“Is this… a ghost?”
The sounds grew clearer as I got closer, a faint sobbing.
It was so sorrowful and bleak that it was hard to believe it was a human sound.
It felt like an emotion that had transformed into pure resentment, a burden too heavy to bear.
Moreover, I could sense only one presence, and on a cold November night just before the bitter winter set in, the image of a “woman crying alone” was hard to fathom.
Though not threatening, I did not let my guard down.
My hair stood on end, and a chill crept down my spine.
On my tiptoes, I stealthily approached the door of the room where the sound was echoing.
“Ah… Haa…”
Amid the sobs, I could hear something mumbling.
It sounded like a murmur I had heard in a past life.
It reminded me of the time when a neighbor, a woman with a speech impediment, rushed to me in panic after her son was bitten by a large centipede, trying to communicate through sign language while her mouth moved in frustration.
“Wuuu… Huh… Ah…”
Words that wouldn’t come out, releasing all the aggravation.
That mumbling, more bothersome for the listener than the speaker, echoed amidst the sobs.
What was she trying to say all alone?
Or was she speaking to someone else?
I grasped the doorknob.
Ready to unleash my magical powers if need be, I began to channel heat into my mana core.
And so…
Creak…
I slowly opened the door.
A bed came into view.
On it lay a skeleton, neatly positioned.
I flinched at the thought that perhaps the skeleton was the one sobbing, but I swung the door wide open, drawn by the sound coming from the right.
“Ah… Huh…”
“……”
There sat a woman by the window, where neither frame nor panes broke the view.
Her hair, whether white or gray, lay in disarray upon the floor, and her body was as emaciated as the skeleton that had been resting on the bed.
And yet,
For some reason, her form felt familiar.
Both the sobbing she emitted and that silhouette reflecting in the moonlight.
I blinked.
The sight of a woman crying alone amidst forgotten lands and abandoned ruins felt too surreal, making it hard to believe my eyes.
Moreover, the rags draped awkwardly over her, barely clinging to her body, was so tattered it was almost embarrassing to call them clothing. Her hair was tangled to the point that a vagabond would want to avert their gaze, and her bony arms and legs were hardly recognizable as human.
It felt like I was witnessing an illusion, and honestly, one could say we had just encountered the first ghost monster in this world.
For a moment, I wondered if I had already been ensnared by someone’s trickery, caught in an illusion.
“Huh…”
The woman turned her head to look at me.
Deep blue pupils scanned me.
The tumult that had engulfed those pupils started to calm down, almost as if I were staring into an abyss.
Despite being so dark, I could sense the original color hidden within those eyes.
And those eyes were familiar.
This made it all the more unbelievable.
Those shouldn’t have been the eyes that emerged in this desolate wasteland of death.
Surely, this was a cunning trap set by some wicked individual.
A bizarre illusion crafted to deceive me with something impossible.
It had only been six months.
A long time, perhaps, but for the heroine Lumia Winterfell to be weeping alone in this forsaken land, to become this skeletal shell, was far too short a period.
In a space devoid of light, people, and warmth, filled only with death, it was far too brief a time to be crying on the brink of despair.
Who could be testing me like this?
Why show me this?
Was it to undermine the prayer I had offered for her at the end of the betrothal contest?
“Am I meant to punish the bystander who has been freed from their sins all alone? Is this apparition forcing guilt upon me, saying this is my responsibility?”
Regardless of the truth, it certainly felt like a wicked trick and a rather mischievous gambit.
This reunion, whether born from someone’s wish, a mere hallucination, or perhaps an unlikely coincidence based on a one-in-a-million chance, was undeniably a moment of twisted mischief.
Never once did I expect to witness such a sight, which left me in utter confusion and shock. In the midst of all this, Lumia’s crying ceased.
Thud.
It felt as if the sobs she gave were the last flickers of her life, as she collapsed without strength, like a wilted flower.
“L-Lumia…?”
I found myself calling her name unwittingly.
It had been a solid six months since I last uttered that name, and I thought to myself that I might never call it again.
I hurried to check Lumia’s pulse as she lay there fallen.
Fortunately, her heartbeat hadn’t stopped yet.
It was weak, but it seemed to reflect some lingering desire for life—barely beating, as if fighting against the odds.
I quickly hoisted her up.
While this could easily be a cruel joke, turning me into a laughingstock, or perhaps I had fallen into a malicious trap, her precarious state looked far too critical for me to hesitate.
I didn’t know if I was floundering in a dream, bouncing around in a hallucination, or thrashing helplessly in a trap, but all I could think about was saving the light-as-a-feather Lumia, who felt impossible to believe was a living person.
