The Cold Sea

After creating the stars, Zeke approached Isabella. He sat down facing her and turned his back to the stars. Deep shadows covered him, making him appear dreadfully dark.

"...Isabella, this is a secret concerning you."

He opened his mouth,

and handed her the letter he had been holding.

"...You are someone whose memories have been erased."

He revealed the truth to Isabella, flatly.

"...You may read that letter while you listen. Or you may cover it up and continue listening to my story."

Isabella furrowed her brow at the sudden revelation. But she didn't read the letter. She had a hunch. A hunch that there wasn't much time left to look at Zeke like this.

The pocket watch told him there were a little over seven minutes remaining.

"...Isabella was originally a friend of Lady Rosaria and Lady Canaria. But she wished to live with those memories erased, by her own desire. Because the pain she realized too late turned even her happy memories into suffering. With nowhere left to run, you made erasing your memories your final refuge."

Isabella couldn't understand. It was an assumption she had never even considered.

But at that moment,

a sense of déjà vu surfaced.

Two faces she couldn't remember. The vague feeling that she had once been incredibly close to them rose up in that instant.

"...And I am the very person who left you with no choice but to make that decision. Because the worst choice, born of hypocrisy, made all of that sick."

He lifted his head and looked at the night sky. Because it was hard to look at Isabella's face, which held so many shifting expressions. Zeke looked at the night sky of Fran she had called beautiful, and at the stars he had drawn upon it.

But even those stars

were drawn while looking at Isabella. So he couldn't even look at the Isabella he had drawn.

Sadly, there was nowhere left to turn his eyes.

So he looked back at Isabella. She sat there wearing an expression of disbelief.

At that moment, the small sound of the clock hand moving could be heard. It meant time was passing even in the midst of this, and it entered his ears like a voice urging him to keep his promise.

With a bitter smile, Zeke opened his mouth again. Because a promise with a person of the Holy Nation must absolutely be kept.

"...After today, you will return to that time, Isabella. As Isabella, the friend of Lady Rosaria and Lady Canaria. You will return as the one who despised and detested me, the one who bore the most cruel scar in the world."

She couldn't understand why he was saying such things. Why had she despised and detested Zeke? Was this feeling she was experiencing now a fake? Was everything you showed me hypocrisy?

"...Although the happiness I have now was fake, I was happy. Even though I gave you a scar, I admired you. So, this time at least, I expressed my love to you with sincerity, free of hypocrisy."

The stars he had drawn fell one by one. The droplets of stars falling as a meteor shower landed on the hill where Isabella and Zeke sat, erasing the darkness and beginning to shine brightly.

"...I'm sorry for being a coward who only tells you this now, with so little time left. I didn't want to get hurt, so I ran away and ran away, until I could run no more, and now I have no choice but to say it. I'm truly sorry, Isabella."

Zeke shed tears as he apologized. Isabella's emotions wavered at the sight. Because she could no longer tell what the truth was.

She began to be confused between lies and truth.

Her heart pounded madly. A headache as if her head was splitting arose, and the remaining time was now a short span of barely over three minutes.

"...Zeke."

Isabella's reason grew distant. The fear of forgetting paralyzed it. She didn't even know what she was doing right now.

She raised her body. Even walking was hard. Staggering, she moved as if crawling on the ground. Her clothes getting dirty didn't even register. She didn't care that her knees were scraping and she was becoming covered in dirt.

New wounds remained on that body.

And then she was right in front of Zeke.

"...I don't really know anymore, either."

She didn't even know who she was. If this memory was a fabricated fake, didn't that make her current self just a substitute for the real Isabella who merely existed?

Then was everything a lie? Or was it because she was such a fake that he was sincere with her?

She couldn't figure any of it out. Her own sense of existence grew faint. ...And so, because she wanted to lean on someone,

Isabella leaned into Zeke as if embracing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him.

"...Why are you hurting? Why am I hurting like this? I don't understand anything, Zeke."

Would she understand if she read the letter? But there wasn't much time left to do that.

"...So I'm going to think however I please."

She wanted to capture the sight in her eyes one last time. So she simply looked at his face. She simply liked the sight of him illuminated by the falling stars.

"...If that time becomes the end, I'll give you the answer now to the question you said you'd ask for the first time, Zeke."

But wasn't this feeling a fake? Wasn't it the heart of a counterfeit with erased memories? Yet it felt too real to think of it that way.

Isabella threw one last childish fit before becoming an adult.

"...'I' love you, Zeke."

Shedding tears, she begged him. To please, let her love him.

"...No matter what the other me might think."

