Chapter 102
Hermane cupped his cheeks with both hands. She gently brushed the corners of his eyes with her thumbs, pressed her lips to his damp eyelids, and softly licked away the moisture clinging to his eyelashes.
As if she wanted to draw in and absorb every single tear falling drop by drop from his deep blue eyes, she tenderly traced over his face here and there.
Her lips, soaked with a sharp saltiness, eventually overlapped his. With affectionate gestures, she soothed her lover, packing thousands of unspoken words of comfort into them.
For the one person she had once loved so dearly, whom she could never fully let go of even amid resentment.
The ancient being who could no longer be called human silently loosened his heart, held in the arms of the woman he had longed for over an unfathomably long time.
And meanwhile, what had Noxia Decan—pushed to a corner of her unconscious after losing control to her past-life self—been thinking?
Unable to keep her promise to go see the winter sea with her first love of this life, and now here at the summer sea with her lover from a previous life,
she thought sadly that the summer sea wasn’t anything special either.
Then, curling up like a fetus, she quietly shut her eyes and ears.
Hermane and Promeon returned home before the light of sunrise spread over the sea that had swallowed the sunset.
They lay side by side on the bed, facing each other, and talked for a long time. Hermane only fell asleep when morning came, and Promeon gazed at her precious face, thinking lightly to himself.
‘Looks like the teahouse will have to be closed today as well.’
Regular customers would surely be displeased to find the door closed for the second day in a row, but Promeon didn’t want to concern himself with them.
After tucking a blanket over Hermane’s softly sleeping body, Promeon quietly left the room and went down to the first floor.
He stepped outside. Crossing the front yard and checking the mailbox beside the front gate, he saw newspapers stacked up neatly.
Noxia Decan subscribed to a daily paper. It, too, had been a silent struggle to avoid being completely cut off from the outside world.
Staring indifferently at the newspapers that had grown damp from prolonged exposure to the air, Promeon quietly pondered.
‘Would Hermane want to read the newspaper?’
At present, Noxia Decan’s consciousness was entirely submerged by memories of her past life, pushed into a remote corner of her unconscious.
Since the day before yesterday, Hermane had shown interest only in Promeon’s stories and the primordial age they once belonged to; she seemed to have little curiosity about the era Noxia Decan belonged to.
Promeon hesitated. He didn’t want to show these newspapers to Hermane. He wanted her to focus solely on the time they had fully shared together.
‘If reading the paper were to revive Noxia Decan’s self…’
Would Noxia Decan, not Hermane, hold him like that? Smile at him like that? Kiss him, comfort him, and freely recall ancient memories together?
He couldn’t be sure. No—actually, he could. She never would. It could never be the same as before.
Regardless of her past-life memories, Noxia Decan belonged to this era. Her friends, colleagues, and the prince who had been her lover were all people of the modern age. If her heart were to turn away…
‘…Should I just burn them?’
Promeon’s gaze grew colder as he stared at the newspapers.
Before he could even make a conscious decision, his unconscious seemed to have hardened; smoke was already rising from the corner of the paper.
The smell of burning paper pricked his nose. The damp newsprint began to scorch from the edges.
‘No.’
Promeon hurriedly restrained himself. Aside from the corner already blackened, the newspapers were still intact.
‘I can’t hide things anymore. I can’t deceive her. I can’t let it end like last time.’
He already had a dreadful precedent. When he had wanted his lover’s reincarnation to look only at him, he had imprisoned her deep in the mountains so she could take interest in nothing else.
Back then, she had resented him and ultimately committed suicide right before his eyes. He never wanted to experience such a miserable farewell again. Never—absolutely never.
‘I’ve only just gotten her back. After all it took to reunite…’
Suppressing the urge to tear the detestable scraps of newspaper to shreds, Promeon carefully smoothed out the crumpled paper with his hands.
‘When I’m already hiding something from her, I can’t add deceit on top of it.’
For once, he chose to follow his conscience. It was a conscience so faded that one might question whether it still existed at all, but assuming it did, he could at least make a judgment based on it.
Promeon neatly folded the newspapers and took them inside. Closing the front door and looking up, he saw Hermane beyond the stair railing.
“Promeon, where did you go?”
She asked languidly, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Even her tousled hair looked enchanting to Promeon.
“I just checked the mailbox. The newspapers had piled up.”
“…Oh.”
“Do you want to read them?”
“Well… I’ll look later. Just leave them on the table.”
