Elizabeth picked up one of the books…
and slowly turned the first page, her fingers trembling despite her attempt to remain steady.
The title alone was enough to slightly disrupt her breathing.
“The Hierarchy of Light and Fallen Beings.”
The letters felt heavier than those of an ordinary book.
She lifted her gaze toward him and asked, in a tone she tried to make casual:
— Are you interested… in fallen beings?
He didn’t answer.
He kept staring at his teacup, slowly swirling the liquid inside, as if the question had never been asked at all.
She hesitated for a moment, then asked again, this time more quietly:
— Do you believe in angels?
…And in what they do?
Only then did he raise his head.
He smiled.
A very calm smile—comforting on the surface… yet never reaching his eyes.
— I believe in them deeply, he said simply.
Elizabeth closed the book slowly, as if afraid the paper might hear the pounding of her heart.
— Then… do you see them as absolute good?
He let out a short, low laugh, placed a piece of candy in his mouth, chewed slowly before replying:
— Absolute good… is a human concept.
Angels are not created to be merciful—only to be obedient.
A heavy silence followed.
Elizabeth returned the book to its place, carefully.
She spoke as she resumed cleaning, trying to flee into routine:
— Then why are you interested in books like these?
This time, he looked at her for a long while.
Longer than necessary.
— Because the fallen… are the only ones who choose.
Her hand stopped.
Choice.
She swallowed and asked, without looking at him:
— And do you… think falling is a sin?
His voice came closer, calm as a whisper:
— Sometimes, falling… is salvation.
Then he smiled—
the same smile that neither reassures nor frightens… only unsettles.
— You may borrow any book from my shelves without asking,
he said casually.
— I’ve read them all.
Elizabeth froze.
She turned to him slowly, her mind working violently, replaying the sentence once, twice, ten times.
All of them?
Every book? Virtue, forgiveness, the fallen, light…?
Before she could speak, he tilted his head slightly, his smile softer—closer.
— In fact… I could read them all to you, if you wish.
A sharp shiver ran through her.
She pulled her arms to her chest, as if protecting herself from something invisible.
No.
Not fear… but revulsion.
A primal, ancient disgust—one she couldn’t place.
— I’m just a maid, she said quickly, as if hiding behind a wall.
He stood without argument, his steps calm, and walked toward the window.
He stopped at the railing, looked outside, then said without turning:
— Come here.
She hesitated.
No.
Yes?
What if…?
Her heart pounded violently.
But her body moved before her mind could finish objecting.
She stepped closer, stopping at a distance, her back to the railing, her eyes fixed on him.
— What? she said with faint sharpness.
— I don’t trust you. So why would you think I’d turn my back on you?
He looked at her, then smiled.
— Smart.
He rested his elbow on the railing and turned his gaze toward the palace grounds—the tall trees, the paths drowned in shadow and light.
— Then…
He paused.
— What do you usually do before going to sleep?
She froze.
…What?
He turned slightly toward her, his voice softer now—less sharp.
— What calms you?
She didn’t answer.
After a moment of silence, she slowly turned and leaned back against the railing.
She lifted her head.
The sky.
A vast, deep night, scattered with countless stars.
She stared for a long time—longer than questions allowed.
And in that silence, Soo-rin returned.
She remembered her old nights, lying on her bed, a book open on her chest, the light dim, the world far away.
She remembered how she used to read not to reach the ending… but to feel that something greater than her existed—wider, kinder.
I wished…
to live a quiet life.
To be unknown, invisible, yet safe.
To love without fear.
To not be punished for choices I never made.
She looked at the stars and wished for many things—small, foolish things:
A morning without terror,
a night without nightmares,
At last, she spoke, her voice low, like a confession never meant to be heard:
— I look at the sky…
— and I wish.
He didn’t look at her.
But he heard everything.
She fell silent for a moment, as if catching her breath from the inside, then said calmly:
— I organize my thoughts.
I replay the day… and scold myself for things I said.
He smiled—a faint, sideways smile.
— That sounds exhausting.
She replied quickly, as if she didn’t want silence to reach her first:
— And you?
Oh, wise man of the ages?
He placed both hands on the railing, leaned back slightly, then turned toward her.
His voice was calm, stripped of ornament.
— I count my mistakes.
Not to fix them…
but to remember them.
She frowned.
— You’re strange.
He looked at her and said simply:
— And you?
You punish yourself,
yet you don’t try to change.
Her hair lifted with a cold breeze.
She lowered her gaze to the ground and replied in a voice less certain than she intended:
— Maybe because change doesn’t always work.
He chuckled softly.
— You’re strange too.
She lifted her head toward him, a small note of defiance in her voice:
— At least I’m more mature than you.
Yes. That’s true, she thought.
I’m older than you, you child—show some respect.
But then—
he stepped closer.
Just one step.
He stopped in front of her, close enough to make the air heavier.
His eyes were very cold now, drained of all playfulness.
— If you knew when you were going to die…
would you live differently?
She fell silent.
Then she smiled.
A confident smile.
Steady.
Without hesitation.
— Not at all.
He said nothing.
His smile vanished completely, as if it had never existed.
And inside her—without sound, without trembling—
I’m already dead.
Without any warning—
He grabbed her shoulders.
All at once.
Rough. Precise. Without hesitation.
The world flipped.
Her eyes widened in shock, her mind lagging behind her body.
What—?
Time slowed in a way that made no sense.
She saw herself drifting away from him, as if the distance between them were stretching, as if the air had turned liquid. Her hair surged forward, covering her eyes, and the sky inverted into a black abyss.
Then—
by instinct, not thought—
she reached out.
Her fingers clutched the collar of his shirt.
Rip.
A button tore free.
It spun through the air.
Fell… fell… until it vanished into the courtyard below.
His eyes widened.
Her foot caught on the railing—half her body in the void, half clinging to life. Her arm trembled, sweat beaded on her brow, her eyebrows drawn tight with strain, her breaths sharp and broken. His face was too close.
This is bad.
In this position… I’m going to fall.
She tightened her grip on his shirt until her fingers ached, then forced her head up to look at him. Her voice came out strangled, hoarse—but sharp:
— You… what is this supposed to mean?
He stared at her.
Silent.
His sky-blue eyes held no reflection.
No guilt.
No mercy.
His face was rigid as a statue—no anger, no hesitation.
And in her mind, a single scream shattered again and again:
Answer. Now. Say something.
Her arm began to weaken.
And the night…
was very, very close.
Comments (0)
See all