Chapter 25

[To my one and only Mac,

It feels like it’s been a long time since I last wrote you.

I’ve been busy with one thing and another, and my mind’s been a little restless.

Things in Bellen ended relatively well. The outcome differed slightly from the original plan, but the results were good. In any case, the king is down, and we achieved what we wanted. Soon, Loris and his group should be able to leave the camp as well.

(…omitted…)

I’ve moved our hideout from Sasha’s house to a small port town north of Hasmal. We’re preparing for illegal departure by sea. Once everything’s ready, we’ll head to Glissen. I’m already excited at the thought of finally seeing Leon. He’ll probably be very angry with me for being so late.

I plan to stay with Leon in Glissen for a while—maybe even forever. Not yet, but with this incident, my existence could be revealed to them. If that happens, I probably won’t be able to return to Hasmal, let alone Berk.

It would be a lie to say I’m not scared, but I’m trying to be brave.

Wish me luck.

From your Edit.]

Edit finally finished the letter, which for days had stalled after just the salutation, and neatly folded the page in half. The crisp texture of the new paper pressed against her palm. The words she couldn’t bring herself to write—things like “I’m sorry” or “I have no excuse”—she decided would never be written at all.

She shoved the diary deep into her suitcase and rose from her desk. Through the window, the night sky was crowded with stars. She opened it slightly. The winter wind coming off the sea tousled her hair and chilled her cheeks.

“Maybe it’s the coast… it’s colder than Bellen,” she thought.

As winter deepened, she heard a refreshing sound like seaweed brushing against the waves—almost like rain.

Her monotonous thoughts abruptly went off track at that moment.

Edit lightly bit her dry lips, thinking of that sound. Instantly, the image of that man came to mind—the one who had embarrassed her so much, even making her hesitate to write a letter to Maximilian.

“…Don’t… do this,” she barely whispered.

Even her pleading couldn’t free her hands, which seemed ready to crush her jaw. Her lips pressed together involuntarily. Her tongue intruded, rubbing against his in a wet friction that carried a sticky sound.

Unlike the hazy sensations from the rain-soaked memories, everything was too vivid now, making Edit shiver.

He, who had oppressed her for so long, finally lifted his head after painfully biting his thick lower lip, almost as if punishing himself.

During all this, Edit hadn’t even been able to properly resist. Her face was held by him, yes, but even if it hadn’t been, the outcome likely wouldn’t have been much different.

What embarrassed Edit most was that it wasn’t Maximilian—but another man…

“No matter how much he resembles him…” she muttered.

Overcome with belated shame, she closed the window. Thump. Her hand had inadvertently knocked something, making a small noise.

Of course, that wasn’t the only thing she hadn’t done.

In fact, that day, Edit hadn’t asked the man any of the many questions she should have—why he had broken into the Berk hideout, how he knew her name, why he had helped her, or even his own name.

No—more accurately, she hadn’t even thought about any of it. She was completely consumed by his very presence.

When her thoughts began to spiral again, she closed her eyes and reopened them. Gently shaking her faintly aching head, she felt her consciousness clear a little.

“It’s nothing, really. So…”

Repeating his words helped somewhat.

Edit lay down on her bed.

The faint sound of waves drifting in through the window tickled her ears.

Like the sound of rain…

She tossed and turned, causing the covers to shift.

Tears blurred his vision.

Zekart, lying still for a while staring blankly at the hospital ceiling, slowly sat up. Just then, Heinrich entered the room.

“Any thoughts come to mind?”

Heinrich asked, removing the IV needle from Zekart’s arm. Until then, Zekart had been continuously wiping away tears.

“N-no…” he replied weakly, as if still submerged in the “sea of the unconscious.” It seemed he had witnessed something utterly horrifying, though he couldn’t remember it.

Trying to recall more, a sudden derealization gripped him—a panic attack that had been dormant for a while.

“Hah… hah…”

His breathing collapsed, his pulse went erratic, and he flailed uncontrollably. Recognizing the severity, Heinrich quickly laid him back on the bed.

“Take a deep breath, Zekart.”

Heinrich’s voice came muffled, as if underwater. His dissociated memories began to violently assail his consciousness. The pain he had long forgotten surged like a tidal wave, screams and wails echoing in his mind—it was all his own.

“Zekart! Snap out of it, Zekart…”

Heinrich’s urgent voice was useless. His black eyes, still damp, gradually closed.

When he opened them again, only desolate wastelands remained before him. Often—no, frequently—he found himself abandoned here. Though he once searched for an exit, he only circled endlessly, like a Möbius strip.

In the ruined land, with dry dust rising, he curled up like a fledgling bird fallen from its nest. A bitter cold seeped in.

“…I will.”

A single ray of sunlight fell before him. Weak and delicate as a feather, Zekart desperately crawled toward it. Reaching the place bathed in light, warmth finally seeped into his chilled body.

“…Zekart!”

“…”

“Zekart!”

Gasping the breath the warmth had restored, Zekart opened his eyes. Through his blurred vision, he saw the white ceiling.

As his breathing gradually stabilized, Heinrich finally let out a sigh.

“No matter how busy you are, come at the proper time next. Leaving it for more than two weeks like this leads to such trouble.”

Still trembling, Zekart nodded faintly. He had come to see Heinrich only after a month of various incidents. Even the sturdy barrier Heinrich had built had begun to crack.

Soon, Zekart rose from the bed. Heinrich tried to make him rest longer, but he refused.

His confident steps halted only when he had opened the hospital door halfway.

“…Doctor.”

Heinrich, arranging the used IV and needles, turned. Zekart’s faded, wrinkled eyes looked up innocently. Hesitating, he began speaking.

“Is it possible, due to some trauma, to mistake a completely different person for the same one?”

It was an unusual question, and Heinrich looked slightly surprised, then nodded as if it were obvious.

“Of course.”

“…”

“Even if you don’t want to admit it, the mind affects all living beings profoundly. More than you can imagine. Delusions born from desperate desire are common, and they are the strongest.”

Heinrich added, seeing Zekart frown in confusion.

“Some female mammals even produce milk if they experience a psychological pregnancy. If someone as strong as you can be shaken by psychological trauma, doesn’t that tell you anything?”

Zekart gave a self-deprecating laugh.

Of course, that made sense.

Leaving the hospital, he recalled the documents he had seen days ago about “Maximilian Lindel.” It had been a ridiculous act, but he had deliberately looked them over.

‘But he really looked so much alike… no, exactly the same.’

He was somewhat curious. How much did they resemble each other for him to mistake one for his husband?

Yet, the face of Maximilian Lindel in the photo looked nothing like him—only their eyes and dark hair were similar.

Zekart felt an enormous emptiness at the realization.

So he must really have missed his husband that much to have made such a mistake, he thought.

“…Mac.”

Somewhere, a woman’s voice drifted by, scratching once again at his heart.