"We can't go back," Kazou said quietly, eyes fixed on the shifting shadows outside the window.
Rose met his gaze without flinching. "Then we go forward. But this time, we face it together."
The train slipped out of the tunnel. Pale light spilled over them, soft. Kazou reached slowly into his satchel and pulled out a photograph—edges worn, creased from years of handling.
Rose's eyes narrowed as she took it, the black-and-white image of a man in a World War II Polish uniform capturing her full attention. The soldier's silver eyes seemed to pierce right through the grainy paper.
"That's him," Kazou said, voice low. "The original. The man Ten was cloned from."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "The Polish soldier who died in the war... Why didn't you ever show me this before?"
Kazou hesitated, the weight of old regrets visible in his furrowed brow. "My father gave it to me. He was a scientist, working on something I was meant to finish. I had to finish what he started—the soldier's legacy. I showed you this once, long ago. When the lab was just beginning... Do you remember it now?"
Rose's expression softened for a fraction of a second, memories flickering across her face. "I remember. Back then, it was just a pict/ure. Your goal. Now it feels… heavier."
Kazou nodded slowly, shadows crossing his face. "It's more than a picture. It's a key. The museum might hold the answers we need—records, letters, fragments of that time. To understand Ten, we need to understand the man he came from."
Outside, the cityscape blurred as the train raced toward Tokyo.
Rose folded the photograph carefully, her voice barely a whisper. "Whatever happened then… It's not just history. It's still alive."
The train slowed, its wheels grinding softly as it entered Tokyo Station.
They stepped onto the platform side by side—two souls tied to a past neither could escape, but forced to face it nonetheless.
***
The sun poured through the museum's tall windows, casting long, golden shafts of light across polished marble floors and centuries-old artifacts. Outside, the city buzzed with life, oblivious to the quiet tension brewing inside.
Kazou walked beside Rose, his steps careful, measured. His gaze flickered to her. Rose's expression was cold, controlled. She moved with precise efficiency, eyes scanning their surroundings, never settling.
They entered the main hall, where a sprawling exhibit on World War II dominated the space. Photographs, uniforms, weapons—all relics of a past drenched in blood and secrets.
Kazou stopped before a large display: a photo gallery of soldiers. But no sign of Casimir. Rose's patience thinned with each unanswered question. Her steps grew brisk, her gaze colder.
"I don't see why we're wasting time," she said abruptly, turning away from Kazou. "I regret this already! If the museum can't even remember him, maybe we're chasing a ghost for nothing! What if someone else murdered? Maybe we're confused?"
Kazou watched her go with a heavy heart, but he didn't argue. Instead, he wandered toward the World War II section, scanning the placards.
Rose's steps grew sharper, her breath coming a little faster as irritation seeped into her voice. "This is ridiculous, Kazou. We're walking through dusty old war junk, chasing shadows, and for what? Some name that's been wiped clean from history? You really think we'll find anything here?"
Kazou's eyes stayed fixed on the floor ahead. "If we don't try, we'll never know. Ten isn't just some random kid we cloned. There's a life behind him—there always is. Even if that life's been buried... Something my father never told me..."
Rose stopped abruptly and faced him, the museum's warm light catching the sharp angles of her face. Her voice dropped, cold and hard-edged.
"And what if it's better left buried? What if all this… this obsession of yours only brings us more pain? You shut me out for so long, Kazou. You acted like knowing the truth would break me. Maybe you were right. I can't believe I begged to come to Tokyo!"
Kazou's jaw tightened. He searched her eyes, seeing not just anger, but exhaustion and something raw, vulnerable underneath it all.
"I never wanted to shut you out," he said quietly, voice rough with regret. "I thought I was protecting you from all of it. From what I knew. From what I was afraid to face."
Rose scoffed, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "Protecting me? By withdrawing? By lying? You think that makes things easier? It just made me hate you."
Kazou took a slow breath, his gaze dropping to the frayed edges of his satchel strap. "Maybe I was a coward. Maybe I thought if I kept it all inside, I could carry the burden alone. But I was wrong."
She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek as silence stretched between them. The distant hum of the museum felt like a third presence, watching, waiting.
Rose's voice softened just enough to betray the hardness she wore like armor. "I didn't come here to rehash old wounds, Kazou. I came here because I have to understand. Because Ten… because Casimir…"
Kazou nodded slowly, relief flickering in his tired eyes. "I know. And I want to understand too. Together."
Rose's eyes locked onto his—sharp, cold, but searching beneath the surface. "Then don't shut me out again. Not this time." Her voice held a brittle edge, as if holding back a storm. Then, almost abruptly, she turned on her heel. "You know what? I'm going to get a drink."
"Kazou's eyes widened in surprise. "W-wait, Rose—"
But she was already striding away, her coat billowing slightly behind her as she headed toward the small snack and alcohol bar near the museum entrance. Kazou watched her go, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.
He stood alone in the echoing hall, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Kazou noticed a woman in a modest museum uniform nearby. Summoning a quiet resolve, he approached her.
"Excuse me," he said, voice low but steady, "I have a question about the World War II section. Do you happen to have any exhibits dedicated to Poland?"
The woman's eyes widened just enough to catch his attention, a flicker of hesitation crossing her features.
"Come with me," she said softly, voice almost a whisper.
Kazou froze for a moment, the weight of instinct pulling him back. The corridor she led toward veered away from the well-lit main halls, sinking into shadows that felt colder, quieter. His heartbeat quickened, an echo of caution rising in his chest. Was this right? Was this safe?
