The Night the Stars Were Especially Beautiful
It was a day when the stars were especially beautiful.
The hero decided that tonight, he would confess to the saintess.
On that night when the stars shone with rare brilliance, her figure reflected in their light was just as beautiful. Her long silver hair, her clear and transparent eyes, the lips that never parted except when she ate or drank—everything about her was beautiful.
He called her out to a clearing on the blue plains where the grass grew thick and dense. She tilted her head as if a flicker of curiosity had stirred, then soon nodded with the bright smile she always wore.
The hero and the saintess sat back to back.
Born unable to speak, the saintess had always listened one-sidedly to whatever the hero said. Still, she answered with her body as best she could, keeping the conversation alive in her own way.
At last, determined to fulfill his purpose, the hero cast aside every hesitation and spoke. Gazing up at the stars that glittered so fiercely they made his eyes ache, he said,
"Saintess, I love you."
"Will you accept me?"
He did not find her silence strange. She could not speak; he believed she would answer with her actions this time as well.
The saintess carefully pressed herself more closely against his back.
Alone in his misunderstanding, the hero took it as acceptance. He stared up at the stars, overflowing with happiness, and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, the first sight that greeted the hero who had spent the night with her in the clearing was the saintess lying peacefully, her white habit stained red.
Startled, he approached her slowly.
"Saintess?"
Please.
Please.
Please.
"Saintess?"
Answer me.
Nod your head.
Get up like always and look at me.
But that day, the hero's heart never reached her.
And neither did his confession.
He stepped backward without thinking. Whether from fear of the reality that had crashed down upon him or from the horrific scene he desperately wanted to flee, he retreated one step at a time.
Then he forced his senses back and dragged his feet forward—feet that felt as heavy as lead.
She would never smile at him again.
He had to accept that fact.
What appeared before him then was a clock.
A voice spoke.
"Turn the clock hands."
Even amid the chaos, the hero pushed his grief aside and began to think.
"Who are you?"
The voice only repeated itself.
"Turn the clock hands."
The ancient clock that had appeared before the saintess's corpse said those words.
And the hero cast away every doubt. He discarded everything and clung only to a faint hope.
As if possessed, he wound the clock hands backward.
"I clearly heard your wish."
A young girl's voice spoke those words, and his vision reversed.