And she wanted to leave herself inside him.

...Hadn't he said that he had clearly made her sick, and left a cruel scar? It seemed Isabella knew why he had done that.

Wasn't it because he felt like he would disappear otherwise?

Therefore, Isabella acted exactly the same as Zeke.

A little over a minute remained. Isabella wanted to leave a 'herself' in his heart that would never disappear. Even if it was a betrayal of her original self, she wanted to make that heart equally sick and leave a cruel scar that wouldn't be erased, so that this current daydream wouldn't disappear.

Isabella tried to suddenly press her lips to his.

But Zeke didn't want that. He turned his head slightly to avoid the kiss. Her lips, which had been aiming for his mouth, merely bumped against his cheek.

"...Why?"

In that instant, Isabella resented Zeke. Why wouldn't he let her throw this fit? Despite having left a scar on her, why didn't he wish to be scarred himself?

"Because this action right now would hurt 'Isabella'."

Those were Zeke's last words.

......He had written his heart on his palm. And written his apology on the back of his hand. So Zeke brought his palm to Isabella's lips.

Because he wanted that heart to finally reach her.

Then he pressed his own lips to the apology written over his heart. He felt Isabella's hot tears, shed at the last moment, flow down the back of his hand.

...Because this was the last time his heart could reach her.

Because he was left with a lifetime of nothing but atonement, he conveyed that heart to Isabella one final time.

Then their flowing tears touched each other's lips.

The sour taste of sorrow filled their hearts.

Soon, the clock hand moved cruelly.

The time the magic ended: twelve o'clock. Isabella's memories vanished in that instant. Her eyes, which had remained open, wanting to capture his image until the very end, slowly closed as she fainted. It was the sight of Isabella.

And that sorrowful moment was when the fireworks everyone shot off wishing for happiness touched the galaxy the Hero had drawn, blessing the newly begun time.

At the same time, there were people under the curse of sorrow in that place. The bright light created by the galaxy and the fireworks cast shadows darker than usual, wrapping around the two of them.

It was the moment love ended, and the moment atonement began.

*

A familiar warmth filled that hazy consciousness.

The sensation was so familiar. And because it was warm enough to want to feel for a lifetime, she tried to recall when it had first begun.

...Was it the first time she'd had her hair brushed? Yes, thinking back now, it would have been then. The feeling of that moment when she first felt someone's warmth and touch.

It was the happiness she felt dozing off while leaning against that body, sleeping with her head in their lap, the feeling when she threw a fit for the first time asking if they couldn't stay like this just a little longer, wishing it would never end.

And the answer that followed—she remembered that vividly too.

The kind answer that,

if she only wished it, they could do it every day. And only now did she remember the content of the dream she'd had around that time.

A sweet dream she'd had while dozing off briefly. An illusion she'd wanted to dream again but couldn't recall.

She had finally reached it.

Yes, it was clearly a continuing dream. The sweet dream connecting her to that precious person who had taught her warmth and given it to her.

A dream she had glimpsed sometime ago, where that person in a pure white dress slipped a ring onto her finger.

She remembered the dream of that day she had so desperately wanted to reach.

She wanted to entrust her mind to this warmth just like this. She wanted to live in this gentle fantasy she had finally reached.

Because her body was so heavy, and her mind was hazy. Her heart wanted to stay still just like this.

She was floating above the whirlpool of sunken memories. Because most of her memories were so very cold, this current warmth felt even more precious.

Hadn't her life been painful? Born abandoned and cursed, it was a life lived receiving only hatred and contempt.

Then she had barely seen light, felt warmth from it, but hadn't the curse she received destroyed and snatched it away? Because her existence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was one that, even if she lived, only scattered this cold curse upon others.

She wanted to sink into this warmth just like this. She wanted to live in the warm fantasy covering this cold sea.

Because then this coldness wouldn't spread to anyone else.

But she felt a sound echoing dully. For some reason, it was so heart-wrenching that the thought of being bothered didn't occur to her, and the thought of wanting to hear that voice rather than watch the sweet fantasy began to fill her head.

It seemed to be calling a name. ...But what was her name? She had no name in this sea.

Then was that voice not calling her?

But that barely audible sound was so sorrowful. Because the voice that seemed to ring out, lashing her heart as punishment, did the same to her own heart.

The sensation of her heart ringing hurt so much.

It became the pain that woke her from the dream.

She didn't want to wake up. Because if she opened her eyes, she felt like she would be standing in the rain atop this cold sea. But she wanted to wake up. Because this resonance was so painful. She wanted to open her eyes and stop that resonance.

