How long had she been falling? She didn't remember. All she knew was that from now on, she was alone—truly alone this time.
When she woke up, the man's head lay right beside her. She remembered the words she had spoken to him, the words he had taught her—she had used them against him. Deep regret washed over her, a feeling she couldn't quite understand. There was no one left to teach her anymore.
She had killed, with her own hands, the only person who ever truly cared for her, the only person who had taught her so much. She vomited for a long, long time.
Her legs were broken. All she could do was crawl like the garbage she was—the garbage she had been called. At that moment, she believed she truly was a fiend. She grabbed the man's head and held it close, crying until every last tear was drained from her body. She cried until she fell asleep. The only remnants of him she had left were his head and the gift he had given her. But she knew the head would only last so long—it would rot sooner or later. She was well aware of that. She didn't dare glance at the box, not even when the memory of her promise surfaced. She couldn't bring herself to open it. Guilt gnawed at her from the inside—the guilt of killing her own caretaker. It was an unbearable pain, one she had never felt before.
When she woke up in the middle of the night, hungry and thirsty, the only water she could get was from the nearby river. She drank and drank until she was full. Few wild animals came near this area, which was fortunate for Lorelei. If any had shown up, it would surely have been the end of her. Somewhere in her heart, she believed that was what she truly longed for. She looked frail and weak, with no one to lift her up—a fallen angel who never had the chance to take flight. Every night she cried until her eyes grew puffy and her throat went sore.
Whenever she looked at the man's head, it reminded her of the tradition the townsfolk followed whenever someone died: to dig a grave.
She remembered that for that, she had to dig deep underground and place the body there. So she began digging. The soil was hard—very hard. Every time she struck the ground, her hand collided with buried rocks. Lorelei dug for hours, with guilt being the only thing pushing her forward. The only sounds that echoed through the forest were the scraping of soil and the resonance of her cries cutting through the silence.
Her nails broke, one by one, as she dug. Yet she kept going, bearing the pain. She remembered one night when the man had told her that whenever she felt sad, she shouldn't hold her tears in—she should cry the pain out. So she did. She cried a lot. Too much.
Her hand was covered in blood and dirt as she kept digging. Her arm grew tired, but she didn't rest. She stayed there digging for two days. Perhaps it was her way of apologizing for the harsh words she had spoken to him. But it was too late. He was dead, and his head was proof of it.
The grave she was trying to dig barely progressed. She felt as if her bones had been crushed from the guard holding her arm too tightly. She couldn't afford to lose the last working limb she had.
One night, while she was digging, a fox appeared behind her. At first, Lorelei was frightened and desperately tried to crawl away, but her arm wouldn't move anymore. The fox drew closer and closer but didn't attack, nor did it show any hostile intentions toward her.
It was wounded on the side of its stomach. Lorelei noticed that. The fox slowly rested beside her, as if it didn't think Lorelei could hurt him. She was powerless, frail, and weak.
Lorelei moved closer to the fox, watching him as he slept. Then she decided to sleep next to him, as both of them rested under the frightening dark night.