Chapter 12

— 1722, Log of the Patrol Captain of Gosrich Village

September 5

It appears an unidentified beast has settled in the forest near the village.

A short while ago, hunters reported discovering the carcass of a deer in the woods not far from the village, its neck snapped and its blood entirely drained. By the time the patrol reached the scene, rigor mortis had already set in, though the hunters claimed the carcass still retained warmth when they first came upon it.

Save for two puncture wounds on its neck, the deer bore no injuries whatsoever.

Were it the work of a man, he would never have abandoned the meat and pelt; were it the work of a beast, the entrails and flesh could hardly have remained untouched.

It was baffling by every measure, so we split into squads and combed the surrounding area further. Sure enough, carcasses bearing the very same wounds were uncovered across the forest. Though some had been dead long enough to be partially scavenged by other animals, the two punctures in the hide were identical.

For now, we have decided to set traps along the approaches leading into the village.

September 13

On today’s patrol, we discovered that every single trap we laid had been disarmed.

The foot snares were sprung using heavy stones, and the rope snares had all been torn apart.

This is no beast’s doing. Are the hunters playing tricks on us?

For the time being, I have barred them from hunting under the pretext that an unidentified wild predator is prowling the woods.

September 22

At first light, one of the villagers rushed in with a bizarre report.

Suffering from a chronic ailment that kept him awake through the night, he was gazing out the window when he supposedly saw a grotesque shape emerging from the forest into the village.

According to his account, when it was still far off, cloaked in the forest shadows, he took it for a wolf or fox by the silvery glint of its eyes. As it drew closer, its height seemed so towering he thought it a bear. But when it stepped into the village and stood beneath the moonlight, it was no beast at all, but a man.

Even from a distance, the figure was impossibly pale, his eyes gleaming like a nocturnal predator’s, and his mouth smeared with blood.

Frankly, up to that point I assumed he had simply been dreaming or hallucinating. But he added that, terrified by the apparition, he had buried himself beneath his blankets, trembling until dawn; as soon as morning broke, he ventured out to the spot where the figure had emerged. There, at the far end of the path leading toward the village, lay another dead beast bearing the exact same wounds as the eerie deer found before.

He begged me to go with him at once, saying he had not dared touch it. We went immediately to inspect the scene. It bore the exact same marks without question. Slicing through the hide and flesh, we confirmed that, just like the earlier carcasses, its blood had been drained down to the last drop.

I know not what to make of this. To be frank, I am at a loss.

For now… we have decided to keep up rotating patrols through the dawn hours.

November 17

Those damned carcasses have begun turning up once more.

Word has spread throughout the village yet again, and the folk are gripped with terror. Just when things seemed quiet for a spell… Damn it.

Unlike months ago when thick undergrowth concealed the ground, distinct traces of blood left behind after the creature finished its meal (if “meal” is even the proper word) remain starkly visible, throwing us into further disarray.

For now, we have reset the traps and reorganized the patrol rosters.

December 29

I believe I have seen it myself.

At dawn, while on patrol, I saw two pairs of eyes gleaming red in the forest depths. When I first caught sight of them, they shone silver, but the instant our gazes met, they turned crimson.

A gut premonition told me it was about to pounce, and I bolted without looking back. What on earth did I see…? Was it a phantom conjured by the fear buried inside me? I almost wish it were.

***

— 1724, Diary of a Hunter

February 17

In the abandoned cabin that once served as the gamekeeper’s quarters, I found the body of an outsider who appeared to have died only recently.

As though he knew death was coming, he lay peacefully, as if merely asleep.

He was a man still in the prime of his youth; what brought him to die in lonely solitude in the deep forest where no one ever treads? Pitying his plight, I called Kian, and together we carried him into the village to bury him in a quiet corner of the communal cemetery.

Now that he has passed, may he rest peacefully in the embrace of the Lord……

May 19

Damnation, I think I have done something terrible. Damnation, damn it all!

Last night, three or four villagers were attacked by an unknown monster. Every one of them had two small punctures on their neck, with loose dirt scattered beneath their beds. And they all complain of dizziness and utter lethargy.

Their testimonies match to the letter. Woken by a sudden sharp sting, they caught sight of a reddish glow; immediately afterward, a strange euphoria took hold of them, leaving them in a drunken haze. So they cannot recall exactly what happened. One of them has not even woken up yet.

Everyone fell into panic and confusion, rushing about in disarray. Eventually, suspecting the thing might be hiding somewhere in the village, we began a search. When someone cried out, I rushed over—only to find the grave where I had buried that nameless stranger dug wide open!

The grave was empty. Footprints marked the disturbed earth, and trails of dirt led in the direction of the village.

We all saw it with our own eyes—the unmistakable signs of a buried corpse digging its way out of the grave!!

O God, please! I don’t know what I’ve done. Is this my fault? It must be my fault, mustn’t it? Is this the catastrophe I brought upon us? Bringing into the village what was hidden deep in the forest……

Ah, curse it!

Curse it all!!

I cannot forget the look in Kian’s eyes as he stared at me, pale as a corpse.

***

— 1726, Diary of a Priest in the Diocese of Sibiu, Wallachia

September 14

It happened less than an hour ago, before I opened this journal.

At the hour when twilight hung thickest, a young man of aristocratic bearing paid a visit.

The moment he crossed the threshold, an inexplicable tension seized me. Even now, holding this pen, I know not how to put the sensation into words.

It felt as if I were witnessing something inexplicable and nameless, like a ‘chaste harlot’ or a ‘heinous fetus.’

Without requesting confession or taking a seat, the man walked silently to the altar and looked up at the crucifix.

After watching in silence, unable to hold back, I asked if he required prayer. At that, he turned his head slowly, gazing at me with unreadable eyes for a long while, before turning on his heel and walking straight out of the church.

Dazed, I stared after his retreating back until the heavy thud of the closing door snapped me to my senses. I hurried out immediately, intending to stop him, but the plaza before the church was already deserted.

…Had I seen a phantom?

***

— 1727, From the Diary of Gheorghe Cristea

…… A stranger arrived in Luncani seeking aid.

He introduced himself as a scholar from Vienna. Though disheveled and exhausted in appearance, he was an astonishingly handsome man.

When I first opened the church doors to meet him, truth be told, I felt uneasy, but upon conversing with him, there was no doubt he was a man of great learning, so I agreed to assist him.

He looked so thoroughly exhausted that even after offering him a room, concern lingers in my mind.

…… Young Ilie remains thoroughly thrilled. Each time he emerges from the archives, his eyes sparkle like stars. Watching a grown youth delight like a child brings a smile to my lips. Can he truly be that overjoyed?

It seems a scholar is never to be judged by outward appearance alone. Youth has clearly not narrowed or shallowed the breadth of his knowledge; every time Ilie comes running to chatter to me, he marvels that the man seems to know everything in the world.

…… Each conversation with him leaves me in quiet admiration. Even as a man of the cloth, I find much to learn from him. I only hope he remains for a long while, so that everyone in Luncani might benefit from his presence.

***

— Diary of a Young Man of Luncani Village

June 29, 1727

No matter how much I think about it, it pisses me off.

I mean that outsider who drifted into the village a few days ago.

He’s ridiculously tall and conspicuously handsome.

That alone is annoying enough, but of all places, he’s staying at the church. Since the day he arrived and stepped inside, he hasn’t shown his face in the village once.

When I asked Father, he said the guy’s a scholar from Vienna collecting records, spending most of his day in the archives. But that’s not the problem.

The problem is that ever since that bastard showed up, Ilie hasn’t come outside at all.

Damn it, I’m going out of my mind with worry.

July 8

After days, Ilie finally stepped outside the church. For days on end, he wouldn’t show his face except during services.

And infuriatingly enough, he talked about that outsider bastard all day long.

How smart can he really be? At best, he’s just a boring prick glued to boring books. Damn it, it’s so frustrating.

Because Ilie learned his letters as a kid, he acts like reading is nothing special. He probably has no idea how incredible it is for a farmer like me to be literate.

I know how to read and write too!

I learned just so I could write him letters. If I told him that, would he think a little better of me?

July 25

No matter how I look at it, Ilie has fallen for that bastard.

Every single chance he gets to talk, it’s always about that guy. Who gives a damn what he talked about with a prick like that? I had to grind my teeth to keep my temper in check.

They haven’t already done something, have they? Ah, just imagining it makes my blood boil.

No, that can’t be. Of course not. There’s no way he’d do that.

When I tested the waters before, he made it sound like an absolute taboo, something that must never be done. He acted like it was completely unthinkable, didn’t he?

If he acted like that with me, but acts differently toward some pretty-faced outsider bastard, I won’t forgive him, Ilie or not.

That would make him a real traitor. A shallow, deceitful little bitch who can’t recognize genuine devotion and only cares about surface looks.

August 10

What a relief.

Finally, that outsider bastard is away from Ilie. He’s living in a small cabin completely outside the village, not even on the outskirts. Serves him right.

I’ll make sure he never steps foot inside the village again. For now, I need to fan the rumors even more. It’s not just because of Ilie. The guy really is suspicious, after all.

August 17

Ah, fuck! Just when I thought they were separated, now Ilie goes to that house.

By now it’s certain. Ilie has been bewitched by that bastard. That outsider must be a vampir.

It’s only Ilie who’s bewitched, right? I’m going crazy with anxiety. If that bastard lays a single finger on Ilie, I’ll kill him with my own hands.

September 2

Didn’t catch him this evening. It was definitely the exact same time, but he wasn’t there.

I don’t know if he changed his bathing spot or changed his schedule.

Did he catch on?

September 30

Today Ilie shouted at me. I’ve never seen him so furious. Insolence? Ostracism? I’m seething with rage.

How could he turn on me like that? I can’t believe it. My face is still burning.

That son of a bitch has completely bewitched Ilie. Ilie’s out of his right mind. Otherwise, there’s no way he would treat me like that, right?

October 14

These days, every time he runs into me, he glares. Him acting all haughty and standoffish is cute, sure, but it also pisses me off.

Why does he look at me like that? Bewitched or not, he has no reason to be mad at me. What did I ever do wrong?

It’s absurd and unfair.

November 24

Tonight is the happiest night of my entire life!

I just went to watch him bathe like usual, and by pure luck, I caught him touching himself. Unable to hold back, I jerked off twice right on the spot. I did it once more when I got back home. My crotch still throbs.

Just like his face, his cock is gorgeous down there. Unlike mine, it’s pale, flushed with pink, and cute and plump. And his ass—God, you have no idea how pretty it is. He wouldn’t know in his wildest dreams how many times I’ve imagined spreading those cheeks and shoving my cock into the tight hole hidden between them, fucking him raw.

The lewd sight of him, something I’d only ever seen in my head, was twice as erotic and blazing as my imagination. So much that my underwear was soaked through before I even laid a hand on myself.

Damn it, writing this got me hard again. The rush won’t fade. I feel like I could shoot three more loads.

I hope he does it again tomorrow. I’m going to pray with everything I’ve got. If not that, I wish he’d at least bend over toward the window while washing, putting his ass on display. If I could catch just one glimpse of the hole hidden between that soft flesh, I could jerk off three times every night for the next month.

Ah, fuck. I want to fuck him so bad it’s driving me crazy. I want to ravage him into a complete mess until he considers his own body filthy. Rather than forcing him, though, I’d want him to ride on top of me, rolling his hips.

Just imagining it makes my crotch ache, so I’ll stop writing here. Either way, what a magnificent view. I really hope he does it again tomorrow.

December 9

Lately Ilie hasn’t been going to that cabin. Looks like he’s finally come to his senses. Yes, that’s how it should be! Are the rumors working? Whatever the reason, I feel great for now.

December 29

Finally saw him again.

Setting aside the fact that I came three times, I don’t feel good about it.

Today, while touching himself, he whimpered “Master” twice.

Fuck, I don’t want to believe it. Did he already sleep with that filthy son of a bitch? Did they do it? Did he spread his legs for a piece of shit like that?

I was boiling with rage, but my crotch was so burning hot that I stroked myself off anyway.

I want to believe it’s not true, but at this rate, that monster worse than a beast is bound to corrupt Ilie.

I’m losing my mind with resentment and fury. I was first. I watched him longer!

I don’t know what on earth will soothe this rage.

Should I tell Father? Spread rumors far and wide? If we run that bastard out and Ilie ends up alone again, won’t the loneliness make him an easy catch?

Ah! I’m really losing my mind from anger. I’ll jerk off one more time and then think of a way to drive that bastard out.

January 18, 1728

These days, Ilie is going back to that cabin.

What the hell did that bastard do? What does it take to leave him so utterly entranced?

February 24

During this morning’s Holy Communion, Ilie’s gait was unusual.

It couldn’t be… could it?

March 17

After all this time, I finally watched him again. Today, he didn’t utter that damn ‘Master’ once, keeping his lips pressed shut as he did it. He even bent over a little with his ass toward the window. What a truly wonderful night.

May 27

Seeing him leave the church well after sunset, I followed on a hunch—and caught the whole thing in plain view.

Ilie spread his legs for that vile monster.

Taking that bastard’s filthy prick into the very hole I haven’t even laid eyes on, he whimpered and moaned like a whore in ecstasy. Every time the beast sucked his nipples, he writhed his hips, his swollen front spurting streams of cum like piss.

I saw everything. I saw every last bit of that filthy, disgusting spectacle!

He groaned as if sobbing, utterly oblivious that the wet slaps of him getting plowed by a monster echoed loud and clear outside the cabin.

As of today, the Ilie inside me is dead. The innocent, pure Ilie Cristea I once adored no longer exists in this world.

Worthless slut. Cheap little whore!

Watching him spread wide the ass he wouldn’t let me touch with a fingertip, swallowing down a cock of monstrous proportions, made my head throb with fury until I was sick to my stomach. Hearing his voice drenched in vulgar lust, crying out “Master, Master” just like when he touched himself before, made me want to vomit.

I accidentally made a sound without realizing it, but they were too busy rutting to hear.

Filthy animals. Fuck. Rot in hell. Plagued pieces of trash! Every time it flashes in my mind, I’m burning with madness.

I wondered why he went out of his way to trek there day after day; it was to spread that cheap ass of his. Walking right into the monster’s den because he was desperate to be devoured by that beast.

Even while watching, I jerked off three times, and twice more after returning home, but this is no longer desire for him. It’s just that seeing in the flesh what I’d only pictured in my mind made my body react on its own. The aching in my groin right now is solely from that.

Ah, damn it! I’m going insane with fury. The injustice and disgust are driving me out of my mind.

July 27

They fuck whenever their eyes meet. Filthy scoundrels.

I’ll kill them. I’ll slaughter them both with my own hands. I swear I’ll kill them.

Of course, I’ll fuck that traitor Ilie ten times over before I kill him. I’ll pump his frayed hole full to bursting, the hole that monster’s filthy prick stretched wide, and then I’ll slaughter him.

I want him gone from my sight immediately, but no matter how much I inflate the rumors, it only goes so far. They won’t drive him out. I’m suffocating from frustration. Is it because of Father?

November 17

Finally, I created a real opportunity. In the dead of night, I secretly released a black goat into the woods and stoked the flames; only now are the villagers finally stirring.

Just a little more, and it’ll work.

November 30

The trial took place. But that monster bastard didn’t react to anything. Not even to blood! How is that possible? He’s definitely a monster. He’s definitely a vampir! What trick did he pull?

***

— 1728–1729, From the Diary of Gheorghe Cristea

…… The village grows increasingly restless with each passing day. Even my voice can no longer calm them.

Naturally, I understand their anxiety. News of trials held in neighboring villages has reached us over ten times already; who would not be uneasy? Yet I believe in what I have seen of him with my own eyes. I place my faith in that form, which the Lord watched over all night and left unpunished.

In truth, it feels as though I have no other choice left.

…… The rumors surrounding Ilie swell day by day. No matter how fervently I pray, the sinister fear that has gripped Luncani refuses to dissipate.

What more can I do, and how? Each night as I lie down to sleep, a heavy oppression weighs upon my chest like a stone. It has already been days since I witnessed Ilie’s tears.