Be it chance or trickery, if I hesitated and she were to perish, I could foresee guilt emerging within me that hadn’t existed before.
If this light-as-a-feather form I was carrying was not an illusion, then it was only natural to prioritize saving her, so I immediately dashed toward the first floor, where the campsite was being set up.
“Rendler—!!”
I urgently called for Rendler, who had a simple first aid kit on hand.
“I’ll do my best to heal your pain. Please, accept my efforts, my love.” (Deron)
“…Ugh.” (Lumia)
I had tried to endure.
The sinner who ruined everything must face their due punishment.
If my father and Gelwood had not made their decisive choices, the festival for the people and the sacred traditions of our noble family would have been in shambles.
Thus, it felt as if I had broken it myself, and I was akin to a sinner, deserving punishment for my engagement with the instigator.
But the single utterance of ‘my love’ from the instigator made the discomfort I had so painstakingly suppressed rise to the surface, and it was something I couldn’t stop.
“Don’t you want anything from me? You can stomp my hand with your heel and spit on me if you want—whatever it takes to heal your pain.” (Deron)
“Nothing.” (Lumia)
“What…? I mean, at least show a bit of goodwill…” (Deron)
“I’m sorry.”
Now I understood.
The wounds that had torn apart could not be stitched and had closed up without healing; there had been nothing to be mended from the beginning.
I now realized that the unclean dirt caught in the scars could not be wiped away.
“What on earth must I do to earn your forgiveness? Damn it, what do you expect me to do by saying I don’t have to do anything?!” (Deron)
“…Why are you going so far for this?” (Lumia)
“Because we’re married! We need to reconcile and live well together, so I’m apologizing!” (Deron)
“Want to live well? Isn’t it because after a hundred days you want to be recognized as my husband and receive a pardon from my father?” (Lumia)
I had overheard by chance.
I had accidentally heard the mumbles of him drinking alone in his office.
I had caught wind of the real reason you wanted my forgiveness.
I didn’t resent my father at all.
It was only natural to hope that the tradition of living happily with the victor of the betrothal contest would be upheld, just as I wanted as the head of the family.
“Y-You heard…?”
“Regrettably so.”
Thud.
You kneeled back then.
“F-Please, I’m begging you! Time is really running out! Forgive me! Let’s live happily together—I’m begging for an apology that you must have wished for, so why won’t you accept it?!”
Had it not been for the piercing screams digging into the scar from that day and the gaping earholes—those reminders that started aching the more time I spent with you—I wouldn’t have turned down that wish.
I’d have endeavored to bear the nightmares that repeated daily for a lifetime.
Amidst the misery so profound that I’d have rather welcomed death, I would have tried to survive.
Just like now.
I had endured for ninety days since the betrothal contest ended, without letting it show to anyone.
“I’ll talk to Father, so don’t worry. I’ll tell him how hard you’ve tried, how you’ve reflected each day without missing a single moment. Despite it all, I couldn’t accept your apology. So don’t worry; everything will return to normal.”
On the ninety-ninth day, I spoke with all my sincerity.
Even though you once again slurred my name under the influence of alcohol, calling me a ‘bug’, ‘trash’, and a ‘worthless woman’, I still tried to ensure we reached the best conclusion.
I had already dropped a hint to Lord Gelwood, and he told me that my father would surely approve.
“…What kind of idiot does this bitch think she is? Did you really think I’d be fooled? Let’s just die together, you damn slut!”
On the hundredth day, in the dead of night, you snuck into my bedroom wielding a knife.
It was at this point I should have realized.
That there was never any best conclusion for us in the first place.
“Why, why are you doing this, Deron?”
I should have known this long ago.
“AAAACK—!!”
“What, what’s happening! Your Grace!”
“Shit…!”
Bang!
“She jumped out the window! Hurry and chase her—!”
I should have known the cursed girl was never meant to live a full life.
If I had died long ago, no one would be hurt.
“Your Grace?”
But.
Again.
Why.
Am I waking up?
I thought this was truly the end.
Why do I see the blue sky?
“Are you coming to your senses a bit?”
…Why do I see Elden’s face?
“If you have the strength to swallow, at least drink this. It’ll help your recovery.”
Why am I basking in the warm sunlight when I should have died?
Why am I being supported by Elden when I should be dead?
I should have been dead.
I had no doubt I would die.
Is this a hallucination just before death?
Or a delusion right before I die?
I don’t know.
All I can ask is…
Please….
Just…
I’m begging you, please… let me…
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