Trembling Hands
Humans live by grasping trembling hands and relying on their own memories.
That's why they harbor no doubts about what they've seen or what they remember.
But what if those memories differ from reality?
What if records of a self they never knew exist?
And what if they confront those memories only later?
What becomes of a human then?
Can they endure that sense of dislocation?
A sacred prayer room cloaked in stained glass.
A pitch-black chamber with not a single light turned on.
Only sunlight filtering through the colored panes filled the interior.
Dozens of seats.
Just two people.
"Hoo…."
A soft exhale.
Pale smoke billowed from the Saintess's lips.
The hazy smoke veiled the sunlight streaming through the stained glass.
The expressions on the two facing each other were much the same.
Shadowed, impassive masks.
Only Aen Arbel's face bore a touch more confusion.
And the Saintess's carried a shade deeper guilt.
That was the sole difference.
"So, what'd you think after seeing it?"
"…You knew?"
The Saintess didn't answer.
Instead, she quietly nodded toward the black chain encircling her ankle.
For those who knew even the parts they wished to ignore about each other, that was answer enough.
"…Why didn't you tell me?"
"What's the point of telling someone who won't listen?"
Aen Arbel had no rebuttal to the Saintess's words.
The memories of Iheon that the Saintess and Aen Arbel had witnessed were tales already erased from the world.
The emotions of the three hailed as heroes—who had reshaped it into a story leaving no evidence or records—ran deep.
"…Yeah, true."
"…Want one?"
"…A smoke?"
The cigarettes the Saintess always seemed to carry these days.
Ones she never would have touched before.
But today… after seeing those memories… just one couldn't hurt, Aen Arbel thought.
Cough, cough.
Unfamiliar acrid smoke filled the prayer room, echoing with coughs.
This place, bathed in stained-glass sunlight, was a prayer room.
Where countless people came to offer wishes to the divine.
Where they prayed for the well-being of loved ones.
Where they confessed their sins.
This smoke-filled chamber was a prayer room.
Where a sinner who had glimpsed the truth a single lifetime too soon—a Saintess a step ahead of others—prayed for her benefactor's peace.
Where the soul of a grand archmage, belatedly confronting shards of vanished memories, confessed her sins.
Where one who had burned everything away to become a blank page wished for a hero to finally find happiness this time.
To write a story for herself, not for others.
In the brief span of a single cigarette burning down.
One hero finished her private prayer and departed.
The other remained, legs crossed atop the podium, watching her go.
"Hoo…."
Pale smoke billowed once more.
The wounds brought back today hurt more than expected.
Pain so excruciating even the Saintess, who had borne countless injuries, let out a groan.
How must the one who had carried these wounds all along have felt?
The grotesquery of a severed arm, the hollow emptiness of a gutted torso, the searing agony of eyes burned away.
How much it must have hurt.
Or more than that.
If the first words etched onto a blank page wiped pristine white were of a friend's betrayal.
What level of torment would that pain have been?
The Saintess gazed at Aen Arbel heading back to her room, lost in such thoughts.
She hated Aen Arbel so much for inflicting those wounds.
But she knew all too well she had no right to blame her.
So the Saintess could only watch in silence.
"Hoo…."
Fresh cigarette smoke filled the void left by the smoke drifting out the open door.
Today's smokes felt somehow lacking.
"…It hurts."
This batch from the church must be defective.
Otherwise, why would the pain throb so fiercely?
Probably skimped on the painkillers a bit.
With such thoughts, the Saintess extinguished her cigarette.
"…This is ridiculous."
The door wouldn't open.
Nothing much to do inside, and my body's fine—no issues there.
…I was just trying to head back to my room and crash.
"…How the hell is it locked?"
Is it okay to mod the dorm door like this on a whim…?
Stuck waiting for the owner like this, I feel like a pet.
Like a dog waiting for its butler to come home from work?
Don't I look pretty pathetic right now?
"When's she…."
"I'm here!"
What the—.
No door sound or anything….
"…How'd you get in?"