Now, all that remains within my power is to hope that the faith of everyone here might align with mine. I can only offer desperate prayers each day.

…… The demand for a trial has finally arrived.

They ask me to verify whether my son is possessed by a demon.

My heart aches beyond measure.

Not merely because I must test my own son with my own hands, but because of the anxiety and dread radiating from the villagers, consumed by a phantom terror… and because I am no longer someone who can dispel their fear.

At some point, my voice ceased to reach them.

I know not how many nights have passed listening to Ilie weeping softly in the dark.

…… Both of them passed the trial without incident. It was precisely as I anticipated. My faith was not misplaced. And yet…

The eerie sensation that met my fingertips lingers still. It was an uncanny feeling. It did not feel like touching a mortal man. He was far too cold… and too hard.

Furthermore, what was the meaning of that whisper? When I asked for his name, why did young Ilie answer in his stead, and why did the scholar accept it as if taking it up…?

No, these must be idle thoughts. This, too, is a test, a flaw in my faith. With the atmosphere in the village so turbulent of late, my own mind has grown unsettled, on the verge of being swallowed by the dread around me.

How can one tasked with calming and reassuring the flock be so frail? Starting tonight, I must extend my hours of prayer.

…… I do not know what has happened.

I cannot believe any of this.

…… Ilie does not cease weeping. He has locked his door and refused food for days now.

As a father, I know not what I can do for him. How pathetic I am. How can I call myself a priest placed here to pray for their peace, when I cannot soothe the heart of my own son?

My heart is torn to pieces each and every day.

…… Ilie has vanished. I searched all day, yet could not find him. Returning home late into the night and inspecting his room, I finally understood only after reading his diary.

Foolish boy. Senseless boy. Cruel child.

There must have been another way. Surely there was. If only he had spoken a single word to me. Was I truly so untrustworthy? Was I… was I truly of no comfort or strength to him?

I only wish this were all a dream. I wish I could wake from this nightmare.

I know these words are unbecoming of a clergyman. Yet without writing them, I feel as though I will suffocate to death, so write them I will.

For the first time in my life, I resent my God.

***

— 1731, Notes of an Explorer

April 22

Upon scaling a mountain where I was certain no human foot had ever trodden, I discovered a stone slab resembling a gravestone.

It was a crude headstone, gouged and etched into flat stone with a pointed rock, yet seemingly not very old, as dust had barely gathered and the lettering remained crisp.

The only thing carved upon it was a single name: Ilie Cristea.

September 30

What is this? Am I dreaming?

I erased the first line after checking back and finding a record of it.

I clearly noted seeing a gravestone for Ilie Cristea atop another mountain months ago, and now, at the place I just reached, I have found yet another headstone bearing the name Ilie Cristea. It feels as though I have stumbled upon an enigma.

Who could Ilie Cristea be? And who would travel this far and wide erecting gravestones? What was their relationship?

With this degree of devotion, perhaps family, or a lover? Some explorer or traveler’s…

***

— Ledger of an Inn in Northern Tyrol

[13 Mai 1797]

Baron von Kleist
Second floor, largest room
No meal requests
Wine: ~~One bottle~~ Five bottles
Stay: 4 days

Notes:

• Do not knock on the door. No cleaning even when going out.
• Different women enter and leave every night. Severe noise.
• An unnatural death was found near the river; Vann claims he saw the Baron leaping from the window last night.
• I know not if this should be reported.

***

— 1815, Diary of Josef von Eisenhardt

June 20

I write atop the mounds of corpses at Waterloo. If hell exists, this must be it. Thus, it is no wonder if one were to witness a devil.

When an artillery shell erupted in the corner of my vision, and every man turned his head and cowered, I saw him.

I saw clearly the blade of a mud-splattered French cavalryman pierce straight through his chest. And immediately after, I watched as the cavalryman—who should have ridden past after striking the lethal blow—was violently yanked from his horse, as if pulled backward by the very sword.

The man, run through the heart with steel still lodged in his chest, did not so much as flinch. Having dragged the cavalryman from his saddle, he pulled the sword from his own chest without hesitation and drove it through the slit of the cavalryman’s helmet. It happened in the span of a breath.

He must have believed no one saw him, but he was wrong. I witnessed it.

With my own two eyes, I saw one who defies death.

I committed his face to memory. Whether he is a devil spawned in this inferno or something else matters not. From this moment on, he is simply the one who will avert the ruin of my house.

A man capable of governing Belsenburg without flinching. One to whom we can entrust that territory—the empire’s gravest concern in these perilous times—with complete peace of mind.

It must be him. I have chosen him.

***

— Administrative Record of the Margraviate of Eisenhardt

August 25, 1815

By order of His Excellency the Margrave of Eisenhardt, it is recorded that ■■■■ ■■■■ has been appointed Regent of the Margraviate.

From this stated date until the day Friedrich von Eisenhardt, heir to His Excellency the Margrave, attains the qualifications of Castellan, all authority over military and administrative affairs in Belsenburg shall reside with the Regent, ■■■■ ■■■■.

To verify the authenticity of future approved documents, the signature of the Regent ■■■■ ■■■■ is affixed below.

Walter, you damned fool!
Is there anything you can do right? How in God’s name did you manage the archives for a crucial document like this to get damaged? Anyone can see these marks were deliberately scratched out!
The moment you read this, draft a fresh copy and dispose of this one!
If you value your life, you’d better trace the signature as identically as possible.

***

— 1816, Diary of a Soldier Stationed at Belsenburg

March 11

Today His Excellency inspected our guard post.

He remembered the name of every single soldier.

That fact took us quite by surprise.

Before departing, His Excellency left us with these words:

“Consider the border not as a mere line on a map, but as the lifeline of the people who have entrusted their lives to you.”

“Do so, and the lifeline you have entrusted to me, I shall stake my own life to defend.”

I had never heard a nobleman speak such words.

For the first time since arriving here, my heart stirred with pride.

Not just me—it seems everyone has been thoroughly captivated by him.

July 24

There was a major commotion last night.

Someone from our fortress attempted to desert.

Of course, following His Excellency’s orders, the trackers tracked him down in no time.

As I write this journal, the deserter is held in the interrogation room.

His Excellency entered in person. That means the man will only come out as a corpse.

Setting aside my deep respect for him, his coldness and ruthlessness are terrifying, truth be told.

At times, I even get the eerie feeling he is not human.

He is far too decisive, far too calm. As if emotions have been completely excised from him.

Yet it is precisely because he is such a man that he commands even greater trust.

His promise that so long as we remain loyal, he would stake his life to protect us, is undoubtedly sincere without the faintest trace of pretension.

For he is a man who never hesitates in his decisions, no matter the circumstance.

I believe it was only with his arrival that Belsenburg truly came to deserve its epithet as an impregnable fortress.

***

— Diary of a Maidservant

October 3, 1816

Since the master of the house changed, life has become noticeably easier. All the maids adore the new master.

The men, however, don’t seem to feel the same. One hears quite a few murmurs about missing the old days or longing for the former master. In my opinion, it’s likely because the master issued a directive exempting any maid who is menstruating from work without exception.

I can understand why they feel bitter that only the maids get a few extra days of rest, but even so, I cannot fathom how they can say such things. It is not as if they did not suffer just as much under the previous master.

I would hate that with all my heart. I truly hope our current master stays here forever.

29 April 1817

Today Peril cut her hand badly in the kitchen. Blood poured out so terribly that it frightened me. Peril must have been terribly shaken as well, because she would not stop crying, so I escorted her to report to Lady Celina. In the hallway, however, we ran right into the Master.

Before he even examined the wound, the moment his eyes fell on the blood-soaked cloth, the Master granted her permission on the spot to leave for medical treatment.

Just as I thought—he may seem cold on the outside, but underneath, he is truly a kind person.

***

―From the diary of another maid

…… No matter how I look at it, the relationship between Michael and the Master is suspicious.

He is not even a personal valet, yet he sticks to him like glue every single day.

Could that rumor really be true?

…… Michael and Karl got into a fight today. The whole mess started because Karl brought up the rumor and teased him.

Karl is a bit bigger and looks like he knows how to fight, so honestly, I expected Michael to take a one-sided beating. Surprisingly, Michael seemed to throw punches better.

Not just me, but everyone watching looked astonished.

The moment it grew too fierce for us to stop them, Baumann-nim fortunately arrived and sorted things out. But as luck would have it, the Master seems to have heard the commotion as well, because right after being thoroughly scolded, the two of them were summoned to get scolded all over again.

I am dying of curiosity to know what happened in there.

…… Good heavens! I heard today that Karl was thrown out of the castle.

Just for getting into a fight, to go so far as casting him out—isn’t that far too harsh?

I asked Michael several times what went on inside that got Karl banished, but he refused to answer to the bitter end. Petty bastard.

Was the rumor true after all?

…… Michael has been made a personal valet. Wow, that Michael, in a valet’s post!

On one hand, I envy him, but on the other, I feel jealous.

When we were kids, he was a lad I could boss around with chores, but now I cannot even address him casually as Michael.

…… The former Master brought some young lady to the castle. An extraordinary beauty, at that. Good grief… A marriage, surely?

Well, honestly, it was stranger that he had not married until now. With looks like his, proposals must have poured in from all over. It is a relief he is finally taking a wife.

The other girls made a fuss, screaming that they did not want to believe it, but frankly, I welcome it. Having a mistress in the castle means there will be promotion opportunities for the maids too.

…… A mistress, my foot! He is definitely fond of men.

If not, how on earth could he send such a beautiful lady away just like that? Ah, it is so frustrating!

If I stay here, it feels like my life will remain stuck at the bottom forever. Argh, should I just pack up and quit?

…… Today I saw the Master stroke Michael’s cheek.

Not his head, his cheek! It even looked as though he smiled a little.

Anyway, it has finally been confirmed. The rumor was true all along!

I told the other girls, but none of them seem to believe me. When I saw it with my own two eyes! Treating me like a liar!

…… Because he is always following the Master around, the two of us never had a chance to speak, but today I finally ran into Michael and asked him right away.

Even for me, asking outright felt embarrassing, so I beat around the bush a little. Michael caught on fast and snapped angrily that it was not true.

If it is not true, just say so—why throw a temper?

Still, no matter how much I think about it, there is definitely something to it.

After all, his ears turned bright red!

…… Lord Friedrich arrived today. The master of the castle has changed once again.

Yet the Master—the former Master, that is—took Michael along with him on his departure.

I knew he would! See, I was right all along!

Ah, what a relief.

***

―From the guest register of an inn on the outskirts of Bavaria

[7 Aug 1826]

Two men
Two horses
Room No. 2
Meals: Breakfast only, for one person
Stay: 3 days
Payment: Settled in full

Remarks:

• Names omitted upon request for anonymity. A tall gentleman with black hair and grey eyes, accompanied by a young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. Appear to be a nobleman and his valet. Fluent in German, but seemingly not from this region.
• Possessions appear exceptionally luxurious. Several guests were observed eyeing their belongings while payment was being settled. Risk of theft. Exercise caution.

***

―1826, from the diary of an innkeeper near the border

Just took in two young male guests.

It was right before closing, so they were in luck.

Both are so remarkably handsome that my dimming eyes, tired from fifty years of life, felt as though they cleared right up.

The taller one seems to be a nobleman from somewhere. Before climbing the stairs after settling the bill, I distinctly heard the lovely blonde lad address him as “Master.” Right after that, I heard the noble lord quietly scold him for it.

I was too busy staring at their faces earlier to notice, but looking at the ledger now, he only requested breakfast for one person. Is he starving his servant? For a three-day stay?

He treated a lowly innkeeper like me so politely that I thought well of him, but… I suppose you can never judge a nobleman only by his surface.

Poor lad. Suffering hardships at such a young age.

I will secretly make sure there is enough food for two.

***

―Salzburg Post Station Records

[12. Dez 1826]

Two travelers stopped to change horses.
Reported coming from the direction of Bavaria.

Names:
Adrian A.
Michael H.

Notes:

• Both individuals extremely polite.
• The younger man constantly admired the mountain scenery with wonder.
• The tall gentleman was quiet and dignified. Provided an extra gratuity.
• Departed in the direction of Innsbruck after changing horses.

***

―1867, from a pilgrim’s journal

5. 26

On my way toward the inn, I met a strange man.

He was resting in the shade along a remote road, and he had the eyes of a dead man. It sounds harsh, but there was truly no other way to describe them.

Wondering what manner of sorrow weighed upon his heart to give him such a gaze, I felt concerned and approached him to speak.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, to which the man replied, “Wherever I must go, I suppose.” The words came only after a long silence.

“Where have you come from?” I asked, and he said, “I have come from death.” Perhaps he meant it as a jest, but his voice was so low and his gaze so dark that it did not sound like one in the least.

Half willing to play along and half genuinely curious, I asked another question.

“And how was death?”

At that question, the man gazed toward the distant sunset sky and answered in a quiet murmur.

“There was a time when I believed death was the end of suffering. But it was not.”

With those parting words, he rose from his seat and walked away in silence. His retreating figure looked so terribly lonely that, even though he was a total stranger, an impulse surged within me to run forward and embrace him.

Who was he, and where did he come from? Had he truly come from death?

I believe this encounter will linger in my memory for a long time.

10. 3

Something astonishing happened.

While walking along the pilgrimage path, I met that strange man from several months ago once again. Even after all those months, his gaze remained unchanged. He was still dead inside.

This time, too, he was sitting in the shade along a remote path, gazing quietly up at the sky. When I approached and greeted him, he showed a sign of recognizing me.

Glad that he remembered me, I brought up the conversation we had left unfinished last time.

“Do you still have no destination?”

To that, he answered in a voice rough and raspy, like someone speaking for the first time in an eternity, “I have always had a destination.”

Remembering the vague answer he had given previously, I was taken aback and asked, “May I ask where that might be?”

Letting slip a faint smile like a sigh, he answered, “Life.”

That was the end of our conversation. His retreating figure as he walked away was bitterly desolate today as well.

A man who came from death, heading toward life…

Now, it will not merely linger for a long time—I do not think I will be able to forget him until the day I die.

***

―From an old woman’s letter

To my beloved granddaughter Leila.

My sweet little bird, how are you doing? It has already been several months without a letter from you, and I wonder how you are getting along.

The air here has turned quite cold. Frost has begun to gather at the corners of the windowpanes each morning, and flocks of crows often sit gathered in the fields. The very scenery you were always so frightened of when you were little.

The sight of you running off excitedly to play with your friends, only to come dashing back to me in terror at the cawing of the crows, is still as vivid as yesterday, yet somehow so many years have already slipped by.

Nothing much has happened in the village. The harvest finished without trouble, and everyone you remember is in good health. If I had to search for news… perhaps only that a new gentleman has arrived in the village, and the price of flour has risen a little? The flour prices will drop soon enough. People were just spooked by the rumor of an illness spreading through the neighboring village.

Truth be told, I have a great deal to tell you about this new gentleman. It may bore you, but please listen. He is a remarkably fascinating man. So much so that if you were still here, I would have pushed you out the door to meet him.

The gentleman is staying in the old manor up on the hill above the village. That very manor that stood vacant for years even before you left. Because no one ever tended to it or went near, everyone was whispering at first. You know how the rumors of ghosts haunting that place were always rampant.

When an outsider suddenly moved into such a house, the villagers watched his every move with equal parts worry and suspicion. Yet when that gentleman walked down to the village for the first time after moving in, our guard melted away in a single breath.

Good heavens, Leila, can you believe it? In all my seventy years of life, I have never seen such a beautiful person.

Listen to this. He has hair as black as the night sea and pale silver eyes like a winter moon. He is taller than any man here and possesses the robust build of a sailor—plain to see even through his tightly buttoned winter coat. Even his voice is so wonderful that it poured into this old woman’s dulling ears like melted butter.

Marie and Selma, your childhood best friends, were so smitten at first sight that far from greeting him, they froze like stone with their mouths hanging open. Had you been there, you would have done the exact same thing. Just imagining it makes me chuckle at how adorable it is…

At any rate, with such a magnificent gentleman appearing in this small countryside village, the whole place was turned upside down. The young ladies especially, girls your age, were in an absolute frenzy.