Soon, rain began to fall from the clouds of that fantasy.

It was warm rain. The continuously pouring rain entered the sea. Normally, the cold seawater would have made that rainwater just as cold.

But for some reason, the rainwater made the sea warm.

The sea became warm.

And for some reason,

it didn't seem like this was the first time. A strange sense of déjà vu filled her hazy mind.

She saw a blurry silver light. And then she saw a vivid golden light. It felt as if her mind was clearing in an instant.

And soon, it entered her eyes.

"...Rosaria?"

It was the sight of Rosaria shedding tears. She was as beautiful as she had drawn in her dreams, and she was wearing the same attire Canaria had wished for on that day.

If there was one slight difference, it was that the dress was a little red.

Only then did she realize the identity of the rain.

Those bead-like tears that had been falling onto her cheeks were the rain. The rain holding the kindness that made even the sea born of shadowed memories warm was continuously flowing from those silver eyes she had loved.

"...Don't cry, Rosaria."

She had said these exact words sometime before. Because that day too, Rosaria had been agonized. She had said it to her when Rosaria was crying while pretending to sleep.

...Wasn't that it? Perhaps this was the dream she'd had that day?

She didn't know anything.

Whether it was a continuation of the dream, because her body was equally heavy. Because her dazed and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hazy mind seemed to be creating a fog.

Canaria looked blankly at the crying Rosaria.

The tears were not just warm, but hot. Her pure white dress stained with blood looked like a rose. And more than anything, Rosaria was so sad that seeing that face worrying about her was painful.

She thought, now she had to pull herself together.

So she somehow moved her staggering body. She bit her tongue to clear her fading mind.

The actions born of will melted away the lead. The thunderclap born of pain erased the fog. The tears born of sadness ended the dream and brought the dying Canaria back to reality.

"...I'm alright now, Rosaria."

At the same moment she said that, Rosaria embraced her.

But Canaria couldn't stroke her back. Because the hands that came into view as she regained consciousness were bloodied. Since she couldn't stain that golden hair she loved with blood, she simply raised both hands and surrendered her body to Rosaria's embrace.

"...Don't lie to me."

But Rosaria didn't believe it.

"...Tell me the truth, honestly, Canaria."

Because just for a fleeting moment, the sense of loss blooming from the thought that she might die like this had been too painful.

"...Please don't leave me."

It might have been a cowardly thing to say. Despite having left her so heartlessly herself. And having done so while placing the worst curse, splattering cold blood on her hands and lips. She reproached herself inside, asking why she wouldn't even grant Canaria the freedom to leave.

"...There's no way I would."

That sight looked too precarious. She had sworn never to make her wear such an expression, yet in an instant she had shown disgrace and ultimately made her cry.

So she wiped away the tears. The cold blood on her hand touched her heated eye rim. Then the direction she moved to wipe them created a red path.

But sadly, they weren't the kind of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tears that would stop there, so the tears hot as fireballs melted the path. Soon, a trail of blood, holding the color of that path, streamed down the cheek of the Rose of the Holy Nation.

"...Because I am Rosaria's shadow."

A shadow never leaves her side. Even when light shone on her, it continuously formed, and darkness existed as shadow itself.

"...I will always be by your side."

Only then did Rosaria's tears stop. Then, with her face buried in Canaria's chest, she spoke.

"...I will give an order, as someone who was once a Saint."

She hoped it might hold even a weak Word Spirit.

"...Don't hide anything from me."

Hoping she would grant this request. The one who was once a Saint asked the one who had become the Saintess.

"...I will obey your command."

Canaria smiled bitterly as she listened to the order. Then, after purifying the blood on her hands, she gently pushed Rosaria's shoulders back to look at her face.

The tears had stopped, but the sadness had settled in. Canaria wanted to change that expression. So, as she always did, she stole a kiss from those lips.

But a taste different from usual filled them.

Something Canaria knew but Rosaria didn't.

The coppery taste of blood remained on her tongue. Unintentionally, Canaria had exacted revenge for that day's pain. A red thread different from usual connected them.

"...That's spiteful, Canaria."

The unwanted coppery taste lingered on her lips.

"...I didn't intend it. I'm sorry."

Canaria was only apologizing. And of course, Rosaria accepted it.

"...I'll tell you everything later."

And as always, Canaria promised later. Saying she would tell her about the many problems she had to speak of but couldn't, suffering alone.

Only then did the relieved Rosaria smile. Canaria loved seeing the galaxy that bloomed on her lips. That galaxy, more beautiful than the one settled outside.

Looking at it, she swallowed the throbbing in her chest.