This is a house
that sits beyond dark, dense woods.
Like the world fading into view after a dream,
that old mansion appears before Him.
Without realizing it,
He instinctively accepts as truth the events unfolding before Him.
The house lives in perpetuity—an amalgam of myriad fates and generations.
No ones knows who first said
that the mansion was cursed.
Our Father,
who art in Heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Have mercy on me, O Father,
and cast their souls into eternal damnation.
I was looking down upon a curse. My own corpse. I was afflicted with great despair as the sight of it being dragged to the place of my crucifixion. My soul crumbled, and I was wholly extinguished. Indeed, I did once lose everything. However… as I faded into darkness everlasting, I heard a voice calling out to me. And so, I vowed once more that no matter how long it may take, how great the obstacles that stand in my way, or what form you may assume, I shall come back for you. That I must return to that house. So I ask of you, please wait until this mutilated body arrives there once more.
His consciousness, wavering like a ship at sea, was slowly drawn back to the surface.
—…ter.
Which each new breath, feeling gradually returned to His fingers.
—Master.
He could hear the pattering of rain from somewhere.
—Master?
And the sound of a cracking fire.
—Wake up, Master.—Creak, creak, creak.— Wake up.
When He came to, He was rocking back and forth in a rocking chair. The room was dimly lit; aside from the flickering of the fireplace, there was no other illumination. No light shone through the closed windows; there was only the pitter-patter of rain on the glass. It was as though the whole
—Oh, splendid… You have finally awoken
Someone called out to Him.
His was about to search the room, but that turned out to be unnecessary. The source of the voice was crouching beside the chair, looking up at Him with emerald eyes—Good morning, Master—the young lady with closed eyes with a her lips pressed in a tiny smile, the hand on her chin.
—Good morning…—He said to the lady with pale skin and tied black hair said with closing eyes in a purple-white maid dress.
—Hehe, what is the matter? Are you still waking up? You seem rather drowsy—The lady said opening her eyes, observing him.—Come now, you must gather yourself. Though I am glad to hear your voice—sShe says with a simple expression.—I have simply been waiting so long for this moment. Tending to the mansion all by my lonesome, ensuring it was ready for your return—whenever that time may be—She half-closed her eyes.—When I caught sight of you through the window, my heart fluttered. The time had finally arrived He wwas perplexed.
This woman, who looked like a maid, seemed to know Him, be He had no memory of her.
—What kind of herbal tea would you like to start your day with?—Maid said, opening her eyes.—I have some wonderful chamomile leaves, if you would like. Or perhaps your taste have changed since last we met. Tell me, Master, what would you like?—She closed her eyes with a small giggle.—Hehehe… I beg your pardon. I allowed myself to get too excited. But I hope you will be sympathetic,
Master. I am just utterly elated that I could see you again
The woman appeared to be genuinely delighted that He had awoken, but she seemed to lack the energy typical for her age.
Or perhaps "life" was a more appropriate word than "energy."
But the gloom extended beyond the Maid—it seemed to encompass the entire mansion.
The plaster walls illuminated by the fireplace and the rose engravings in the ebony pillars felt vaguely familiar.But a crushing sense of claustrophobia overpowered that familiarity.
It seemed as though the house wasn't interested in accepting Him just yet.
—Oh my, you do not know who I am?—A maid opened her eyes in surprise, her jaw dropped off in a mild surprise and concern.—Do you not know who are you, either? That is quite the predicament. If you cannot remember who are you, then who am I to serve?—Her eyes darted to the side.
The woman's face was pale, almost as though she… A faint chill ran down His spine.
—You are the master of this house—The woman's gaze returned back to him.—Though it would seem you have no memories of such. Quite the dilemma… If you know not who you are.—She closed her eyes, her lips pressed in a thin line.—then you are no different than a stranger to me, no?—Her eyes opened back, her expression returned to normal.—Indeed, you have returned. But from where? That, I cannot say. Then how about this? I am a servant of this mansion, and as such, I am familiar with the many incidents that have taken place here. I shall show you the history of this house, Master.—She opened her eyes, her mouth returned to regular form.—That will surely allow you to recall who are you.