He gave off the strong impression of someone from a city in a distant country, yet when we actually spoke with him, that was not entirely the case either. There was nothing he did not know about field work or farming, and he was thoroughly versed in ancient methods passed down by word of mouth that only old folks like me would know. It was so astonishing and wondrous that even my friends and I fell completely under his charm.

He is truly a captivating person. In appearance he looks to be about your age, but when you speak with him, you can sense the depth of someone who has lived for an eternity. We have grown quite close now, to the point where he occasionally teases us as if we were children—yet in a way that never feels offensive or absurd in the slightest.

That is what I find most astonishing about him. When you sit across from him and talk for a long time, it truly feels as though we are nothing more than distant children to him.

The more I think about it, the more wondrous it is. He is not a talkative man, yet simply by listening quietly, meeting our eyes, and nodding, he makes you feel that way.

The other evening, I found him resting on the bench in front of my house and struck up a conversation. His face as he gazed up at the sunset sky looked somehow breathtakingly sorrowful. I quietly walked over, sat down beside him, and watched the sunset together, before asking how he had come to drift all the way to a remote village like this.

After a long silence, he answered in a low voice I had never heard from him before.

“Perhaps it is because my soul dwells in a remote place.”

Goodness, Leila. You cannot imagine how hard those short words struck my heart at that moment.

Having expected an answer along the lines of wanting to hide away after a failure in the city, or wishing to live in a quiet place, I could not offer a single word in return. And as if he had spoken knowing I would react that way, he gave a quiet smile and took his leave.

My lovely little bird, reading this letter, you might think a lonely old country woman is behaving needlessly sentimental. But my heart truly goes out to him. So much so that I wish you could speak with him just once. He is a person who stirs so many feelings even in an old woman like me.

Oh dear, writing this out has made my letter far too long. I set out with the intention of asking how you were doing, so I feel embarrassed to have written so much about Adrian, but please understand. An old woman living alone always feels the urge to chatter about something to someone. Ah, Adrian is that gentleman’s name.

The weather will grow colder now, so please take good care of yourself. Whenever work becomes too hard and city life feels overwhelming, you can always come home to your grandmother. As you already know, I am ready to give anything if it helps you in your life.

Once winter passes and the days grow warm, please come show me your face. I miss your lovely laughter.

With all my love and kisses,
Your Grandmother.

3 November 1882, from Mørkfjord.

***

―From the ledger of an imported clothing shop in Copenhagen

[21. Juni 1884]

Customer Names: Adrian N., Émile B.

Purchased Items:
Winter Overcoats (2)
– Black wool coat (British fabric, grey silk lining)
– Navy wool coat (〃)
Summer Shirts (3)
– Manchester cotton shirts (2) (buttoned cuffs, detachable collar)
– Manchester linen shirt (1) (detachable collar)
Vest (1)
– Dark green Lyon silk blend fabric (brass buttons)
Shoes (1 pair)
– Brown summer leather shoes
Men’s Hat (1)
– Panama hat (Ecuadorian straw)

Payment: Paid in cash

[Remarks]

• Family name not disclosed, but appear to be aristocrats. Strong possibility of return visit. Must keep in mind.
• A: Black hair, grey eyes, tall, handsome. Appears late twenties to early thirties.
• E: Blonde hair, blue eyes, medium height, handsome. Appears early twenties.
• ‘E’ is extremely particular about fabrics but pays no mind to prices. Do not recommend low or mid-grade goods. Slender with long legs. Prefers soft, deep tones.
• ‘A’ shows a strong tendency to rely on E’s recommendations. All items purchased for A were selected by E. Items intended for sale to A should be recommended to E. A‘s build is so imposing that ready-to-wear options are limited. Steer toward bespoke tailoring upon return visit.

***

―1884, from the clinical notes of a physician

8 July

This evening, two foreigners sent a messenger from their lodging to summon me.

The patient appeared to be twenty-three or twenty-four, perhaps slightly younger.

He presented with persistent coughing, wheezing breath sounds in the chest, and a low-grade fever. Upon auscultation, coarse, dry rales were clearly audible in the upper lobes of the lungs. I judged that the consumptive disease had already progressed considerably, leaving no hope of recovery.

The patient himself showed no surprise, as if already aware. In contrast, his companion looked as though the death sentence had just been handed down upon himself.

Having practiced medicine for so long, I believed I had grown accustomed to witnessing the despair of others, but that man’s face struck an ache deep inside me after a very long time.

As the harsh sea winds of the port could rapidly worsen his condition, I advised resting in a warmer climate.

Upon returning, I reflected on my past years. I am left questioning whether becoming so desensitized to my patients’ suffering as a physician has made my heart as a fellow human being far too callous.

I sincerely pray for their peace.

***

―Letter from Émile Björnstrand

To my beloved Mother.

By the time this letter reaches your hands, I shall already be upon a different road. I pray you are not too startled.

As I write this, I am far away from home. It is a place of breathtaking scenery and mild weather—a place where even the small wild grasses along the wayside fill my heart with wonder.

Though our travels have paused for a moment, the journey that brought me here has been joyous beyond measure. The world is far wider than I ever imagined, and vastly more beautiful than I ever hoped.

I still remember what you told me when I hesitated to leave home. You asked how one could spend a lifetime looking only at the patch of dirt beneath one’s feet when the sky above is so vast. You said that destiny does not come to find us; we must seek it out.

Your words were true. Though I walked rugged, frightening paths and found myself in danger at times, I found my destiny in the end. I have come to be deeply grateful for having set out on this journey.

There is someone who travels with me. A person I wished above all to introduce to you, had I returned safely.

Regrettably, I cannot make that introduction in person, yet you have already met him. He is the one delivering this letter into your hands.

I wonder what impression he made upon you, Mother. Surely you must have found him truly handsome? Or perhaps you sensed that his eyes hold a depth almost too profound. You always had a way of piercing straight through to the secrets I kept hidden in my innermost heart.

Mother, I hope you recognized the deep solitude and sorrow he carries, and received him with warmth.

If I may presume to ask one small favor more, please remember him. He protected me. He looked after me, and he saw me off. It was he who brought me back to your embrace like this.

I am truly grateful to have met him and completed this long yet fleeting journey in safety. So please, I beg of you, do not grieve too deeply.

Though I depart as a shameful son who accomplished nothing, it was truly a wonderful journey. A voyage brimming with wonder and joy.

I have merely set off on a journey to another world. Please think of it that way. Even now, I look forward with great anticipation to the new voyage awaiting me there.

You may feel I have traveled too far away. But Mother, only now do I feel I have arrived where I was always meant to be.

May peace remain with you for a long time to come. Even from the new destination I shall soon embark upon, I will keep praying for you without cease.

Aboard the ship adrift upon the golden fields,
Yours,
Émile.

***

―1892, from an anonymous letter delivered to an illiterate coachman

Olof.

While wandering the world aimlessly, I happened to hear news of you. I was told that you finally settled down, having met a woman to share the remainder of your years with, late in life though it may be.

I offer you my heartfelt congratulations.

Wishing a radiant future for you both, and as a belated token of gratitude for attending me through my long funeral journey, I have enclosed a few gold coins. I hope you will accept them with pleasure.

As I write this, it occurs to me that you may not know how to read, but no matter. My heart is in these words, and I trust you will understand.

May you both be happy for a very long time.

Hoping the day when we inquire after each other with flowers instead of letters remains distantly far away,

From where the sun sets.

***

―Supplementary Baptismal Register of the Parish of Ruttenthal, Southern Tyrol

[12 March 1895]

As a portion of the Ruttenthal parish records was damaged by fire, this entry serves to record the supplementation and re-entry of the missing baptismal record.

Name: Johann Steiner
Date of Birth: 3 January 1866
Place of Birth: Mountain village near Ruttenthal
Witnesses: Martin Bruckner, Rudolf Brandt

As the aforementioned individual has been confirmed to have received baptism as a parishioner of this parish based on the testimony of the witnesses, he is hereby re-entered into the parish baptismal register.

[Approved]
Parish Priest Josef Mayer

***

―Nuremberg Property Notarization Records

This document certifies that the petitioner for notarization, Franz Hermann, is the lawful owner of the following listed assets.

List of Assets:
– 1 Real Estate Property in Nuremberg
– 1 Real Estate Property in Heilbronn
– Deposits in the Bank of Nuremberg
– Custodial Holdings of Gold and Silver Coinage

The aforementioned assets have been verified as the property of the petitioner via submitted deeds and bank certificates, and the notary public enters this into the official record.

Witness: Ludwig Kopf
Notary Public: Karl Brunner
Date of Entry: 4. 9. 1897

***

―Swiss Local Police Alien Registration Record

18 June 1898

Name: Ludwig Müller
Place of Birth: Germany
Occupation: Historian
Height: Very tall
Hair: Black
Eyes: Grey
Other: Calm and gentle demeanor. Well-mannered. Fluent in official languages including French and Italian, in addition to German.
Height, features, and physique all exceptionally striking; easily remembered.

Registration Complete.

***

―1908, from the diary of an assistant librarian at the Royal Library of Munich

4. 18

An extraordinarily striking gentleman visited the reading room today. A gentleman with lustrous black hair and grey eyes bordering on silver.

Not only did he possess a flawlessly sculpted face that took my breath away the moment my eyes fell upon him, but he was also so remarkably tall that when he asked for the location of a book, the back of my head practically brushed against his chest. What is more, his voice was wonderful, and his scent was terribly intoxicating.

Good grief… I might have fallen in love.

Regrettably, he stood between the desks tucked away in a corner where I could not see him from where I sat, turned pages for about fifteen minutes, and left shortly after.

I hope he comes back tomorrow. His gaze and voice have not left my mind all day.

5. 3

He finally returned today!

Unlike last time, he did not ask for the location of a book and walked right past. Truthfully, I felt disappointed after looking forward to it so much, but he sat at a desk visible from my seat and stayed for about an hour before leaving, so any disappointment was quickly forgotten.

Thanks to that, I watched him read, losing all track of time.

He turned the pages like someone reopening a book read long ago, seeking to recall contents that had grown faint.

Whether he was an exceptionally fast reader or truly trying to remember a book he had read in the past, I cannot say, but either way, it showed he was well accustomed to reading, which made him look even more charming.

Then, on a certain page, his hand stopped turning, and he gazed at it motionlessly for a long time. He even stroked it slowly with his fingertips, as if etching it deep into his heart.

Wondering whether a sentence had caught his heart and curious about what he was reading, I pretended to tidy the books and secretly stepped closer to steal a glance at what he was reading, only to be quite taken aback.

The book he had asked me about the first time he came was an eighteenth-century collection of Eastern Orthodox documents, but what he was reading today was a book titled Beneath the Manor. What a strange combination.

As far as I know, it is a compilation of documents and records left behind by servants of famous noble families… Could he have been looking for an ancient ancestor?

At any rate, it was wonderful to see him again. If only he would register for a library membership, then I could learn his name too. I hope he comes again.

***

―1916, from the diary of a refugee

3 August

We have left behind yet another village where we had stayed for about three days. Now we are in the forest.

I no longer even know what country or what region we are walking through. Maps are meaningless in this hell. Whichever way you turn your head, there is nothing but ruins.

On the road here, I saw a strange man.

He was very tall and wore a coat that looked expensive. Seeing his black hair from a distance, the others panicked, thinking he was a German soldier, but thankfully he was not a soldier. Yet he was no refugee either.

Because he was standing motionless on the very verge of the road we had to take, we had no choice but to walk past him. Sensing something odd, everyone hesitated for a moment, but in the end, we kept moving.

He did not speak to us, nor did he even cast a glance in our direction. He merely stared toward the village we had just left behind. A village everyone had already fled, where no living soul remained—staring as if it were a place he simply had to go.

As we passed him, for some reason, all of us held our breath as though by unspoken agreement. Right after we passed his side, Mother crossed herself.

Whoever he was or wherever he came from, he was not someone who gave a comforting feeling to encounter in the midst of this hell.

***

―From the French Army Registry of Deceased Soldiers

[Death Record No.: 1919-A-421]

M.P.F. — Mort pour la France

Full Name: Lucien Montbrel
Service Number: 14286-M (Conscript Class of 1914, District 9)
Rank: Private First Class
Unit: 131st Infantry Regiment
Date of Death: December 1918 (Estimated)
Wounds: Shrapnel wound to the right thigh from artillery bombardment and multiple puncture wounds
Cause of Death: Complications arising from infection (Estimated)

[Circumstances]
Judged to have sustained wounds during artillery shelling and become separated from unit amidst the chaos of evacuation.
Subsequently classified as Missing in Action.
Death confirmed in February 1919 following notification by the next of kin, who had been informed by a civilian.

[Remarks]
Upon request of the bereaved family, the remains were exhumed from the cemetery of an abandoned monastery where an anonymous civilian had provided temporary burial, and reinterred in the communal cemetery of the deceased’s hometown; military authorities have approved this as an official burial.

[Certified by]
Military Officer Jean Renoir

***

―From the Diary of Madame Montbrel

… It has been nearly a full year now.

Every passing day remains an unbearable, heavy burden. I miss his bright, shining eyes so terribly.

Ever since he was small, my child possessed an insatiable curiosity, always full of wonder about the world. His dreams would change ten times in a single week, yet whenever he babbled about a new dream, his eyes would sparkle with excitement as if it were a lifelong ambition.

If only I had given birth to him a little later. If only he had grown a little slower. Had that been so, perhaps he would never have been dragged into that hell.

People try to comfort me by saying he died for his country, that I should take pride in him. They say seeing me do nothing but mourn will only break his heart as he looks down from Heaven.

I understand the sentiment behind their words. Yet such things can only be uttered by those who have never buried a child of their own.

It isn’t that I do not know. It isn’t that I lack respect for my son, Lucien.

I respect him as a soldier, and I revere him as a human being. It is simply that my love for him as my child is far vaster than any of those feelings, and that is what makes this so difficult to endure.

Surely I am not alone; everyone who lost family to the war must feel this way. Everyone must be holding on like this. It is only with such thoughts that I barely scrape through each day.

… Today would have been Lucien’s twenty-sixth birthday.

Had he lived, that is.

To be honest, I did not even want to leave my bed, but feeling that I could not let this hollow void consume me, I forced myself up and prepared a meal. I cooked a feast of all the dishes Lucien used to love.

I did not realize it while cooking, but once finished, there was enough food to feed my husband and me for well over a week.

My husband said very little. Perhaps that was because I burst into tears before I could even lift my fork.

Guilt overcame me at the thought of wasting food in such lean, harrowing times, and that only made me weep harder.

Though he never shows it, I know he is suffering deeply as well. I need to gather my strength so that he can find his again, yet…

Every time I break down without warning, I feel so guilty toward him.

… Time moves so fast. Lucien would have been twenty-seven now.

Something extraordinary happened today.

When my husband and I visited the cemetery early this morning, a bouquet of flowers was already resting there.

Yet it was neither white roses, nor lilies, nor carnations.

We stood blankly before the headstone for a long time, simply staring down at the bouquet.

There was no card, no letter tucked inside. But we knew at once who had left it.

My thoughts drifted back to the gentleman who had quietly knocked on our door a few years ago.

A cold man. That was what I thought at first.

He did not waver before our screams, nor did he break down. When we lashed out in furious disbelief, screaming at him, he did not show a single fragment of emotion.

When I finally collapsed, utterly exhausted from my own weeping and wailing, he gently took my husband’s hand, pressed something into his palm, and spoke.

“I laid him to rest facing where the sun rises.”

What he handed over was Lucien’s dog tag and the exact location where he was buried. The moment my husband—who had been swaying on his feet, barely holding himself up—saw them, he crumbled entirely.

I have turned those words over in my mind for a very long time.

At the very least, Lucien did not depart this world alone in his final moments. He was not left in agony and fear by himself.

Perhaps that knowledge is the only reason I haven’t lost my mind all this time.

I cannot be certain, but I suspect this morning’s flowers at the grave were from him as well.

