We dragged a chair over—Seraphina helping, though still casting nervous glances at Mr. Witson like the old man might suddenly combust. I adjusted the ropes just enough to keep Mr. Witson's arms from turning purple, but not enough for him to perform a full demonic ritual, should he turn out to be a closet warlock.
Mr. Witson slumped back, groaning faintly, breathing like someone who'd just sprinted a marathon, been sucker-punched in the gut, and tied up by two mildly panicked teenagers—which, to be fair, was a pretty accurate summary of his day.
"So…" I crouched in front of him like a discount therapist. "Summarize the diary." I waved the weathered book dramatically in front of his face.
He let out a strangled screech. "Hey! Who told you you could touch someone else's diary?!"
"No one."
"Then don't touch it!"
"I'm a busybody," I said with pride, flipping the diary open with exaggerated care. "I want to know everything—especially the deepest, darkest secrets you write at midnight while sobbing."
"Wait! Don't read it!" he wailed. "I'll tell you! Just don't read it!"
I snapped it shut with a satisfying thump. "Fine. Spill."
Mr. Witson winced. "Alright, alright. I only just started writing it, okay? It's… it's…"
"We're listening."
"It's for my unrequited love," he mumbled, his cheeks coloring like he was a schoolboy caught writing poetry in math class.
I sighed. "Hmm. Unrequited, indeed. Continue."
"She was—"
"Skip." I held up a hand. "I don't need a romantic soliloquy about her cascading hair or soul-searing gaze. Please. I just ate."
Seraphina turned to me with a glare sharp enough to skin a pear. It screamed, 'How could you?'
I chose peace and ignored him.
"I met her a few years ago," Mr. Witson began, his voice drifting somewhere between nostalgia and heartbreak. "I still remember the first time I saw her. She took my breath away."
"You're lucky you're still alive," I said, pausing. I tilted my head and raised a brow. "Or… are you?"
Mr. Witson, unbothered by my lack of sympathy, pressed on. "I'm a shy man, always have been. So of course I never approached her. Instead…" He gave a bashful chuckle. "I drew portraits of her whenever I saw her."
"Every day, you mean," I muttered.
He nodded proudly, a soft smile forming on his wrinkled face.
Seraphina's heart clenched like a paper fan. His eyes shimmered with a mix of guilt and pity.
I rolled mine.
"It became part of my daily life," Mr. Witson said wistfully. "Sketching her was like breathing. But then… one day… she just stopped coming."
Seraphina gasped, clinging to every word. "What happened?"
"She vanished. No explanation. No goodbye. Just… gone." His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as if she might be up there, smiling down from a cloud of tragic romance.
"I know why," Seraphina muttered bitterly under his breath, throwing another death-glare at me.
I conveniently looked away.
Mr. Witson's shoulders sagged with another sigh. "Since then, I've poured all my thoughts and feelings into my diary. It was all I had left."
I held up the diary and gave it a casual flip. "Judging by the thickness, that's a lot of feelings."
"Ah…" He gave a laugh so hollow it could echo. "I wonder what she's doing now… what she's thinking…"
"Doing? Nothing. Thinking? Probably cursing me," I mumbled.
Seraphina's voice came out gently. "So… you haven't seen her again? Not once?"
Mr. Witson shook his head slowly. "No… sadly, never again."
"Good," I said before Seraphina could speak. "Just forget her. She's the type of girl you can only dream of having."
Mr. Witson gave a soft, broken smile. "You're right. How could someone like me—an old inventor with nothing—ever be equal to such beauty?"
His words hung heavy in the air.
Seraphina looked like he wanted to cry.
I looked like I wanted a snack.
"NNNNOOOOOO!!!!" Seraphina bellowed with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for opera deaths or soap opera finales.
I barely managed to cover my ears in time to save myself from temporary deafness.
Seraphina threw himself forward with all the urgency of a hero mid-tragedy, seizing Mr. Witson's trembling hand like he was snatching a man from the edge of an emotional cliff.
"How could you give up on love so easily?!" he cried, eyes ablaze, voice ringing with the passion.
"Erm… Fina—" I started, weakly trying to intervene, but Seraphina bulldozed past my warning like a runaway train powered by feelings and sheer lack of context.
"No! You mustn't surrender now!" he declared, standing tall, wind practically blowing through his nonexistent cape. "Love isn't meant to be simple! Love is war—bloody, painful, and absolutely worth every scar! This is your trial, your moment! Do not falter!"