The freshly awakened gears in His head began to turn as He mulled things over. The Maid had called Him the "master" of this house.
But without a single mirror in the room, He had no way of seeing what He looked like.
Unable to decide, He reflexively nodded.
—Let us be off, then.—The maid closed her eyes.—And fear not—I merely entreat you not to let go of my hand. Should you hold it tightly, you need not worry about being washed away by the waves of history. No matter what happens, you mustn't let go of my hand.—Her open her eyes back.
His hand in hers, He followed the Maid's lead through the hall.
The air within the mansion was oppressive, as though a black miasma hovered within. The house was bleak and barren—hardly a trace of color to be found.
He came across an open window. Beyond it lay nothing but darkness—neither sunlight nor moonlight could be seen.
There were no chirping bird, no rustling grass, no signs of life at all. Everything that would normally give color to the world had vanished entirely.
The only other presence was that of the Maid.
Following her lead, He proceeded through the mansion.
After some time, He arrived at a double door, the glass within shattered. The door, once pure-white, had long since faded into a dull gray.
It appeared to lead to the back garden.
He could children laughing on the other side.
—Though it is in the state you now see it, a beautiful, beautiful garden once lay beyond these doors—The maid looked at Him.—The owner of the time enjoyed gathering rare species of rose all across the world. At its grandest, it seemed every flower was in constant competition for the most majestic bloom. Would you like to see this wonderful era of splendor and prosperity?—She closed her eyes with a giggle.—Hehehe… I very much hope it is to your liking, Master.
The Maid opened the doors to the back garden.
A sudden gust of wind brushed across His face, forcing Him to close His eyes as He followed the Maid out the doors.
When He next opened His eyes, the world no longer blanketed in shadows.
1603
The mansion had an alluring air of beauty about it in that era; it was almost like something out of a fairy tale.
The period of history could perhaps be described as a symphony of destruction, as cumbersome principles of old came crashing down.
Freed from the day-to-day oppression of these antiquated precepts, the people seemed to hark back to the more poetic, expressive ways of old.
They took these newly blossoming emotions in hand, and with them they wrote literature, painted portraits, composed theatre, and found love.
Even the Church, which had maintained authority throughout the Middle Ages, embraced the changing times, adopting the culture's flowering sense of aesthetic.
War would break out not twenty years from then, plucking the ripened era from the tree of history—but that is of no concern to us now.
At the time, it was still what people refer to as the Golden Age, a period of furor for all who were there.
Now, let us take a slight detour.
No, we will not be changing locations—this is a tale about the mansion from beginning to end. We will, however, be moving through time. Say… about eights years into the past.
A very wealthy family lived in the house then.
The mother and father, brother and sister all had distinctive, beautiful flaxen hair.
I was always enamored by their hair. By contrast, mine is the color of a wet crow.
See? There I am, standing around looking rather a fool.
I was happy back then. And what reason did I have not to be, afforded the opportunity to attend such a beautiful home?
So I poured my heart into serving the family.
…Listen closely, if you would. That soft, fleeting sound that could only be a young girl singing—can
you hear it?
—Lalalaa, lalaalalaa…
The girl you see, cheerfully picking crimson roses and singing like a songbird was called Nellie.
Though young, she sang with elegance.
Nellie was deeply fond of the house's garden, and she would often spend her afternoons there.
Gorgeous roses gathered from all across the world bloomed in the garden.
They were given the utmost care, and even had their thorns removed—so young Nellie would not hurt herself, naturally.
The light-brown-haired girl carefully plucked petals from the roses gathering them up as she gang.
Her voice was like music played by faeries—nay, the sight of her was like an angel descended from Heaven.
Oh dear. Please don't look at me like that. I admit I was being rather fanciful…
but what is a woman if not fanciful? Hehe…
—Little bird, little bird, singing night and day—the sound of singing was heard all across the garden—For your little birdy heart, sing your woes away. Pretty flowers all around, all around the little birds. And even when the sun comes up… Umm—the little girl suddenly stopped her song—Oh, dearest Mell! I've forgotten what comes next. Are you listening?
Nellie was, as a matter of fact, not the only visitor to the rose garden that day. She always came with her older brother, Mell.