The man who quietly left without even giving his name. Yet the man whose departing back bore an immense sorrow, every bit as vast as our own.

For some reason, I could not bear to leave the flowers at the gravesite, so I brought them home and placed them before Lucien’s portrait.

Every year when this day returned, it brought nothing but anguish. But today, seeing the bright smile in his photograph, it felt as though he were rejoicing at the sight of the flowers, and my heart feels a little lighter.

… Today, Lucien would have turned thirty.

In my memories he is still so young, yet when did he grow into such an adult?

Had he lived, he would probably be married by now, with children of his own, living happily.

Not that I don’t miss him on other days, but when this date arrives, the longing cuts particularly deep.

When we visited the cemetery this morning, there was a bouquet waiting once again.

The very same flowers that have always been there on this day, every year, since whenever it began.

Hellebores.

Is it truly that man?

If so… what kind of relationship did he have with Lucien?

What could they have been to one another, for him to leave such flowers year after year?

Perhaps, even if he had lived, I might never have seen grandchildren after all. Lately, that thought crosses my mind more and more.

***

―1926, From the Diary of an Old Man

7. 13

A bizarre thing happened. I still cannot believe it.

Today, on my way back from the hospital, I saw a man I had encountered over forty years ago.

Yet unlike me, who has withered into an old man past eighty, he remained in the exact same state as the day I saw him back then.

Anyone hearing this would dismiss it as senility, or say I mistook him for a look-alike or his child, but my gut tells me otherwise.

It was undeniably him. The guardian of that young patient I visited for a house call at an inn in Copenhagen.

Setting aside his unforgettable appearance, he was someone who had made me reflect deeply on myself as a physician at the time, so I remember him with absolute clarity.

Unable to believe my own eyes, I froze in place and stared at him for a long time. Feeling my gaze, he looked toward me as well. Our eyes met, and after holding my stare briefly, he soon vanished. It was only for a fleeting moment, but to my eyes, it seemed certain that he remembered me too.

Even now, having returned home and spent hours turning those distant memories over in my head, I remain completely dumbfounded.

Has my mind gone rotten on top of my failing joints? Or did I dream on my feet in broad daylight?

***

―Internal Report, Reich Main Security Office (RSHA)

03. 10. 1942

Document No.: SD-LY/IV-2274
Subject: Unidentified Male

Characteristics:
Height: Approx. 190 cm or taller
Hair: Black, Eyes: Grey
Apparent Age: Circa 30 years of age
Languages: Fluent in both German and French

Observations:
Repeatedly sighted over the past 3 months in Lyon and adjacent small towns
Primarily appears along refugee transit routes and around temporary shelters
Affiliation with any specific organization unconfirmed
Four surveillance tailing attempts failed

Remarks:
Reports indicate a male presumed to be the same individual has also been sighted in Marseille and Dijon. Descriptions of appearance and attire match across records from multiple regions.

Action Taken:
Included on continuous surveillance registry
Arrest and interrogation scheduled as necessary

Recorded by: gez. K.W.

***

―1943, From the Diary of a Resistance Fighter

… In our network, there is a famous collaborator known as the “Silver Phantom.”

I have never seen him with my own eyes yet.

Rumors say he is immensely knowledgeable and exceptionally perceptive. His ability to assemble tiny fragments of intelligence and predict future developments is extraordinary, earning him a reputation as an exceptional operative.

Perhaps because of that, a few suspect him of being a Nazi plant.

If that were true, the moment he opened his mouth, every single one of us would be finished.

… Yesterday, I finally laid eyes on the “Silver Phantom.”

I was truly astonished. Because of his moniker, I had unthinkingly pictured a seasoned, middle-aged veteran, but the man I actually met was barely my own age and strikingly handsome.

The reason for the nickname seemed to lie in his eyes. Closer to silver than grey, they were vividly cold, gleaming as though emitting their own light.

Come to think of it, the more I dwell on it, the more extraordinary it is.

Though years have passed since he began operating as our helper, he has never once been captured, and still no one knows who he truly is.

He is indeed a man worthy of being called a phantom.

***

―Confidential Report, French Forces of the Interior (FFI)

[Document No.: 1943-LY-B2]
Recorded by: Lemaire G.
Date: 12. 11. 1943

[Subject Report]
Known as the “Silver Phantom.” Unidentified male, approx. 30 years of age. Hereinafter referred to as Subject A.
In possession of identification papers under the name “Franz Hermann,” though presumed to be an elaborate counterfeit manufactured to conceal his true identity.
Speaks German, French, and multiple other languages with absolute fluency, making determination of actual nationality difficult.
Possibility of being an operative trained and conditioned for special operations.

[Key Operational Record]
– Rescued two British pilots and three Jewish children trapped within a Gestapo cordon, escorting and protecting them to the vicinity of the Swiss border.
– Rescued two Resistance operatives intercepted by German patrols while conducting reconnaissance.
Rescued operatives claimed Subject A was exposed to heavy gunfire; however, after vanishing following the rescue, he reappeared the following night completely unharmed, bearing fresh intelligence.
– Provided precise transport routes for German military munitions bound for headquarters.
When questioned on the source and methods of his intelligence, consistently answered, “An old habit.”

[Anomalies & Special Notes]
– Successive reports of mistaken injuries (excluding those recorded above):
During Operation 72, courier “Marie,” who had been cut off, testified that Subject A appeared alone to rescue her and was shot in the shoulder by German fire. She insisted she clearly witnessed the bullet hole in his shirt. Yet when Subject A reappeared several days later, not a trace of a wound was visible.
Safehouse provider “Barbe-Rouge” likewise testified that during the October safehouse raid, Subject A shielded him and took bullets. However, following their escape, operative “Doctor” examined his body and found zero injuries.
Nevertheless, multiple bullet holes were genuinely pierced through his coat. When a bewildered “Doctor” inquired about the cause, Subject A replied with a look of genuine mystification, “Given that we had to break out under dire circumstances, wouldn’t it be far stranger if my attire remained pristine?”
Upon hearing this explanation, “Barbe-Rouge” fiercely maintained that it was no illusion, stating he felt the distinct shock and vibration of gunfire impact through the body shielding him.
– Temporary cognitive impairment (memory loss) among rescued individuals:
A portion of those rescued and sheltered by Subject A were completely unable to reconstruct the circumstances of their ordeal. The common factor is that all were wounded, and their physical sensations at the moment memory lapsed match identically. (Reported a sudden surge of heat followed by chills, followed once more by a rising heat accompanied by profound drowsiness.)
Internal sabotage via narcotic administration was suspected, but monitoring revealed no signs of addiction or toxicity in the rescued personnel. Currently presumed to be coincidental delirium caused by acute blood loss.
– Demeanor: Impeccably polite in interpersonal conduct, yet his disposition is extraordinarily cold and detached. Under extreme crisis, displays zero fear, panic, or agitation. A field investigator described him as “a man who contemplates this harrowing war like someone rereading a history book he has already finished.”

[Evaluation]
While headquarters maintains deep skepticism regarding Subject A’s true identity, field operative evaluations remain consistently positive, and his operational utility is undeniable. Core figures assess that without him, over half of the Lyon division would already be in concentration camps.
Though accompanied by numerous suspicious anomalies, it is deemed most advantageous to retain him as an ally unless overt hostile movements are detected.

***

―Port of New York Immigration Service, In-Depth Interview Registry

[Date: November 15, 1947]
File No.: NY-8391-M
Examining Inspector: Howard Miller

[Subject Identification]
Name: Adrian Nykvær
Age: 31
Race: Caucasian (Nordic/Scandinavian)
Nationality: Stateless
Statement: Claims to have migrated from Denmark to Germany, followed by an extended period of displacement and flight due to the outbreak of the World War. Original identification records stated to have been destroyed in the devastation of war.

[Physical Description]
Hair: Black / Eyes: Grey / Height: Approx. 6 ft 4 in
Physical condition is pristine to a degree difficult to believe for an immigrant having traversed concentration camps and refugee routes. Zero evidence of malnutrition, injury, or infectious disease found.

[Psychological State]
Extremely calm and steady. Displayed not a single stress reaction throughout the exhausting entry process of repeated inspections and interrogations.
The inspector suspected this abnormally resilient mental fortitude to be the result of advanced training; however, psychoanalyst consultation opined that prolonged exposure to extreme chronic stress has induced a state of emotional plateau.
Attitude during interrogation is exceptionally courteous and serene; highly cooperative, asking for precise definitions rather than guessing or deflecting when encountering unfamiliar terms. Assessed to pose low societal risk.

[Inspector’s Remarks & Other Observations]
Fluent in English to such an extent that zero communication difficulties arise outside of American idioms or specialized terminology. Speaks with a British accent.
Listed occupation prior to immigration as historian; lists intended occupation post-immigration as art collector. When questioned regarding personal assets, smiled for the first time and joked, “If you let me out of this dull place right away, I might just buy you an automobile.” Investigation revealed no infractions, yet the impression remains strikingly anomalous.

[Final Disposition]
Approved

***

―1952, From the Diary of a Young Artist

5. 22

I’ve definitely hit a slump. Not a single painting comes out right. I’ll need to buy new paints soon, the canned food is almost gone, and I don’t have a cent to my name…

How long do I have to keep living like this? Is my art really that terrible?

Sigh… I don’t know anymore. Staring at the canvas doesn’t spark a single shred of motivation.

7. 18

Oh my god! The gallery called to say one of my paintings sold! It was barely hanging by the back entrance! On top of that, the buyer even left their contact information saying they want to sponsor me.

Wow… I still can’t believe it. A day like this has finally come for me!

7. 27

I decided to accept the sponsorship. My hands are still shaking.

I’d heard through the grapevine that patronages always require something in return, which scared me into agonizing over it for ages. But when I squeezed my eyes shut and finally called to ask, the reply was anticlimactically simple.

All he asked was that once I succeed as a painter, I paint a piece that will fetch the highest price. Good heavens, is he an angel? Even as I listened, it felt so much like a dream that I pinched my cheek three times.

I asked if we could meet in person because I wanted to see him, but he turned me down, saying a phone call was more than enough. I suppose he doesn’t want his identity known.

Who could he be? A famous figure? He must be outrageously rich, right?

Anyway, it truly feels like a dream. What if it really is just a dream? Ahhh! I’m so thrilled I want to scream at the top of my lungs anywhere I can!

Yessss!

8. 8

To be able to lavishly use the top-tier paints I could only drool over at the art store until now! Every single day feels like a dream.

9. 15

I want to finish this painting quickly and show it to him. I’ve never felt this kind of burning motivation before. But just because I’m impatient doesn’t mean I can rush the brushwork… I will do my absolute best so that he truly loves it.

***

―1953, From the Diary of Daniel Reed

2. 22

Just as I expected, I had that dream again last night. It always turns exceptionally vivid on my birthday.

Seeing it grow clearer and clearer makes me feel that the day we meet is not far off… But when will it be? I want to see him soon.

Maybe because I’ve chattered about it so much, my friends don’t even pretend to listen anymore. Everyone calls me crazy, but I have always been dead serious. We will definitely meet again.

3. 18

Yesterday, we walked along a winter forest trail. It was a dream I had never had before.

The crunch, crunch of footsteps in the snow still rings vividly in my ears. The feel of his shockingly cold hand tightly grasping mine, and his smiling face as the tip of his long finger tapped my nose… all of it remains so sharp and clear.

When I opened my eyes and realized it had only been a dream, I nearly broke down in tears. I don’t even know how to explain this feeling. I miss him so terribly.

5. 24

Last night’s dream was… scorching hot. Not only did I have to bolt to the bathroom the second I opened my eyes, but I also had to wash my underwear—

Damn it, I let my guard down since I hadn’t had one like that since I turned eighteen… My face is still burning.

6. 17

I love any dream he appears in, but that specific one I despise. While sleeping, I wept so hard my eyes sting… and above all, the agony is so excruciating. Even after waking, I can barely breathe for a solid hour.

Whenever I wake from that dream, far too many emotions churn inside me. The grief is obvious, but there is also guilt, resentment, terror, fury… In any case, it’s such an overwhelming tangle of feelings that I can hardly write them down.

After swirling chaotically like that, it always ends with a colossal despair, as though I’ve plunged headlong into a vat of pitch-black paint.

I must have felt the exact same way back then, right? That must be why I made such a choice.

Yet that is merely the past. When we meet again, things will not end that way. I will make sure of it. If we truly do meet again, that is.

8. 23

He appeared after a long time. It was my absolute favorite dream.

When he reads a book, he is so profoundly quiet. It feels like he exists inside a masterwork painting that has already achieved perfection. He looks so magnificent… yet somehow evokes a feeling of perilous fragility.

Though I have captured countless versions of him across several notebooks already, I never tire of sketching that image no matter how many times I do it.

Should I slowly start transferring it onto canvas? Conveniently, I filled the final page of my notebook today as well… I don’t know why, but I finally feel ready.

I’ll start painting it slowly, beginning tomorrow.

10. 4

Lately I’ve been so absorbed in painting that I keep forgetting to write in my diary. Not that there’s much to write anyway, since I’ve just been repeating the exact same daily routine lately…

I haven’t even finished half the painting. Every time I wake up and look at it again, all I see are flaws, so I spend all my time making revisions and make hardly any headway.

Well… it can’t be helped. He is infinitely more handsome than my painting skills can capture. No matter how I paint him, it constantly feels lacking.

If only I could paint him from life, I’d do so much better… When will I finally get to meet him?

10. 25

If you’re not going to show up in person, I wish you’d at least appear in my dreams more often.

11. 12

Last night’s dream was of that castle. I love the dreams with that little house the best, but because I only rarely dream of the great castle and the small castle, they feel strangely precious.

In yesterday’s dream, I was dressing him. It was a somewhat dim room, but the scene of shafts of sunlight streaming down behind his back remains exceptionally vivid in my memory.

The entire time I was helping him into his clothes and fastening his buttons, he looked at nobody but me. He stared so intently that even though it was only a dream, I felt as if a hole were being bored through my face.

How on earth did the me back then endure that gaze? I may not know for certain, but my face was bound to be bright red. If it was the me I know, that is.

12. 17

I heard his voice for the first time!

Originally in dreams, I couldn’t hear any actual voice; understanding just struck directly into my head. But yesterday, I actually heard it.

There wasn’t any particular scenery, just pure white all around, and as I walked, there he was. When I asked, “Why are you here?” he replied, “I was on my way to you.”

He clearly, truly said those exact words!

When I woke up, my heart felt like it would burst. He must finally be coming to me. The day we meet must surely be at hand.

Finally!

***

―1964, From the Diary of a New York Museum Curator

April 9

There is something that has been nagging at my mind lately.

There is an anonymous patron who began discovering and sponsoring promising young artists roughly ten years ago, and recently, I’ve felt his influence in the New York art world growing excessively large.

There are already three or four painters I personally know of who were barely scraping by, laying out paintings on the streets or in the back rooms of art supply shops, before luckily catching his eye and receiving financial backing, and who are now holding solo exhibitions. That means the market value of works by artists he handpicks is rising conspicuously.

That in itself is uneasy enough, but there is a far bigger issue.

While there is no telling how much larger his influence will grow in the future, the real problem is that no one has any idea who he actually is.

The contact information he leaves differs from gallery to gallery and artist to artist, and to my knowledge, virtually none of the industry figures have ever seen his face directly.

According to the rare few who claim to have met him, he is described as having an ‘initial impression of late twenties to thirty, or at the very most, early to mid-thirties.’ They say he is toweringly tall and strikingly handsome… but that, too, is bizarre in its own right.

Because nine years ago, when I first started working here, the person who claimed to have seen him described him in the exact same way.

To remain unchanged after an entire decade has passed is baffling no matter how you look at it.

Of course, he could simply possess an exceptionally youthful face, but my gut tells me otherwise. If he was in his early thirties a decade ago, he would be in his early forties now—and can a man in his forties really pass for his late twenties?

Frankly, I have my doubts. If it were a woman, I might chalk it up to rigorous skincare or heavy makeup… but for a man to look a full ten years younger is no easy feat.