Hermane’s expression grew slightly uncomfortable. Promeon sensed that she felt an anxiety similar to his own, but instead of pressing the matter, he asked casually,
“Should I make you some porridge? Or bread and tea?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Still, you should eat something, Hermane. We didn’t eat anything yesterday.”
Only after his gentle reminder did Hermane realize her hunger. So much had happened over the past two days that she had completely forgotten.
“Alright. Then could you make some porridge? I want something soft.”
“Sure. If you wash up quickly and come back, I’ll have it ready.”
“Thank you, Promeon.”
Hearing his name on her lips was sweet. Forgetting his unease about the newspaper, he looked up at her and smiled warmly. Hermane returned the smile just as kindly.
“I’ll be right back.”
Hermane turned and lightly disappeared toward the bathroom. Promeon began cooking for his lover with brisk movements.
After soaking the rice, he poured it into a pot with the remaining milk and started simmering the porridge over low heat. While the rich, gentle milk porridge bubbled softly, Promeon took out fruit from the pantry.
Without realizing it, he began to hum softly as he sliced the fruit. Then he suddenly noticed that he really was humming, froze for a moment, and let out a quiet chuckle.
‘She’s truly come back.’
The time when you and I are together as true lovers. The days we live as a complete pair. A peaceful season when humming comes naturally, your steps feel light enough to fly, and the whole world looks beautiful.
In her first life, when he was her lover and partner, he adorned their days with countless love songs, whispers, and sweet touches.
Then she lived out her natural lifespan and left his side, while he remained alone, bound to immortality. From then on, he slowly wore down and dulled, like rock eroding over time. There were no songs left in his life.
But look at him now. A man humming as he busily moves about the kitchen, like a devoted husband preparing a meal for his beloved wife.
No longer a strange transcendent being, but just an ordinary human, an ordinary person in love—he had returned to his former, lovable self.
‘At last, together with you…’
Promeon wore an enraptured expression. With dreamy, hazy eyes, he held the knife and drew its blade toward the cutting board to finish slicing the fruit.
“…?”
A sharp sting shot through him. Promeon looked down at his hand in confusion.
Trying to cut the fruit without properly looking, he had sliced his own flesh.
It wasn’t a serious wound—just a small cut on the tip of his finger. Still, the deep red blood welled up in droplets and seeped into the fruit, an unpleasant sight.
‘Damn.’
He clicked his tongue softly, thinking it was a foolish mistake. It was something that would never have happened under normal circumstances.
‘I guess I really was floating on a high. I wasn’t concentrating at all.’
Not paying attention while holding a knife—if anyone else did that, they’d rightly be scolded for being careless and dangerous.
But he was an immortal who had lived for countless ages, a transcendent being who could start fires with a glance and erase memories with a gesture.
Cutting fruit without looking should have been as easy as blinking. In fact, this was the first time he had ever made such a mistake.
The bloodied fingertip throbbed. Promeon didn’t mind and simply waited for the wound to heal. He was more concerned about the fruit being ruined by blood than about his own pain.
“….”
Something was wrong. No matter how long he waited, the wound didn’t heal. Normally, it would have closed as if melting away in the time it took to breathe once.
The expression drained from Promeon’s eyes. He stood rigid as stone, staring at his bloodstained finger.
Then he smelled something burning. Promeon snapped back to his senses.
Grabbing a dishcloth, he roughly wrapped it around his finger, lifted the pot lid, and hurriedly stirred the porridge. The contents had already started to stick slightly. At least he’d noticed before it got worse.
This, too, was something that would never have happened normally. A mistake that should not have been made.
Burning food—him, whose senses were sharper than most and who could handle many tasks at once.
Promeon’s heart began to race. It was unfamiliar and unpleasant. Bewildering, unsettling, and…
And perhaps—
“Promeon?”
Ah—lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed Hermane coming back from washing up. She came down the stairs, sniffing the air.
“Something smells burnt. Is everything okay?”
Promeon moved quickly. He turned off the heat under the pot and grabbed the inedible fruit in one fist, quietly tossing it into the trash.
Then he unwrapped the bloodstained cloth and checked his finger. The wound had healed by now. The speed was slower than usual, but it had healed nonetheless.
He tossed the cloth into the trash as well and closed the lid to block the smell of blood. By the time Hermane reached the kitchen, he was calmly dishing out porridge, as if nothing at all had happened.