He was glowing. Radiating pure, unfiltered romance-novel energy. I gave him the side-eye so hard I nearly sprained a facial muscle. It was like watching a motivational speaker yell encouragement at a man preparing to belly flop off a cliff.
And yet… somehow, impossibly, it worked.
Mr. Witson—poor, broken, borderline brain-damaged Mr. Witson—rose from despair like a phoenix from the ashes. His spine straightened. His eyes lit with renewed purpose. Somewhere in the background, I swear I heard orchestral strings swell.
"You are right, child," he said, voice shaking with sudden resolve. "How could I abandon the fire that burns within my heart? I mustn't let her memory fade—not until I have faced her and laid my soul bare!"
Seraphina gasped in delight, practically twinkling. He untied the rope with reverence, like a squire unshackling a knight destined to charge headfirst into a dragon's maw.
Mr. Witson stood, trembling with the sheer weight of his newfound passion. "I shall confess to her! And if she turns me away, then I shall return the next day! And the next! And the next! Until my devotion breaks through the walls of fate itself!"
"YESSSS!!!" Seraphina shouted, fists pumping into the air like he'd just won the Love Olympics.
Mr. Witson grabbed Seraphina's shoulders with deep gratitude. "Thank you, brave soul. You've reminded me what it means to feel."
I stood silently nearby, arms crossed, eyebrow sky-high, expression flat. I felt like a chaperone at the worst possible wedding rehearsal.
Then—dramatically, of course—Mr. Witson turned and marched toward the stairs.
"I shall find her," he proclaimed, chest forward, voice echoing down the hallway, "even if she dwells on the other side of the Earth!"
SLAM.
He shut the door behind him like a man sealing his fate.
I stared at the door.
Then I stared at Seraphina.
I turned to Seraphina, slow and deliberate. "Happy now?"
Seraphina sighed, misty-eyed. "Absolutely. Isn't it beautiful? Watching someone choose to fight for love?"
"Sure," I said flatly. "Except… the love he's chasing? Yeah. That woman tried to kill me."
Seraphina blinked. "What?"
"In self-defense," I added casually, "I killed her. You know. Classic survival scenario."
His face paled like sour milk. "Oh… oops."
"Oops indeed." I clapped his shoulder with all the solemnity of a last rites ceremony. "May their love be eternal. Like her grave."
I turned and strolled toward the door.
Seraphina scrambled after me, panic kicking in. "W-What do we do now?!"
I kept walking a few more steps before spinning around on my heel and throwing my hands up like a magician revealing the tragic end of a trick.
"Hah! What can we do?" I exclaimed, voice thick with sarcasm. "He's practically dead now."
Then I pointed an accusatory finger at Seraphina like I was sentencing him in a court of melodrama. "You've killed him."
Seraphina's eyes widened in horror. "Nooooo…"
He crumpled to the floor with all the grace of a dying opera singer, dropping to his knees as though gravity had suddenly become too heavy for his guilt-ridden soul. His hands trembled. His lip quivered. The light in his eyes dimmed like a theater spotlight on its final act.
"I didn't mean to…" he whispered, staring into the void like it might offer him forgiveness. "I just… I wanted to help him believe in love again…"
I patted his shoulder with the gentleness of a disappointed older sibling. "You live and you learn."
Seraphina's eyes shimmered with urgency as he looked up at me. "Are we not going to help him, Otto?"
"I don't feel like it," I replied, shrugging with a disinterested meh.
"Otto!" Seraphina whined, his panic rising like a kettle on the verge of boiling over.
"Okay, okay. Chill, alright?" I held my hands up, thinking. "There's one way we might be able to stop him… but I don't think you're gonna like it."
"What is it?!" Seraphina bounced in place like an overly caffeinated rabbit.
I leaned in and whispered the plan.
He jumped a foot back. "What?! Is there seriously no other way?"
"NAAAAHHHHH," I replied, dragging the word out like a badly-tuned guitar string.
Seraphina's whole body slumped, his head dropping forward like a wilting flower before he let out an anguished scream to the heavens. "AAAAHHHHH!!!"
Then he turned to me with tears already pooling in his eyes, snot beginning its tragic descent. "It'll work, right?"
I flashed him an exaggerated OK sign with my fingers.
Then, I reached over and used my sleeve—my sleeve—to wipe away his tears and very real, very unfortunate snot. I forced a smile.
"Don't worry," I said, trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. "Everything will be ALLLLL-right."
Seraphina sniffled like a heartbroken puppy. I patted him again.