Could it be that he never existed in the first place? Perhaps only the name exists like a phantom, and in reality, it’s a secret patronage foundation run by several wealthy tycoons who rotate similar-looking agents…

When I brought this up to Cheryl today, she burst into laughter, saying my imagination was far too hyperactive and causing glitches in my brain.

I was completely serious when I said it, but after seeing her reaction, I began to wonder if maybe she has a point.

Is that really it? Am I letting my imagination run wild? Then again, ever since I was young, I did have a habit of getting fixated on random oddities and daydreaming.

Still, it really bothers me. Perhaps it nags at me even more precisely because no matter how curious I am, there is simply no information to be had.

***

―Internal Investigation Report, FBI New York Field Office

―TOP SECRET―
[WARNING: EYES ONLY]
This document is classified material; unauthorized access is strictly prohibited.
Unauthorized access, reproduction, or dissemination outside authorized channels is subject to penalties pursuant to relevant regulations.

[Document No.: NY-64-923-CO]
Date of Filing: 1964/10/30
Investigating Agent: SA Robert Vance
Subject: ■■■■ ■■■■■
Sex: Male
Age: Unknown
Origin: Unknown
Physical Appearance: Photograph Attached

□ Surveillance Background
The Subject entered through the Port of New York in 19■■ and has deployed immense funds across the New York metropolitan area for approximately ■■ years through ■■ ■■ and ■■■ ■■. In the course of investigating these activities, frequent departures to Europe (Germany, Switzerland) and financial transfer records were intercepted. Suspecting the Subject to be a foreign operative or an administrator of laundered Nazi capital, close surveillance was conducted over a period of six months.

□ Main Body

1. Points of Suspicion

1) Physical Appearance
The Subject’s current physical appearance is ‘completely identical’ to the immigration registry photograph from 19■■ (Att. 2, 3). Despite having been recorded as ■■ years of age upon entry and thus being ■■ years of age at present, he exhibits zero outward signs of physical aging.
– The investigator initially suspected an elaborate disguise mask fabricated for espionage; however, Agent NY291, who made contact with the Subject during the investigation period, concluded that ‘it was not a mask.’ The agent described the Subject’s appearance as ‘like a marble statue fresh out of a freezer.’
– The Subject possesses zero records of visiting medical facilities or hospitals over the past ■■ years.
– During the surveillance period, the Subject did not step outside for 39 consecutive days despite purchasing zero groceries. (Suspecting death at the two-week mark of seclusion, Agent NY291 visited under cover and confirmed the Subject was in good health.)

2) Assets and Identity
The Subject is presumed to hold vast assets not only domestically but also in Germany, Switzerland, and elsewhere.
While the immigration dossier records statements claiming all documents certifying identity and assets were lost to the aftermath of the war (which was listed as an additional ground for entry), fund movement tracking (Att. 4) exhibits a pattern of steadily accumulating assets in the aforementioned foreign nations.
– The investigator assesses that the above circumstances indicate the Subject’s legal identity in those respective countries was never extinguished, and hereby requests further investigation following case transfer.

2. Anomalies & Special Notes
– Field agents reported instances where the Subject ‘made eye contact’ or ‘smiled’ while under long-range surveillance through binoculars and telephoto camera lenses. The investigator initially dismissed these reports as misperception and intended to exclude them, but following the submission of photographs by NY319 (Att. 5, 6) definitively confirming the Subject looking directly into the camera lens, this item has been formally added.
– Overlapping reports from multiple independent surveillance agents noted that ‘the Subject’s eyes gleamed as if reflecting light when positioned in dark environments.’
– When Agent NY338 attempted an undercover approach disguised as an antique dealer, the Subject determined the authenticity of an early 19th-century coin presented by the agent without a single second of hesitation. When the agent subsequently presented an elaborate counterfeit fabricated in-house by the Bureau, the Subject instantly recognized it as well, offering words of consolation to the agent: ‘A remarkably high-caliber counterfeit specifically crafted for the purpose of deceiving experts.’
– While two agents were tailing by vehicle, they lost the Subject in the vicinity of ■■■ ■■. According to the report, after the Subject entered a dead-end alley and failed to emerge for roughly fifteen minutes, the agents moved in to verify, only to find no one there. The end of the alley was walled off by the solid brick facade of a four-story building, leaving zero egress routes other than the entryway monitored by the agents (Att. 7).

□ Final Assessment & Conclusion
The Subject appears closer to an ‘unexplainable social or biological ■■’ rather than a Communist espionage agent or war criminal. It is assessed that uncovering his true identity through conventional investigative methods is impossible.
Strongly recommend case transfer to upper-echelon Special Section (Section 8).

[Document Status Change Record]
64-11-21 Review Completed
64-12-15 Transferred: Section 8
65-02-08 Case Closed
This document has been segregated from the NY-64-923-CO file series and placed in separate restricted storage.
Portions of this document have been redacted.
This record is officially deemed non-existent.

***

―1978, From the Diary of Robert Vance

June 14

Today marks three years since I retired and settled down in the quiet Connecticut countryside.

Both body and mind are far more at peace than when I lived buried under sordid secrets and mountains of paperwork, yet at times a hollow ache creeps in, so intense it is difficult to bear.

Whenever that happens, the files I never got to close with my own hands often resurface in my mind. Especially the “Variant” case. The one I uncovered and launched myself, yet failed to conclude—though looking back now, it was an affair I had barely even begun to grasp.

Given the relentless gag orders slapped on me right up until the day I retired, I know how the case was handled. In truth, there is nothing more I wish to know, nor anything I need to know, yet my thoughts keep drifting back to it all the same.

What if I had seen it through to the end? By what method, in what moment, and how would I have uncovered the truth? I suppose it is that lingering regret.

Of course, the outcome would not have differed much from what it is now. That place is just that sort of institution. I merely wonder what magnitude of shock and exhilaration I would have felt had I cracked it myself.

September 4

Word came from him today. By way of a small parcel with no return address.

Inside lay a bottle of vintage wine from the 1880s. It was the very wine I had offhandedly mentioned wishing I could have, during our final conversation before I left New York.

From what I understand, his contract will soon come to an end. He will likely depart the United States. Yet he will be able to return whenever he pleases. For that unknown entity whom no one could ever hold captive now has his freedom guaranteed by this country.

Wherever he settles down next, I sincerely hope he spends his money a little more sparingly. If only so he does not catch the eye of someone like me.

December 12

Yesterday, word reached me that he had left the country.

Harold, who took over liaison duties with him after my retirement, seemed thoroughly reluctant to let him go, rambling on the phone with me for a solid thirty minutes.

He said he received a painting as a parting gift—supposedly an unreleased work by a renowned artist. He was told to let it sit for exactly ten years before putting it up for auction, but judging by how giddy his voice sounded, I doubt he will last even one.

While listening to him, I felt an inward smirk of pride thinking the wine I received was worth more, but once I hung up, a belated sense of sheepish embarrassment set in.

Perhaps it is because I spend all day shut inside the house. While my body grows older with each passing day, my mind seems to regress into that of a child.

***

— 1985, From the Diary of a Boy

April 19

I had that dream again.

Today, too, I burst into loud sobs the moment I woke up.

Mom comforted me, but my mood stayed sour all day long.

Mom only said it was fine because it was just a dream, and Dad only insisted it was probably a story from some book I read or a movie I watched.

The kids make fun of me every day. They tease me for being a boy who dreams about a man and cries.

Nobody believes me.

It’s so frustrating and upsetting.

May 9

In my dream last night, I walked through an insanely gorgeous field.

In the dream, I’m a grown-up. But I guess even when I grow up, I won’t be very tall. Will I still have to look up at other adults even after I’m an adult?

Thinking about it, that sounds a little depressing. I hope it’s just that the man in my dreams is super tall.

Anyway, it was the first time I ever dreamt of a field. On top of that, this dream wasn’t sad at all. The me in the dream laughed a lot.

I wish I could have that dream again.

May 28

In those dreams, I can’t hear any voices.

I can hear everything else—the sound of the wind, the rustling noises from the woods—but never any voices.

When I was even younger, I couldn’t see faces very well either, but now I see them clearly. So I hope that later on, I’ll be able to hear voices too.

I wonder what my grown-up voice sounds like. I’m ten times more curious about what that handsome mister sounds like.

Last night’s dream wasn’t sad either. I wish I could only have dreams like this every single day.

June 16

I got into a fight with Cedric. Cedric is the kid who is always teasing me, calling me gay.

He never does it when the teacher is around, only when it’s just us kids.

Today I couldn’t take it anymore, so I hit him.

After acting so tough all this time, Cedric turned out to be terrible at fighting. After taking just three hits, he cried like a coward and called for his mommy.

Even though I won the fight, the teacher, Mom, and Dad didn’t scold me. That makes total sense, since Cedric was the one in the wrong.

Hmph, crybaby jerk. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to tease him back as much as I want.

July 1

Yesterday, a place appeared that looked like a castle from a movie I watched with Dad a long time ago.

It was another dream I’d never had before.

But in this dream, I didn’t seem to be a grown-up yet.

A scary-looking old man with a bushy beard kept ordering me around, making me work.

Even though it was a dream, I was so exhausted and hungry that I wanted to wake up right away, but while resting for a moment, I lifted my head and saw the man’s face at a second- or third-story window.

The moment I knew it was a dream about him, I didn’t want to wake up anymore.

He looked handsome in this dream too. Dressed in incredibly sharp clothes, he was looking out at something like distant mountains.

But that was all. Unlike the other dreams, I couldn’t talk with him, and I woke up after doing nothing but work the whole time.

No matter how much I like dreams about him, this one was too exhausting—I never want to have it again.

July 17

The castle appeared again. It seemed like a dream similar to last time, but thankfully I didn’t have to do any hard chores.

I saw him riding on horseback through what looked like a castle gate, and he was so, so handsome. And that was the very first time I’d ever seen a horse up so close.

When he got down from the horse, I walked up and said something to him.

He didn’t say anything, but I saw it clearly. His eyes definitely smiled just a little. I’m certain the me in the dream told him how cool he was.

August 22

Maybe because it’s summer now, it was summer in last night’s dream too.

We were reading books together inside that cabin.

Ah, I don’t think I’ve ever written in my diary about what that cabin looks like.

It’s a cabin that has only a desk, a stove, a bed, an armchair, and a small tea table. The ceiling rises high in a triangle, making it look just like a secret lodge.

In that dream, I always sit at the table in front of the window. I pretend to read, but the truth is I’m always sneaking peeks at him.

The letters in the book are in an alphabet I don’t know, but the me in the dream reads them easily. I wonder what country’s language it is. I should look it up later.

Anyway, while reading, I said something, and when he said something back, I stood up. Then we went outside together. I think I was probably complaining about the heat.

We walked along a forest path for a long time and came to a stream. It was an incredibly quiet and lovely place.

The water was wonderfully cool, and mountain birds were singing overhead.

I took off my shoes, stepped into the water, and splashed around. Then I looked back at him, and half of his face was covered in tree shadows like dappled patches.

Every time I tilted my head this way and that, the eye caught in the shadow gleamed just like a cat’s.

It was a dream I had last night, and now the whole day has passed and it’s night again, but I still keep thinking about that look on his face.

September 13

Last night’s dream was set in a small castle. Not the huge castle from before, but a small, worn-down one.

It was nighttime, but the moonlight was so bright that everything inside was visible.

He was standing in front of a window with his back turned, and I was behind him.

Even though I kept saying something, he wouldn’t turn around. Only when I spoke again and tugged at his hand did he finally look back. But his eyes were red.

Not bloodshot from crying because he was sad, but the irises themselves. And they weren’t just red—they flared as if glowing with light.

Honestly, I was so startled and terrified, but the me in the dream wasn’t scared in the least.

When I said something more, his expression grew a little sorrowful.

And then, a moment later, he bit into my neck.

The instant he bit down, it hurt terribly, but the pain disappeared almost right away.

My whole body turned burning hot, and just as I thought about how hot it was, it became icy cold; then, just as I thought about how cold it was, the sensation vanished altogether. From then on, a wonderful feeling carried through me.

I had already suspected all along that he probably wasn’t human, but last night’s dream made it certain.

He is a vampire.

That’s why he’s so handsome, and that’s why everything else changes while only he stays the same.

I was a little scared after waking up, but after thinking about it all day, I feel completely fine now.

Because even though he lives for such a long time, he keeps meeting me and is only ever good to me. It has to mean that he and I are in love with each other.

But since I’m human, I’ll die eventually, which means he spends all that time searching for me until I’m born anew just like this.

Phew! What a relief to finally have it all figured out.

October 4

I’m so furious. Mom read my diary behind my back.

Reading it without asking my permission made me mad enough, but she even went and told Dad everything.

Dad got angry, yelling at me about why I was writing things like this and demanding to know who this man was. He kept lecturing me, asking if I realized how dangerous and weird this was.

Mom just stood by his side, merely pretending to hold Dad back by saying it was probably because I played too many video games.

No matter how much I tried to explain, they didn’t even pretend to listen. They just kept telling me my dreams were abnormal and that I shouldn’t keep having such wild imaginations.

I was so angry that tears burst forth before I could stop them.

Why won’t they believe me? Why are they calling me weird?

I don’t know what I did wrong. Mom was the one in the wrong for snooping through my diary as she pleased, so I don’t understand why I was the one who got scolded.

I still feel so angry and wronged. The tears just keep coming.

From now on, I’m only going to write about my dreams in a secret notebook and hide it away.

***

— Diary of a Dead Friar

April 11, 1993

As of today, I am no longer human.

An uncanny sensation grips me.

Desperate to shake off this bizarre feeling by any means, I asked for a notebook. For some reason, the man offered a faint, enigmatic smile and handed me a blank journal bound in luxurious leather.

I thought writing it down anywhere might bring some ease… yet everything still feels utterly surreal.

When I opened my eyes, I thought I beheld God. Yet the man called himself a monster.

A demon, perhaps, but he was far too beautiful to be called a monster. Like a sculpture embodying only the purest ideal of beauty. And he was immense. He easily appeared over a hundred and ninety centimeters tall.

In truth, I initially believed I was in Purgatory. I assumed that, having died, my faith was being put to the test. But that was not it.

Once consciousness fully returned, sensations I had never before experienced came crashing down upon me.

Baffled by the situation, I questioned him. He told me that upon finding me on the brink of death, he had asked if I wished to live, and I had begged him to save me. When he asked if I would be all right never being able to die again, I had answered that it was everything I desired… And so, he had truly brought dead me back to life.

Then he asked me: What was death like? Did you see God?

Words failed me.

Death was nothing like anything I had ever imagined.

April 12

I drank the blood of an animal.

I clearly had no desire to drink it, finding the thought utterly revolting…

Yet I felt my body settle in real time.

The chill across my skin has yet to subside.

Is this truly reality? Am I merely dreaming while hovering between life and death? Am I walking through the afterlife?

A grotesque sensation.

Sleep would not come, so I took up the pen once more.

Feeling stifled, I stepped out of my room intending to stroll in the garden, only to discover him reading in the living room. Seizing the opportunity, I posed the questions I could not finish asking this afternoon before returning.

He explained “our” concept of “sleep” and said that a life spent mostly awake was only natural for us, but I still cannot quite comprehend it.

If one neither eats nor sleeps, neither excretes nor ages nor dies, then what on earth does one live for, and toward what end should one spend each passing day?

The deeper my thoughts sink, the heavier the bleak dread presses down on me.

April 13

I left the manor. We agreed to meet once every ten years to check on each other.

The monster who brought me back to life introduced himself as Adrian Nykvær.

I asked if he had ever believed in religion, and he answered that he had received baptism once. In the silver eyes that met mine, I caught a glimpse of mockery. Even knowing what that derision was aimed at, I could not resist pressing further.

His baptismal name was Athanasius.

“The Immortal”… Was that not a baptismal name chosen to openly mock everyone in that holy place?

A profound misery seized me. Certainly because the God I believed in had failed to discern what he was, but far more wretched was the fact that, immediately upon hearing those words, I could not even feel that my faith had been insulted, nor could I muster a single denial… That felt far more pathetic.