But curiosity, and something heavier—a stubborn need to understand—won in the end. Slowly, deliberately, Kazou nodded.
He followed her, each step seeming louder in the narrowing passage. The air grew cooler, drier. The distant hum of footsteps and chatter faded into a muted hush, swallowed by the encroaching silence.
Behind him, the soft click of faster footsteps made Kazou glance over his shoulder.
"Kazou, wait!" Rose's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and urgent. There was something in it—an edge he hadn't heard in years. Concern? Or was it jealousy?
She caught up, her eyes flicking between Kazou and the woman leading them, suspicion tightening her features.
"Who is she?" Rose demanded, voice steady but wary.
The woman turned, regarding Rose with a calm, almost knowing smile.
"Oh, hello," she said quietly. "Do you know this man?" Her gaze rested on Kazou as she asked.
Rose's eyes swept over Kazou's face, searching. Then she gave a curt nod, terse but acknowledging.
The woman's smile deepened but remained silent, resuming her steady pace. They arrived at a narrow staircase, the walls close and unadorned, swallowing the fading light. Rose stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs, crossing her arms like a shield.
"Hey," she said, voice sharper now, edged with distrust. "You're not kidnapping us, are you?"
A soft, almost amused laugh echoed through the stone walls. "No," the woman said smoothly. "Just trust me."
The first step creaked under Kazou's foot as they began to descend. The basement air was thick—musty, tinged with dust and the faint metallic scent of old relics. Shadows clung to the corners, hiding rows of shelves and crates piled high with forgotten history—rusted helmets, faded flags frayed at the edges, stacks of brittle documents bound with yellowed string.
The woman stopped in the center of the room and settled into a worn leather chair, crossing her legs with deliberate calm. The silence lingered, heavy and expectant.
Kazou and Rose exchanged a glance, both sensing something unspoken in the woman's steady, almost commanding presence.
After a beat, the woman finally spoke, voice low and steady.
"A Polish exhibit? No, we don't have one in the main museum," she said, eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. "It would be too small for public display."
Kazou frowned, brow knitting. "Too small?"
The woman leaned forward slightly, folding her hands neatly over one knee. "Poland's story in this war… It's complicated. Many stories erased. Names lost. Official records cleansed. Some truths don't fit neatly in curated exhibits."
Rose's eyes narrowed, ice creeping back into her tone. "So you hide the inconvenient parts down here?"
The woman's smile was enigmatic, almost serene. "Not hide. Preserve."
Kazou's gaze drifted toward a dusty crate marked with a faded Polish eagle. "Preserve what, exactly?"
"Artifacts. Letters. Personal effects. Things that don't tell the grand story—but tell the truth." She looked directly at Kazou. "If you want to understand what happened in Poland, if you want to understand the truth, you won't find it in the polished halls upstairs."
Rose's arms tightened across her chest, voice icy yet determined. "Then show us."
The woman's smile deepened, approving, almost conspiratorial. "Follow me."
She rose and moved toward a cluster of crates, opening one with a creak that echoed like a secret being unlocked. Inside were worn leather-bound journals, faded photographs, brittle letters—some scrawled in Polish script, others in broken German.
Kazou knelt carefully, lifting a fragile journal. The first page bore a name, and the ink faded but was unmistakable.
"Casimir Bielska," Kazou breathed.
Rose's cold mask cracked—just a flicker—enough to reveal something raw and unreadable flickering in her eyes.
The woman leaned back, watching them silently, as if waiting for what would come next.
"The past," she said softly, "is never truly buried. Sometimes, it waits—waiting for those who dare to seek it."
The woman stood, her fingers brushing dust from the crate's worn edges. "This," she said, pulling out a battered leather-bound journal, "was found long after the war, buried in the trenches. It belonged to a Polish soldier who was never officially identified. His name was lost to time—only this journal remained."
She handed the fragile book to Kazou with a measured reverence. The leather was cracked, the cover faded and scarred, as if the years had etched every hardship onto it.
Kazou took it carefully, its weight far heavier than its size. Rose, watching intently, shifted in her seat and scooted closer to him. She leaned over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as they both tried to decipher the faint ink and foreign letters.
Kazou flipped open the journal, the pages brittle, some edges torn. The writing was cramped, scrawled in Polish—a language neither of them spoke fluently, but the emotion beneath the words needed no translation.
The entries were haunting. Descriptions of endless cold, relentless fear, and loss. Names whispered like prayers in the dark. Fragments of hope and despair tangled together—faint sketches of distant faces and ruined villages.
Rose's breath caught as Kazou paused on a page where a single name stood out—Sasha Bielska.
"Look at this," Kazou said, tracing the lines with his finger.
Rose leaned in closer, eyes sharp and cold as they scanned the text.
Below the name was an address—an old Polish street, faded but still legible.
Underneath, a letter:
"Mail to Sasha Bielska at [address]."
Kazou's voice softened as he read the faint words aloud.
"I want to fulfill your wish—to live through this hell and come home with only you by my side, until the very end."
The room seemed to grow colder.
Rose's gaze lingered on the passage, her lips pressed thin.
"This is more than a soldier's journal," she said quietly. "It's a promise. A life tethered to someone… someone who waited for him."
Kazou looked up, eyes meeting hers.
"The man Ten was cloned from... could he be tied to this Sasha? Is this part of what shapes him—the shadows of a past life he never lived?"
The woman sat back in the chair, watching the two with a knowing look.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "the fragments left behind are all we have to unravel the truth. But be careful—some truths don't want to be found."
"Wait, what is the address, Kazou?"