born of obsession?

“Rive.”

Murmuring the name of a woman he had never once spoken aloud before, a chilling glint flickered in his eyes.

***

Inside the gallery, the guide held the audience spellbound with their eloquent narration.

Ultimately, though, the masterpiece would be Andrew’s alone.

He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the woman’s retreating figure.

Hyacinth’s paintings had a way of ensnaring those who looked upon them. Their vivid colors and lifelike detail created an eerie illusion, as if the figures might step out of the canvas at any moment.

The anger that had been simmering deep within him began to fade the instant he saw her.

As he followed her in silence, carefully concealing his presence, his mind grew still.

No —

More than still.

He felt sharper and more composed than ever before.

At least until he heard the guide’s final words.

“Willingly, I Become Your Dawn”

The sound of applause broke the silence.

The soft light that had been illuminating the painting shifted, falling upon the woman.

She did not move.

Lost in the painting, she stood as if the faint light of dawn within it had spread beyond the canvas and enveloped her entirely.

‘Dawn does not exist.’

Andrew scoffed quietly at the guide’s sentimental words.

After all, he was a madman who had killed his wife.

She was a woman who loved that madman beyond reason.

And Hyacinth, who had stood by and watched it all unfold.

It was a story he could not comprehend, yet it left him with a dark, heavy feeling.

After watching her for a long while, Andrew finally stepped forward.

The woman, completely absorbed in the painting, seemed unaware of his approach.

Thud.

Jostled by a crowd that surged forward all at once, her small frame faltered—

— and fell straight into his arms.

A faint scent of lilies brushed against his senses, and something long dormant within him stirred.

“Ah—thank you.”

After disappearing from his life and hiding as if dead for five years, the woman spoke in a carefully composed voice that did not suit her at all.

“May I see your face?”

There was a strange tremor in his low voice.

“It will only take a moment. Lift your head.”

The silence between them consumed the last of his restraint until he lost all control.

The woman’s shoulders trembled as she hung her head.

In that instant, the joy that had filled his blue eyes froze, leaving them pale and cold like an icy winter lake.

She was undoubtedly afraid of him.

His fingertips brushed the edge of the wide brim hiding her face.

He had to force himself not to rip the hat away.

“W-why are you doing this?”

Her voice—once so desperate, so pleading for love—now sounded foreign.

The hatred and contempt he had once so carelessly hurled at her had stained the edges of her voice.

“Excuse me.”

Though her voice trembled with agitation, there was no sign of the steady, unyielding woman he remembered.

That alone was enough.

His wife had not died.

She had run away from him.

And now, after vanishing without a trace for five years, she had appeared before him once more.

Would anything change?

Yes — perhaps, just a little.

His twisted desire seized the reality that threatened to slip away again.

As she staggered weakly into his arms, he tore the hat from her head.

At last, Andrew fixed his hollow gaze on his wife’s face.

Without the slightest trace of mercy.

“Rive.”

Should he break her ankles so she could never run again?

“Were you really alive?”

Or crush her throat so she could never even think to escape?

His blue eyes were fixed on the woman, who was trembling in fear and gasping for breath. They were terrifyingly dark.

‘She’s pretending not to know me.’

The moment Andrew recognized the source of his anger, a laugh—almost deranged—escaped him.

He had found her.

‘My Arte.’