April 14

Merely being alive feels like committing a sin.

Yet I no longer have anyone to whom I can confess my sins.

April 18

Whenever people pass by my side, my senses flare against my will. Not only does their body scent pierce past my nose straight into my brain, but their breathing and footsteps ring deafeningly loud. In quiet places, I can even hear the scraping friction of their bones, muscles, and internal organs.

Seeing that I can push it away if I concentrate hard enough, control seems possible, yet it does not obey my desires at will.

Even now, having checked into a motel and opened this journal, the stale odors soaked into the room and the barrage of noises beyond the door torment me.

Why did he not teach me how to control this?

He claimed he was looking after me with special care because I was the very first kin shaped by his own hands… I feel as though a demon has duped me.

April 23

Must a creator inherently be indifferent toward their creation, or is it only because they are indifferent that they can create living beings in the first place?

April 25

I resumed my prayers.

Not so much to reclaim my lost faith… but simply for my own sake.

April 30

For the first time since leaving the manor, I experienced “hunger.”

This is… a sensation beyond human description. Dozens of times more horrifying than what he had warned.

Must I endure this for all eternity?

Even as resentment flares over the sheer injustice, the realization that the man who made me this way has lived like this for hundreds of years inspires an inexplicable reverence, somehow settling my turmoil.

Have I too become a monster, thinking with the mind of a beast? Whenever pity for my own plight arises, his memory unbidden suppresses the emotion.

May 4

Agony. Sheer agony. This hunger is a sensation that can only be understood as punishment. It is the wrath of God. He must be furious that something not of His creation is roaming the earth. A divine retribution. Otherwise, this could never be…

May 8

This must be my retribution for failing to accept the fate appointed to me.

May 11

I have committed an irreversible sin.

With this, I can never return to being human again.

May 12

Since yesterday, the tears have not stopped.

Did I truly wish to live even at the cost of becoming such a wretched thing? Did I crave life with such ugliness? Is this truly the resurrection and eternal life I spent my entire life praying for?

I cannot believe anything that has happened to me.

May 15

No matter how much I beg for forgiveness and offer prayers, the crushing guilt refuses to fade.

He referred to me as “us,” yet I am not like him. Even if we shoulder the name of “monster” together, my roots are human, and so I can never be the same as him.

I, too, like him, am merely some solitary entity left stranded alone in this world.

August 3

Following his advice—that if I ever grew sick of the world and weary of living, I should find a secluded place where no one could find me and sleep for a while—I took my first sleep in the crypt of an abandoned church, the most remote spot I could conceive.

The moment I woke, I regretted it bitterly.

The hunger had returned once more.

August 14

Lord, have mercy on this sinner.

Have mercy on me…

August 29

Whenever poor souls deceived by my friar’s robes come asking for a prayer, my chest plunges. The emotion is unmistakably there, yet my physical heart remains dead silent.

Is this tongue truly mine, which can lick its lips at the sight of their throats and yet recite prayers without batting an eye? Had it not already been severed while I lay dead, replaced by a newly sprouted monstrosity?

Now, I can be certain of nothing—not even of myself.

September 13

Is there truly any place for me to stand upon this earth?

Where am I supposed to go?

September 22

I decided to walk every pilgrimage route in existence.

I know full well how abominable an act it is, but there is no other way to steady myself. I cannot quiet this desperate yearning to cling to any purpose whatsoever.

November 27

How on earth did he endure this unspeakable, agonizing solitude for hundreds of years? I feel as though I am gradually losing my mind. I would rather go mad. Would that bring peace to my soul? I do not know. What am I supposed to do? Why am I standing here, where am I going, and for what purpose must I wait for tomorrow? How on earth am I supposed to bear this life that will never see an end?

That not even a single tear falls despite such anguish brings me true, profound despair.

April 3, 1994

It has been a long time since I last wrote in this journal.

During this time, I focused solely on wandering and observing the world.

I walked and walked. No matter how much I tread, my legs never ache, and my feet never blister. Only a sickening hunger crawls and blooms within me.

I saw many things. I met many people. I experienced much.

I saw, heard, and smelled every facet of this vast world, things I could never have imagined or even dreamed of during my previous life shut inside the monastery.

I thought it was beautiful. I wished to see more.

Yet in the end, nothing was etched upon my heart.

I am hungry.

April 11

The urge to return to that manor keeps surfacing.

Only a year has passed… yet I already feel worn to tatters beyond repair.

It is agonizing to hold back the urge to seek out the one being who knows me and can understand me.

April 28

Ever since yesterday when I crossed a field, a dog has been trailing after me, constantly circling at my feet.

Far from being threatening, it is docile and quiet, so I left it alone thinking it had an owner; seeing it follow me even over the mountain, however, it seems to be a stray.

Was it abandoned?

I hesitated over whether to write this down, but feeling disgusted by my own hypocrisy even in a private journal, I reopened the notebook.

…How horrifying that my very first thought was a meal, before any stir of pity.

April 30

The creature’s presence brings no small comfort.

Is it because, though not human, it is a living being?

Or perhaps because it is an entity that does not expect any human warmth from me.

May 1

I gave him my now-discarded baptismal name. Fortunately, he is male.

I know not where he was heading, but since two solitary wanderers in this world have crossed paths, I intend to keep him company until the day he chooses to leave on his own.

May 7

While resting in the woods, Tercio brought back a rabbit he had caught.

Should I feel grateful that our diets differ, or ashamed that I am reduced to obtaining food from a dog…

My feelings are complicated, yet I am thankful that he at least is skilled at hunting. Until I learn to properly command this altered body, I will have to rely on Tercio for a while.

Everything about this body is still far too overwhelming for me.

May 24

I caught a deer for the first time! Thanks to that, I tasted a sense of accomplishment for the first time in ages.

It was a nimble beast that I could never have taken down alone without Tercio.

Bounding fearlessly through the rugged forest, Tercio looked just like a wolf. Cleverly, instead of simply chasing the deer, he blocked its escape path and drove it straight toward me. Concealing my presence behind a massive tree, I waited before slamming my body into it, tackling it to the ground, and snapping its neck.

After both of us gorged ourselves to bursting, I carved up and packed the meat for Tercio. Unlike me, he would be hungry again in just a few short hours.

I cannot express how grateful I am that he came into my life.

July 8

Arrived in Italy.

September 19

Passing through Montpellier now. I plan to circle around Spain and head north once more.

Sleeping rough out in the open so often, I seem to take out this journal less and less.

December 6

My birthday.

Yet December feels uncomfortable now.

I want to hide away somewhere.

…At least, for now.

February 7, 1995

Dammit. I was nearly exposed.

Only now did I realize that in winter, one must watch even one’s breath.

Goddamned Adrian. You could have at least warned me about things like this.

The sudden realization cast such gloom over me that I picked up the pen once more.

Just when did I forget to breathe?

Since when did I start swearing and placing blame so casually?

When did I change like this?

Thinking of how so many facets of myself will continue to shift without my even realizing it makes me want to weep a little.

April 11

I cannot believe there are still eight years left.

June 8

Lately, whenever I catch the scent of a human, my consciousness threatens to blur. My fangs try to push out of their own accord, and thirst tightens its grip around my throat.

Why is this happening? Why can’t I endure it?

It doesn’t have to be human. Blood should be enough. It has to be enough.

Why… why? Why on earth does this body crave so badly to harm a human?

June 14

Feeling that I would truly lose my mind if this went on, I bit into my own arm, only to realize a new truth.

My fangs cannot draw my own blood.

Then again, since I am no longer human in the first place, even if I could consume it, it would have no effect anyway.

A foolish endeavor from the very start.

…Dammit. It feels as though I am slipping further from sanity with every passing day.

June 30

My God.

What on earth have I done?

I couldn’t control it.

I swear I only meant to drink a few sips.
I truly never intended to take that much.
The control—
By the time I came to my senses,
My reason had completely—
Please, let all of this be a dream.

July 1

I want to forget everything. I want to run away.

I want to hole myself up and sleep for years.

Yet if I did, I would only wake to harm another human being.

Damn it.

Damn it all!!!

September 21

No matter how much I think about it, I cannot fathom it.

Shouldering this maddening hunger and suffocating solitude, how could he exist with such breathtaking grace?

How could he conceal it so flawlessly?

That nobility I once mistook for divine, that beauty, that detached gaze—how could he project such an aura while harboring this hellish, boiling turmoil within? Amidst these hideous sensations, how could he maintain such dignity?

I want to return to that manor this very instant and demand an answer.

Adrian, did you also howl like a beast through the night, just as I do? Did you also, like me now, writhe hideously in loneliness and hunger, hating everything under the sun?

Unlike me, who thinks of you whenever questions arise, you had no one to even ask such things….

Just what have you endured toward all this time, and what have you become?

October 3

Whenever I think about the entity I have become and the days ahead that I must live, he always comes to mind. That much, I suppose, is only natural. After all, he was the one who made me like this.

Yet I do not know how to understand this reverence that trails in the wake of every thought of him.

This is not merely the simple admiration one feels for a predecessor who persevered, knowing full well the horrors of this life. What I feel right now is almost like….

November 4

The amount of time I can keep food down in my body has increased to nearly an hour. In the beginning, I couldn’t last even five minutes….

I realized that instead of simply trying to suppress the urge to vomit, I have to consciously regulate the function of every single internal organ to prevent it.

In certain respects, it is an astonishingly convenient body, but in most ways, it is terribly, dreadfully troublesome.

November 12

Perhaps Tercio is a parting gift from the Lord.

Perhaps, looking kindly upon my faithfulness in years past, He sent him so this wretched apostate would not walk his departing road in loneliness.

Whenever I sink into dark thoughts, he draws close as if understanding everything, quietly sharing his warmth. When the craving for human blood takes hold and I drown in self-loathing, burying myself in prayers no one will ever hear, he rests his head upon my kneeling thighs and looks up at me, snapping me to my senses as if to show me just how foolish my actions are.

Tercio, my friend. If only you could be eternal, just like me.

December 19

Though it was never my intention, roaming the continent has gradually brought me closer to the manor I left behind. I expect to arrive sometime around January.

Should I stop by on my way through? Having been cast out alone with no knowledge whatsoever, enduring three whole years… haven’t I held out well enough?

Even if I choose not to visit, I must pass through Germany anyway, so for now I will head in the direction of the manor.

Thinking about it further, it felt strange, so I opened my notebook again.

What about him am I so afraid of? I do not understand why simply stopping by to see his face warrants this much agonizing deliberation.

Just as he said, he and I are the only kin in this world, so wouldn’t it be natural to miss him, to welcome his company? Shouldn’t it be second nature to want to know how he fares, to desire conversation? After all, he is the only being in this world who truly understands what I am….

What on earth am I so afraid of that makes me hesitate, constantly treading with such caution?

Of course, the thought of returning to that manor and the urge to question him always simmer beneath the surface. Yet for some reason, I can never bring myself to actually make that resolution.

If I had to guess, it is probably because of this inexplicable reverence that has taken root inside me.

January 23, 1996

Today, I passed by his manor.

I watched from beyond the wall for about five minutes, but in the end, I did not go inside.

Just as I saw him sitting by the second-floor window reading a book, he saw me as well. Across a distance of well over a hundred meters, we exchanged a silent nod as naturally as if standing a single step apart.

Catching sight of Tercio, he curved the corner of his lips into a smile. Following his gaze, I glanced down at Tercio, then raised my head to look back up at him. In that brief span, his silver eyes had already lowered to the book once more.

That was all.

March 9

I am currently in Denmark.

Before boarding the ship, I mailed a letter to the address of the manor that I had jotted down that day.

As for the return address, I wrote down the lodgings where I booked a long-term stay.

Will he truly write back?

April 22

Tercio injured his paw. He must have stepped on something sharp on the road.

If he was hurt, he should have let on immediately, but the fool merely limped along behind me, so I only noticed far too late. He was even bleeding, but because of the odors drifting from the surrounding storefronts, I failed to catch the scent of his blood.

Now the wound is treated and he is resting in a plush spot, but my heart is heavy.

I truly wish he were like me.

May 5

The lodging keeps a free-roaming dog as well, one with soft, pale-yellow fur. The owner is so busy all day that he is never around the property, so I haven’t been able to ask her name yet.

Tercio seems completely taken with that dog. Even to human eyes she is lovely, so I understand, but I have no idea what he intends to do when it comes time to leave.

May 7

I finally ran into the owner and learned the yellow dog’s name.

Tercio spent the entire day playing with Molly again. A male through and through—in front of a female, even his dearest friend is cast aside. The ungrateful rascal.

June 21

A reply arrived from Adrian.

Although I had explicitly asked him to write back, I had no genuine expectation that he actually would, so I was truly astonished.

The letter was filled with answers to many of the questions I had posed.

What enabled you to endure this life? To that question, his answer was “humanity.” He wrote that while he had not realized it at the time, looking back, it had always been human beings.

By concealing himself so as not to be discovered by mortals, he also concealed that he was alone in the world; by observing and studying them to live masquerading as a human in mortal society, he forgot that he was alone in the world….

Having learned of humanity in such a one-sided manner, and then learning love from a human in return, he wished to become human so as not to lose what he had learned—and thus, another several centuries became bearable.

The answer to the question that had consumed me all along—“What did he endure for?”—was humanity.

Over the past several hundred years, he had walked solely toward human beings.

Then what should I do? Having spent my whole life as a human, only now turned into something non-human unlike him, toward what should I walk?

Having lived my entire existence as a creature who loved all mankind while forbidden from loving as an individual human… what must I clasp in my grasp to endure this life?

Now that I have cast aside God, could I also find a love that would sustain me through hundreds of years like him? Will someone ever enter my life to teach me love?

…I do not know. In truth, I still cannot even grasp what it feels like to love someone romantically.

July 2

As expected, Tercio threw a stubborn fit, refusing to leave. Molly, too, put up an absolute frenzy—barking, rolling on the ground, and whimpering.

At first my heart ached for them, but watching the spectacle go on tickled something inside me and brought forth laughter; it has been a long time since I laughed so heartily. The owner, passing by and witnessing the pandemonium, was doing the exact same.

Tercio was already a better hunter than me, and it seems he is better at love, too.

November 28

I have returned to Germany.

The desire to settle down somewhere is gradually growing.

I simply want to live quietly as I did before… just like in the monastery, without having to dwell on what must be done tomorrow.

Yet if I remain in a single place, I do not know how I will manage my meals.

Since I was about to write a letter once I finish this entry anyway, I should ask Adrian about this as well.

April 11, 1997

Whenever the day I was reborn as a monster comes around, an unsettling sensation takes hold.

I still live under the name I possessed before I died, but I am no longer human. I must never forget that truth. I am humanity’s natural predator, an apostate, and a frail soul agonizing over the very immortality I spent a lifetime praying for, believing it to be glory.

Yet I am still a living being, possessing a human heart.

Matthias Keller, born December 6, 1966.

Even after hundreds of years pass, this is the identity I must never forget.

June 16

I found a place where I want to settle down. Much like Adrian’s estate, it is tucked away deep in the forest, surrounded by beautiful scenery. Of course, it is neither as grand as his manor nor is the garden as splendid… but for me, this is more than enough.

Tercio seems fond of it, too. Having saved no money, I cannot buy it immediately, but while I lack coin, I possess time in abundance, so things will work out eventually. For now, I must look for work.

July 27

A shocking offer was written in Adrian’s letter, which arrived at the lodging today.

He said he would buy the house for me. He called it the bare minimum responsibility he owed for dragging someone wholly unprepared into eternal life on the merit of a single word.

The instant I read it, flustered and burdened, my first instinct was to decline. But now, opening my journal as I ponder my reply, my heart leans toward accepting it.

Responsibility.

That word keeps catching in my thoughts. Whenever I read his letters, penned in that flowing, elegant hand, I truly find it hard to believe he is not human.

The more conversations we share, the more I find myself thinking that while the nourishment we require to live is different, isn’t he—aren’t we—simply another kind of human?

August 16

Adrian says he will soon be departing on a journey.