"Huh? Teleport, obviously."
Ah.
Right, yeah….
"O-okay, but don't pop in like that next time."
"Eh, but this is the easiest way?"
Yeah… it probably is convenient.
Bad for my heart, though.
"…Anyway, open the door first."
"…The door?"
Yeah, open the damn door.
I need to get out and rest.
"Yeah, I'm beat."
Arbel's expression shifted at my words.
Her face had been its usual smiling one when she entered.
It gradually blanked out, now utterly devoid of emotion.
"…Nothing you wanna say to me?"
Something to say…
Plenty.
That it hurt like hell.
Honestly didn't see it coming from you.
Couldn't you have gone easy on me?
Not that kinda stuff, though.
"…Wanna grab a sandwich?"
Have you eaten?
You've had a rough day too, huh.
Something caring like that.
"…Sandwich?"
"Yeah, I'm hungry."
"…Okay."
Arbel's the one who stabbed me in the back, plain and simple.
But it's hard to hate her.
Why? Dunno.
I don't particularly like humans as a species.
Stories like Arbel's are a dime a dozen in reality.
Doesn't really move me.
It's just… my body, my mind—they refuse to hate this person called Arbel.
The dorm beyond the open door was just as always.
Snowy white halls.
The fountain on the first floor.
Flower beds encircling it.
I pushed open the glass door.
A bit late in the evening outside.
Cool breeze blowing.
Clouds faintly veiling the sky.
Moonlight spilling through.
A night for brooding thoughts.
Questions I deliberately hadn't asked.
Her connection to those dead kids.
Who that man was.
What "countless lives" meant.
What the chain around my neck—temporarily concealed—was.
If the attack was because of this chain.
Or purely personal grudge against me.
Dozens of things I wanted to ask.
Yet my mouth stayed shut.
Maybe because the night was too quiet.
Or I'd sunk into the mood.
Such an emotionally charged night.
Something like that.
The 24-hour sandwich shop.
It was open, as always.
At the usual spot, I ordered my usual sandwich.
"Sandwich's good, right?"
"…Yeah, it is."
Arbel's responding voice trembled fiercely.
Good thing.
The sandwich after so long was its usual delicious self.
Fluffy bread and crisp lettuce for texture, tangy tomato and sauce to whet the appetite.
Thick, juicy bacon adding savory umami and satisfaction… the usual tasty goodness.
"…Heon, Iheon."
Arbel spoke again in that quivering voice.
Clutching the half-eaten sandwich tight.
I didn't reply.
Felt like just listening right now was best.
"S-sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…."
Her face matched that trembling voice perfectly.
Twisted downward, eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming from the slits.
What was she so sorry for?
Suddenly backstabbing me and leaving me half-dead?
Felt like it wasn't just that.
My mind's a total blank right now.
No—a blank with faint indentations somewhere.
Pencil marks linger on paper after erasing.
Maybe my head's like that.
Erased memories leave traces.
Nothing gets wiped completely clean.
Where do my current feelings stem from?
How can I be this forgiving after just a few glimpses of her face?
…Dunno.
Not that curious, either.
Just wanna say this right now.
"It's okay. Later, once we're closer… we can talk then."
About each other.
And about me.
Might take a bit—a very little bit of time.
But by then, I'll have my memories back, you'll have forgotten the bad ones.
And we can smile at each other.
That'd be nice.
Yeah… that'd be nice.
"Let's head home."
The night was bright.
Not a single streetlamp lit.
But the cloudless night sky gleamed vividly.
First time for a night this bright.
Why was tonight shining so?
Lost in that thought as I walked, I spotted a hand.
The hand that trembled so in the memory I'd seen.
A hand grown a little more from that.
It looked so cold, so lonely.
I took it quietly.
The hand was cold, as expected.
I lent my warmth to Arbel's cold hand.
Until our temperatures matched.
My hot hand and her cold one warming to lukewarm.
Guiding her still-trembling hand, we quietly returned to the room.
A night when I thought maybe I should carry a hot pack next time.