A sudden terror seized me that our contact might be severed completely, so I asked the reason. Strangely, he used the expression “funeral procession.” He said he would walk along ancient graves to lay the past to rest….

I do not know the exact meaning, but he seems to be putting something in order.

He promised to get in touch from time to time while on the road. What a relief.

After repeatedly urging him not to forget the number, I hung up the phone and felt thoroughly embarrassed—I had acted just like a child terrified of being separated from his parents.

March 11, 1998

I have spent this past while quite busy.

Furnishing the empty house, finding ways to earn a livelihood, registering Tercio with the municipal authorities, and steadily training myself to control this body—learning to regulate durations of sleep and raise my body temperature during the winter months.

The house I accepted with closed eyes is, just as expected, immensely cozy and comfortable.

Having provided me with an environment where I could live on my own, Adrian truly set out on his travels. Yet, as promised, he reaches out steadily roughly once a month. Through our correspondences, I came to learn a certain truth.

Adrian has a “single human” whom he has loved for centuries. Not a human he loved centuries ago, but a single mortal he has continuously loved across hundreds of years.

It defies belief, but apparently, ever since that first lifetime when they met and fell in love, that person has continuously reincarnated with similar features and traits, seeking him out again and again.

To be frank, I was a bit startled to learn it was a man… but realizing how absurd it was for a monster like me to balk at mere gender, I scolded myself for harboring even a fleeting aversion.

I also discovered that during his experiments to bestow eternal life upon that person, I was the very first success.

Now, I am no longer his only kin. This time, Adrian’s love found his way safely back to him once more, and at last, they have completed eternity.

There are now three of “us” in this world.

For us, the word kin seems to hold an extraordinary power. Even though I do not yet know his face or name, I already feel an affectionate warmth toward that nameless man. After all, do we not share the exact same root? Now, beside Adrian, I have another kindred soul to yearn to see.

My heart urges me to rush to where they are and greet them this instant, but as it was the very first promise I made upon being born into this existence, I want to honor the ten years before our first reunion. There is no particular reason. I simply wish to keep it. It feels as though our promise ought to be kept that way.

Five more years. Without realizing it, half the time has already passed.

May 22

I won a race against Tercio for the first time.

Taking five whole years just to catch up to the speed of a dog—I still have a long way to go.

June 6

Among the livestock I can keep, chicken blood has the most tolerable flavor. But the volume is far too meager.

June 13

Sheep are difficult to bite through because of their thick fleece, while goat blood is fairly decent. Still, it falls short of chicken.

June 27

Adrian mentioned that among beasts, horse and deer blood are best. I have never seen a horse up close so I wouldn’t know, and frankly, I have no desire to feed on deer unless I am starving.

So this is what he meant when he said certain blood suits a person better. I assumed that only applied to human blood… but even with animal blood, there is such a thing as preference.

August 19

I answered the telephone assuming it was Adrian, but an unfamiliar man spoke. Startled, I hung up without thinking. I thought it was a wrong number, but when it rang again and I picked up, the same voice came through.

As I hesitated for a long while, at a loss for what to say or how to introduce myself, he offered a greeting first.

“Are you doing well, Matthias?”

For some reason, a lump formed in my throat. I do not know why. I tried to reply, but the words would not come; flustered and panicked, I hung up on him again.

To commit such an insolence twice…. If I were human, I would already be over thirty, yet I acted with such shameful clumsiness. Thinking back on it makes my face burn all over again. Damn it… If he calls next time, I must apologize without fail.

It was most likely Adrian’s “him.”

Unlike Adrian, his voice was remarkably sweet, a gentle and tender tenor.

October 17

During the past two months without opening my diary, I focused on cultivating hobbies.

Following Adrian’s counsel, I fostered a habit of reading, and aside from that, I painted or practiced musical instruments.

I thought that if I lived for several centuries like Adrian, I might eventually leave behind masterpieces like famous painters or attain the mastery of the century’s greatest musicians.

Yet when I voiced this during our phone call today, Adrian chuckled as if hearing a child’s grandiose, impractical daydream, telling me that if I had time for such things, I should spend it mastering languages instead.

He noted that mortal society shifts unpredictably, and even this dwelling I currently consider the safest haven could be upended at any moment.

Right now, I can live without issue using the identity bestowed upon me at birth, but in another ten years, that identity will become unusable due to the discrepancy in my visible age. I will have to live as an entirely new persona—and did I truly believe I could repeat that cycle forever in the very same house in the very same country?

…Damn it. I should have at least asked him before buying the piano.

October 25

They said English was the most accessible, so I began with English, but I cannot fathom which part of this language is supposed to be easy.

November 18

I believe I am studying harder these days than when I was a boy living with the Scriptures glued to my hands, memorizing prayers by heart.

December 6

I held a modest birthday celebration for myself.

Lately, it feels as though I have been feeding on nothing but chicken.

I’m just glad Tercio loves the chicken meat.

December 25

December remains uncomfortable, and today is the most uncomfortable day of all.

Yet when I reflect that the day I opened my eyes anew as a monster was Easter of that year, I wonder why I should bother attaching meaning to a single calendar date and letting it distress me, which lulls my mind into a quiet indifference.

I can feel myself growing increasingly numb to it.

I suppose this is what it means to lay down religion by one’s own volition.

February 12, 1999

Lately, Tercio has had no vitality at all. Yesterday, he did not take a single step outside the house. What change of heart could make a fellow who loves roaming around act like this? Is he sick somewhere? I must take him to the clinic soon.

February 26

Tercio couldn’t rally his strength, so I finally took him to the veterinary clinic.

It wasn’t an illness. The vet told me it was simply old age.

To my eyes, he still looks like an infant, but the veterinarian said Tercio is already an old grandfather. He explained that large dogs naturally have shorter lifespans, and told me I should start preparing myself mentally.

I am still dazed in disbelief.

Why? Why already? How many years has it even been since we met…?

March 19

Is this how Adrian felt every time he watched mortals depart?

Contemplating the unavoidable parting that nears, such thoughts suddenly cross my mind.

Did he also think that mortal lives were bewilderingly brief, that they departed far too hurriedly…? Did he also feel this hollow, futile ache?

He must have endured countless farewells. Letting them go time after time, left standing alone each time to gaze upon a solitary gravestone.

What kind of life was that?

Before meeting “him,” just how barren and freezing must his existence have been?

It is a strange thing. The more I become an existence like him, the more I feel an urge to weep whenever I think of him.

April 2

This is the first time Tercio has refused to eat chicken.

Anxiety churned in my chest, bordering on bitter resentment. I wanted to scold him, to demand why he was making me worry so, why he couldn’t summon his strength.

Having discovered that there is nothing beyond death is something I resent so deeply in this moment.

May 16

He walked outside for a little while. He sniffed the blossoms blooming in the corner of the garden and left his mark along the trail leading into the woods.

Watching him from a few paces back, an abrupt dread seized me that he might slip away into the forest forever, so I called out urgently. He looked back with lingering reluctance before ambling over with heavy, plodding steps.

Does he wish to go into the forest? Does he want to leave me? Does he want to hide away?

I do not know what I ought to do for him. Every single day is filled with anxiety and dread.

June 22

I have a great deal to write today.

First… last night, Tercio suddenly began whimpering and threw up. Even after he was finished, his stomach seemed unsettled; he kept panting and hacking, and though I gave him water and laid him down, he whined weakly as though something caused him pain.

Startled and beside myself, I fumbled in a panic for a long time before instinctively dialing Adrian’s number. It was late at night, making a trip to the veterinary clinic impossible, and Adrian was the only one who came to mind.

Since they were traveling, the house should have been empty, and no one should have answered, yet for some reason, someone picked up. In my frantic state, I failed to register how strange that was and poured out words in a chaotic rush.

Even though my explanation was a disorganized flood, the person on the other end listened patiently. When I finished explaining and finally quieted down, a calm voice told me he would be right over.

It was not Adrian’s voice. Only then did my senses snap back, and I asked who it was, but the line clicked dead without an answer.

Perplexed, I stood by the window gazing out at the yard when someone actually arrived. A young man.

He introduced himself as “Ilie.” A youth who exuded pure clarity, with blonde hair and blue eyes. The moment I opened the door, I knew. He was Adrian’s “him.” He was indeed handsome enough for Adrian to have fallen for him.

Leaving me behind as I hesitated in bewilderment at meeting him so abruptly under such circumstances, he walked straight inside and examined Tercio. The dog, who had been whimpering until moments before, didn’t show a shred of wariness at Ilie’s touch; he gave a faint wag of his tail and grew quiet.

Fearing he had passed away in that brief span, I rushed over in a panic, only to find that he had merely fallen asleep. Gently stroking Tercio, Ilie looked back at me with a face that seemed faintly teasing and said, “He probably just wanted you to fuss over him like this, Matthias.”

In other words… he was throwing a tantrum because he wanted to be coddled.

Caught between sheer absurdity and burning embarrassment, I couldn’t utter a word. Ilie watched over Tercio in silence until the dog drifted into a deep slumber, then quietly stood up and took a seat at the dining table. Feeling awkward, I followed and sat down across from him.

And so, through circumstance, the setting for our first meeting was arranged.

In truth, I had thought that when the day came for us to talk, the first and most frequent topic would be our existence—how we turned from humans into monsters.

Yet that was not the case. Face to face, all we spoke of was Tercio. Even though we had just met, we conversed naturally, as if we had known each other for years.

During our conversation, an anxious impulse drove me to make a careless slip of the tongue—“Could we perhaps ask Adrian for help?” The answer Ilie gave was staggering.

After a brief silence, he asked if I had ever heard what manner of method Adrian uses to bestow eternal life. When I shook my head, his response was shocking.

Unlike us, whose foundation is human and whose healing is slow, it is a method only Adrian can execute—one where no matter what part of his body is destroyed or how thoroughly, he is bound to regenerate without fail. Using his immortality as a shield, he had to endure horrific agony dozens of times over before he could barely salvage a soul from death….

I learned everything, but I will not record the details here. I simply… feel that I should not.

The revelation was so horrifying that I couldn’t manage any reaction at all.

With eyes both gentle and resolute, Ilie told me that he did not want to cause Adrian any more torment. “He has already suffered for too long, hasn’t he?” he added soothingly.

A sharp clarity struck me. Ah, how thoroughly mortified I felt….

From that moment until he departed, I could scarcely look him in the eye.

After he left, I sat at the table and contemplated for a long time.

Before arriving at that method, just how many more times did Adrian die? How much more agony did he steel himself to endure?

Of course, as the most complete immortal in this world, no manner of destruction could truly kill him. But just because he cannot die does not mean he is free from agony and fear.

Pondering such things, I am forced to realize just how desperately Adrian needed Ilie.

Perhaps the reverence I have felt toward him all along was an intuitive recognition of that truth from the very beginning.

July 5

While tending the garden today, it suddenly struck me that I had never told Tercio the story of my life. That evening, lying beside him, I recounted the life I had lived until now.

Perhaps it was the first time I ever told him my name, too. With an expression that could have been boredom or weariness, he blinked softly and listened for a long, long time.

July 20

Today I received a letter saying they were setting out on another journey. They must have posted it before departing, as the date written on the letter was already several days past.

Why bother sending a letter when he could have simply called? Pondering this as I placed it in the drawer, the memory of my past anxiety flashed across my mind, and heat flooded my face. Did he think I would whine again if he told me over the phone?

Damn it… I don’t even want to know what he thinks of me.

August 27

The heat was so sweltering and the sun so scorching that even I didn’t take a single step outside today.

Tercio seems fond of his ice treats. While he leaves his food untouched every day, he crunched on the ice cubes I tossed him with relish.

September 19

Today he had an accident on the floor.

It was the first time such a thing had occurred, so I was quite taken aback, but seeing that he seemed even more dismayed than I was, I swiftly cleaned it up while acting as if it were nothing at all.

He looks so crestfallen that it weighs heavily on my heart. It’s all right, boy. It’s no big deal.

November 12

These days, I am throwing myself into my studies. I can now read a fair amount of English.

Tercio remains unchanged. It brings me a sliver of relief that he still enjoys walking through the woods on cool, crisp days.

November 30

The news these days is full of talk regarding the new millennium.

It certainly feels strange. To think that the leading digit when writing the year will no longer be a 1.

Watching all the fuss across the broadcasts brings Adrian to mind once again.

If even I feel this way, what must Adrian feel? A change of century is hardly a novelty to him, but even for someone like him, wouldn’t seeing the very first digit turn over feel fresh?

When he returns from his travels, I definitely want to ask him.

Where will they welcome the year 2000? Surely in some breathtaking place that no one else knows.

If only Tercio were healthy, we would have set out on our travels again, too. Lately, I find myself yearning for those days.

December 9

All day today, Tercio’s condition was precarious.

I am still not ready to let him go. I am terrified.

December 26

Tercio, can’t you wait until winter has completely passed before you go?

When the cold relents and warmth returns, we could visit the forest you love so dearly. When flowers bloom in the garden and the brook thaws, you could chase butterflies and splash in the water.

Even if you are weary and exhausted, won’t you hold on until spring, just for me?

Then, surrounded by the lush green things you love, you could leave while smiling.

January 1, 2000

I safely welcomed the new millennium together with Tercio.

I hope he finds the strength to hold on just a little longer.

No—in truth, I wish he would keep holding on forever.

February 24

If I were to use that method, would I truly be unable to revive?

March 29

These past few days, Tercio has looked so fragile.

In my desperation, I even attempted something foolish, but as expected, it was of no use.

I tried biting him, and I tried feeding him my blood. Tearing out my own heart—. Lacking the courage to tear out my own heart like Adrian made me feel so utterly pathetic that I couldn’t look him properly in the face all evening.

Still, I’m glad the scent of the blossoms seemed to lift his spirits a little.

April 11

Today is my Easter.

Yet from this day forth, it will be the anniversary of Tercio’s death.

…Only now do I truly understand what kind of beast destiny is—the very thing Adrian hated so bitterly, yet could never release in the end. How can it be so cruel, so relentlessly perverse?

I thought that somewhere along the way, I had turned into a creature incapable of weeping, but I was wrong. I broke down and wept so hard that I could not even see Tercio’s face as he closed his eyes.

Still, I am grateful that I could be by his side in that final moment when he closed his eyes forever.

I prayed countless times that in his next life, he might be born as a human and enjoy even a slightly longer span of days.

If you are reborn as a human, please, search me out and find me again. I pray and pray that we might once more become irreplaceable friends.

See you again, my friend.

May 7

My heart refuses to mend.

I still haven’t been able to put away his food bowl and cushion.

I tell myself that once they are out of sight, the grief will slowly fade… but I simply cannot bring myself to touch them.

June 18

They have returned. Ilie called to let me know.

Hearing his warm voice asking after my well-being, my throat tightened and the sorrow came spilling out before I could stop myself. Ilie promised to come over right away.

He arrived alone once again. Since our ten-year pact had already been broken anyway, I had thought Adrian would come along with him.

When I asked, Ilie said Adrian had fallen asleep for a while. When I asked if Adrian had been injured, Ilie explained that it was because of their method of feeding.

Ordinarily they sustain themselves on animal blood, but when the periods arrive where reason begins to blur, Ilie drinks Adrian’s blood, and Adrian alone feeds on human blood…

This was yet another thing I had never heard before.

According to Ilie, we can maintain our sanity on Adrian’s blood, but Adrian cannot do the same with ours. Although Adrian never explained the reasoning or the mechanics behind it, Ilie surmised that we are treated as his thralls or dependents.

Thanks to Ilie arriving with yet another shocking revelation, the bottomless gloom weighing over my spirit seemed to fracture just a little.

Sitting opposite each other at the dining table, we shared a long conversation.

About the countless farewells we would face in the future, about the endless stretch of days we must endure without anywhere to run, no matter what trials and agonies may come…

And at the heart of that dialogue, as though it were the most natural truth in the world, was Adrian.

It was a truly deep, weighty conversation.

Not a single part of it failed to leave a lasting impression, but our discussion went on for so long that I cannot possibly write it all down here.

Yet this one thing I must preserve.

Regarding Adrian’s life, and regarding the very thing I felt while preparing for and enduring my unavoidable parting with Tercio, Ilie phrased it like this:

Adrian had simply been “the most solitary devotee who knelt before the mortality of his beloved.”

Just as I had once knelt before God, endlessly praying for His glory, Adrian had knelt before fate, endlessly giving and giving his love…

It gave me so much to ponder.

Even after Ilie left, I sat on the sofa all through the night, staring at Tercio’s cushion as my thoughts spun on.

Just what on earth is love?

Chewing over their story, such thoughts often come to mind.

To make someone born a monster and living as a monster desire to become human, and to make someone born human and living as a human desire to become a monster. Is love inherently something that defies all reason?

Is it something so relentless, so brutally tenacious that it drives one to deny one’s very existence and upend the world one inhabits?

Having grown up knowing only agape and benevolent grace, the love I learned from them is not pretty and sparkling like the common tropes of the world. It is neither sweet nor radiant.

Yet, even so, I find myself wishing that someday, just once, I might experience it for myself.

August 21

Today… no, last night, I saw something I should never have seen. Even now, with my diary open, my face burns hot.

Good God… is it really all right to write this down? In truth, my heart races so violently at the mere memory that I don’t know if I can even write. I cannot believe what I did.

Last night, overcome by sudden loneliness, I went impulsively to their mansion, and… I ended up witnessing the two of them making love.

I should have called first. No, at the very least, I should have observed the most basic courtesy of ringing the doorbell or knocking… It seems I took Ilie’s assurance that “the door is always unlocked, so feel free to come and go as you please” far too literally.

It was the first time I had ever witnessed an act of copulation in such… explicit detail. No, detail isn’t even the point… the simple truth is that it was my first time seeing it at all. Truly my very first time.

I swear I never intended to spy, but it was already right before my eyes, and my gaze was trapped.

…Damn it. Why do I tell lies even in a diary written only for myself?

To be honest, while freezing in shock was part of it, my curiosity was far greater. Even after seeing it, I could have looked away instantly and left… Yet without realizing it, I kept watching. I hid behind the wall and voyeuristically peered at them.

If I were to make an excuse… the intense shock of directly observing carnal desire, something strictly forbidden in my former life, pulled me in with overwhelming force.

In truth, I did not even know penetrative intercourse was possible between two men. How something so massive could enter and exit that place while looking so blissfully pleasurable…

…Lord, is it truly permissible for me to record this? Can I really peek into their most intimate secret and recklessly scribble it down here? I haven’t even written the full scene yet, and my face is already burning up.

I had to step outside for some fresh air. Just writing this down makes me feel sinful, and since I actually voyeured, I undoubtedly committed a sin. But without purging it somewhere, bearing this alone is… honestly too difficult. From last night until this moment, the scene refuses to leave my head.

To them it was love, and to me it was learning, so I will write it down with the mindset of merely recording what I learned.

In fact, I heard the sounds from the moment I stepped across the threshold. It was the wet friction of bare flesh slapping against flesh. Back then, I had no idea what that sound meant. “Wet flesh” is an expression I only just thought of now.

Because I didn’t understand, I was curious. And hearing those breathless, fragile moans—presumably belonging to Ilie—made me wonder if something dangerous was happening. Even while knowing that couldn’t be true, for a split second I wondered if Adrian was beating him. And for an even briefer instant, I wondered whether I would be able to stop him.

Silencing my footsteps, I approached the living room, where a dim light spilled out.

They were tangled together on the living room sofa beneath a single small lamp on the side table. As fate would have it, their backs were turned toward the hallway I entered… so the moment I poked my head past the wall, the junction of penetration was immediately exposed to my eyes.

The luxurious leather sofa was already soaked in an unidentifiable slick sheen, and so were their bodies. God in heaven… my heart feels ready to rupture all over again.

Ilie was straddling Adrian, who lay back against the sofa cushions, and between Ilie’s buttocks… that massive… phallus was buried entirely inside. Every time Adrian thrust upwards from below, those snow-white buttocks, glistening with an unidentifiable slick sheen of sweat and fluid, rippled with supple elasticity, swallowing him whole.

Stunned into petrified immobility, I only managed to regain my senses the moment Ilie threw his head back and let out a sharp moan, frantically retreating behind the wall.

Good heavens… I lost count of how many times I swallowed dryly. Heat surged through my entire body as if set ablaze. I wanted to run away, yet I couldn’t resist the urge to peek out again, helplessly surrendering to the provocative sounds tormenting my ears.

Damn it… damn it all. No matter how much I think about it, I don’t know what possessed me.

In the end, I leaned out again. When I looked back, Ilie was pressing his knees tightly against both sides of Adrian’s body, trembling violently before collapsing forward into his embrace. At that, Adrian seized his buttocks in both hands and kissed him deeply. Then, resuming the rhythm he had briefly paused, he began driving up into him once more.

With Adrian spreading him open with his hands, the junction between them was… even more clearly visible.

Once again, the two of them lost themselves in devouring each other. Not only had Ilie reached climax, but Adrian appeared to have discharged inside him as well, because as the thrusts accelerated, his shaft turned glistening white, coated in the fluid spilling out from within…

Ah, merciful God, I cannot believe I am putting such descriptions into words. Damn it. My face is blazing now even looking down at the letters I just wrote.

No, but really, no matter how many times I replay it in my mind, it defies belief. How could something of that size slide in so smoothly? Is it only possible because their bodies are no longer human?

Astonishingly, Ilie did not appear in the slightest bit pained. On the contrary, he looked utterly… overjoyed. If my eyes were not deceiving me, that is.

From the moment Ilie, having rocked frantically while huddled in his embrace, placed his hands on Adrian’s chest and sat upright again, not only Ilie but Adrian too began groaning like a beast. Every time Ilie rolled his hips in slow, grinding circles, the veins along Adrian’s… member writhed visibly—an image that still hovers before my eyes.

From the moment I heard their voices—intertwining like animals yet endlessly murmuring sweet declarations of love—my entire body thumped as though it would burst, without a single exaggeration, and my face felt hot enough to melt.

I should have turned back right then, but by that point, I had already reached a state where I could not stop. Just like the two of them on the sofa, completely lost in one another… my own sanity had been thoroughly stolen away by them.

I cannot remember precisely how much longer I stood there peeping.

At a certain point, Adrian pushed himself up and pinned Ilie beneath him. As he pounded into him from above, Ilie cried out with a weeping moan and spurted a stream of liquid that seemed to be… urine… or fluid.

Even though Ilie had lost control in such an embarrassing manner, Adrian, far from showing restraint or soothing him, locked a firm grip onto his waist and drove into him with even wilder ferocity. As if determined never to let him go, the veins on his forearms stood taut…

Before long, Adrian too wrenched out a guttural groan, collapsing over Ilie’s body.

To be honest, I was so overwrought that my memory is hazy, but if I recall correctly, what I witnessed lasted only until what happened next. Adrian rested his forehead against Ilie’s, whispering something in a low murmur, and Ilie smiled softly, nodding his head.

Only then did I snap back to reality and duck behind the wall again. Before they could recover their wits, before they could detect my presence, I killed all sound and hastily fled the mansion.

Even after slipping out the front door, my ears, strained open by lingering curiosity, caught Ilie’s whisper—“I love you.” Along with the sound of their lips parting… and the sound of their hearts, beating with astonishingly human vitality.

The shock has yet to fade. To be completely candid… neither has the heat in my body. I feel somehow corrupted.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would learn of such things… or, further still, that I would watch an act of intimacy between two men and find myself aroused to a degree that utterly appalls me.

Ah, damn it… how on earth am I supposed to look them in the eye from now on?

Damn it all. It feels as if curiosity has ruined my soul. My regret is boundless.

…For now, just to be safe, I must end this diary entry here and hide the journal away. Unless something extraordinary happens, they rarely reach out first, but whether by call or visit, I should avoid them for a while. I have no confidence that I could face them with composure as before.

Once my body and mind have calmed down… I must confess the truth and beg for forgiveness.

Haah, really… I should have just turned around and walked out immediately. Why did I watch? I don’t know what on earth possessed me.

Do I secretly desire to learn everything about love from them?

…No, what on earth am I saying? Even written by my own hand, that sounds utterly absurd.

***

— From Matthias Keller’s Inbox

✉ Mail

Subject: No Subject

From: Ilie

Date: 2003/03/23 07:24 PM

Matthias, how are you doing?

I wonder if you’ve gotten used to computers by now.

I’m looking forward to seeing whether you can successfully read this email and send a reply.

I honestly don’t know how you could be even clumsier with technology than Adrian, considering you’re hundreds of years younger than him.

Haha, yes, I’m teasing you. ;^D

We’re in the north right now. It’s a quiet and beautiful place.

It’s a landscape I would love to show you one day.

We are doing well, as always. I hope you are doing well too.

P.S. At your typing speed, Matthias, we might end up returning before your reply arrives. ;^>

✉ Mail

Subject: No Subject

From: Ilie

Date: 2003/04/05 06:58 PM

I received your reply. It arrived so much earlier than I expected that I was truly surprised.

All right, I’ll stop teasing you now.

Honestly, it’s a bit of a pity. You didn’t need to learn it that fast. 🙁

Oh, right, I forgot to mention this in my last email.

Lately, I’ve been learning English too. From Adrian.

Adrian says the vocabulary and expressions he uses are quite different from the English you learned.

Once we return, I’d love to talk with you about how different they are.

Starting tomorrow, we’re heading into an area with no internet access, so I won’t be able to use the computer for a while. You don’t need to reply to this.

We’ll likely return to Germany around summer.

I hope you stay well until then.

✉ Mail

Subject: No Subject

From: Ilie

Date: 2003/07/24 02:15 PM

Hello, Matthias!

It’s been three months. You must have been bored, right?

We’re heading back tomorrow.

There’s so much to catch up on, but I won’t write it here. It was such an enjoyable experience that I want to tell you about it in person.

Also, a thought just crossed my mind: I hope that years from now, we’ll still be checking in on each other like this via email.

Unlike letters or mobile phones, emails can’t be lost, and no matter how much time passes, as long as our addresses stay the same, we can always check them.

You’ll do that for me, right?

✉ Mail

Subject: No Subject

From: Ilie

Date: 2006/03/15 02:25 AM

Hello, Matthias. Is it the early hours of the morning over there by now?

We arrived safely.

I’m just sending an email to let you know, since I had a moment of idle time.

Adrian went out to feed the moment we arrived, and now he’s taking a shower, but he’s in a rather foul mood.

Apparently, the human he fed on today tasted exceptionally terrible.

Just how awful was it? When he described it to me, he actually said it tasted like “the rotten blood of a pig that died a week ago”!

His grumbling was rather cute, but the comparison was so appalling that I asked him if he had ever tasted the blood of a pig dead for a week. Fortunately, that coaxed a small laugh out of him.

I was genuinely curious, but he must have thought I was just saying it to cheer him up.

So I took the cue and told him to go wash up quickly, and he seems to be in a much better mood now. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him look so disgruntled, so I was a bit worried, but I’m relieved.

Adrian really does turn hopelessly soft only when it comes to me, doesn’t he?

Haha, that’s right, I’m bragging. X^D

I’m sorry, but teasing you really is quite fun, Matthias.

If you feel indignant, you should hurry up and find someone to spend your eternity with. When that day comes, I promise in advance that I’ll listen to all your stories with rapt attention, even the ones I’m not the least bit curious about.

Ah, the sound of the shower has stopped. I should wrap this up.

I’ll email you again soon.

✉ Mail

Subject: No Subject

From: Ilie

Date: 2006/04/24 04:16 AM

Matthias, how are you? It must have grown quite warm over there by now.

I’m sorry for not being in touch at all since my last email.

I could make up plenty of excuses, but since it’s you, Matthias, I’ll just be completely honest: I was too busy having fun traveling around.

No matter how much we wander, it’s astonishing how there’s always an endless stream of new places to see.

Still, I suppose the day will eventually come when there isn’t a single corner of this earth we haven’t seen, right?

While it’s wonderful that we can enjoy each other’s company for so long, the thought of that feels a little bittersweet.

By the way, what happened with that matter you wrote about in your last reply?

Ah! I just mentioned it to Adrian, and he says Frau Griezmann softens up immediately if you share some vegetables or meat with her.

He says you shouldn’t make it look intentional, but rather give the impression that you had some left over and wanted to share, and that she just happened to come to mind.

Haha, Adrian was so deadpan and serious when he said it that I ended up laughing out loud as I wrote this down. What a finicky lady.

I hope everything has already been resolved, but if you haven’t reconciled yet, give that a try.

Once dawn breaks, we’ll be leaving here, so I won’t be able to use a computer for a while again.

I’ll call you tomorrow or the day after. Let’s talk over the phone.

No Subject Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2010/06/17 7:29 PM

Did you arrive safely?

I’m so curious to know how that landscape we love looks through your eyes.

Email really is the best way for us to stay in touch, after all.

There’s the joy of rereading old emails, and there’s the fun of waiting for a reply.

For that reason, I won’t be answering the phone until you return, so consider yourself warned.

I’ll be waiting for your reply.

No Subject Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2010/07/02 11:04 PM

Haha, really? You found it? Good heavens!

The first time I went, I couldn’t even find it when Adrian pointed straight at it with his finger… How on earth did you find it without a single clue? That’s truly amazing.

And thank you for leaving flowers there.

When I told Adrian, he seemed a bit surprised as well.

Thanks to your email, tonight is going to be a very pleasant one. 😀

I hope your night is just as lovely.

No Subject Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2015/06/21 09:13 AM

You’re doing well, right? As you know, we’re doing well.

It’s already been almost five years since we relocated here.

An epidemic is causing an uproar again these days—how are things in your neighborhood?

I hope everyone you care about stays safe.

No Subject Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2018/02/19 10:34 PM

Hello, Matthias! It’s been three years by email.

I listened in beside Adrian when you two spoke on the phone not long ago, but I wanted to reach out personally just to check in.

We’re the same as ever. And of course, you are too, right?

We’ll come visit you sometime next year.

I wonder how long it will take you to read this email this time. I’m looking forward to finding out.

No Subject Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2021/01/09 3:48 AM

How have you been doing lately?

Nothing in particular. With the world in such turmoil, you just suddenly crossed my mind.

Adrian has been in low spirits continuously these days. As you know, he despises epidemics perhaps even more than humans do.

I think it’s because watching it leaves him with such a hollow feeling.

A few days ago, he even mentioned that he’d like to sleep for about five years.

To be honest, I was surprised. Since we became one, he has never slept for more than three days…

But I think I’m going to tell him to go ahead.

Actually, when I opened this email draft, I was still conflicted, but writing it down here has helped sort out my thoughts.

I don’t want him to witness any more of these futile deaths either. He has already endured my deaths alone for nearly three hundred years.

We’ve spent twenty years playing and traveling to our hearts’ content, so I won’t feel resentful or lonely.

To him, five years might not even feel like five hours, let alone five days, but it will still be a restful break, won’t it?

Hmm, all right. My mind is firmly made up now.

I suppose it’s my turn to wait for him. Though even so, compared to the centuries he spent waiting, five years is hardly anything at all.

I’ll have to wipe his handsome face clean every single day so dust doesn’t gather on it.

Anyway, with him saying things like that, I reached out because I worried you might be having a difficult time as well.

If you are, you’re always welcome to come here. Whenever you need a safe, peaceful place to rest.

Matthias! Inbox ✕

● [I] Ilie To: Me · 2026/07/17 2:56 AM

He finally woke up today!

He’s very healthy and looks in wonderful spirits. And so am I, of course!

He drank seven blood bags in one sitting and is taking a shower right now, so I’m taking the opportunity to send you the good news.

I know this is a terribly belated greeting, but I wanted to write it down to tell you even now.

Thank you so much for coming over last year. Entering the fourth year of his sleep, I was honestly feeling quite lonely and exhausted, but thanks to you, I was able to let him rest peacefully until he woke on his own.

Ah, the water has stopped running. I have to go.

Goodbye!