The young siblings were inseparable. Mell adored his little sister, who in turn pined for his attention.
The sight of two innocent children cuddling together—not yet shackled by fear for the future—was truly heartwarming.
That day, Mell was sitting in the shade of a tree, reading a book. As I am sure you are aware, in their time, books could not yet be mass produced.
What he was reading had been copied by a scribe. I presume he had borrowed it from the church.
The book, having passed through many hands over many years, was visibly worn—but I supposed that just speaks to its importance.
It was, in fact, a Latin grammar textbook he was reading.
Mell was a clever boy. He had attended church from a very young age, where a priest would instruct him in Latin grammar.
So at that time, I believe he was capable of reading even advanced texts.
—Oh, dearest Mell, please…
The young girl approached her brother, who was consumed by the text. In her hands, she carried a large pile of rose petals.
Though his sister's shadow overlapped with the tree's, the boy still did not notice.
So Nellie puffed her cheeks, thrust out her slender arms, and let the petals fall.
—Ahh!—The reaction was instant.
—Hehe. Look, your head is covered in roses, Mell!—There was a smile on the girl's face.
—Oh, Nellie… You got petals on the book.—the boy said surprisingly calmly—This isn't mine. I can't afford to let it get dirty.
—It's your fault, dearest Mell.—She turned a bit serious.—I tried to get your attention. And besides, flowers won't get a book dirty!—the smile returned on her face.
—I must raise the white flag. When did my little lady find herself such a sharp wit?
—While waiting for you, dearest Mell.—Nellie's answer was honest.—I waited, and I waited, and you didn't so much as glance at me. I'll be an adult by the time you're done reading that book.
—Wow, that soon?
—That soon.—Her reaction was simple.—Mother says girls grow up fast.
—Haha, she may be right.—Mell closed his eyes.—In that case, we should do something together before you're all grown up.—He looked back at his sister.—Surely you won't play with me any longer when you become an adult.
—That's not true!—She was a little offended.—I'll still play with you, even when I'm grown up!
—But grown-ups don't play, Nellie.—He said half-closing his eyes.
—F-Fine! I'll stay a child forever, then!—She was sulking at the point
—Didn't you just say you were about to grow up?—Mell couldn't not tease her that moment.
—Nnh…—She hadn't an answer for this question.—You're so mean, Mell…—She pouts.
—Aha, I'm sorry. Please don't pout, my little lady. How about this? To make it up to you, I'll play whatever you want today.
—Really? Do you mean it?—The little girl instantly lights up.—I want to play make-believe!—She offered with excitement.
—Make-believe?—Mell was making sure he heard it right.
—Make-believe.—Nellie confirmed.—I will be a princess taken captive by an evil kingdom, and you, dearest Mell, will be my valiant knight. And then you turn into a prince when you rescue me.
—A knight can become a prince? Impressive.—Mell tried to show some engagement.
—They can!—His little sister answered instantly.—Knights and princes both have to be charming, so of course they can! Which is why… Which is why it must be you, dearest Mell. No one else can be my prince—or my knight.
While he may have appeared outwardly embarrassed as his rose-cheeked sister proclaimed, I am certain he was smiling on the inside.
After a few moments, he meekly knelt, bringing himself to eye level with Nellie and gently stroking her soft hair.
—All right, then.—Mell finally gave his response.—You're my princess, Nellie.
—And not just anyone's princess, dearest Mell, but yours alone!—Nellie answered with sheer happiness and excitement.—So um… don't be anyone else's prince, but mine, okay?—Her question was surprisingly serious.
—Nellie…—Mell lightly smiled to her.—Jeez, my princess is quite the fawner.
—Is that… bad?—She did not understand the obligations from the start.—Does that make you dislike me?
—Not at all.—Mell reassured.—I'm proud to have you as my sister. Nellie. You mean more to me than anything in the world, my dear princess.—He closed his eyes with a small smile.
—Hehe! I love you, dearest Mell! You'll always be my prince, forever and ever!—She was clearly honest about her words.
Her mood quite improved, Nellie began humming the melody of the song she had forgotten the lyrics to.
Holding the skirt of her dress out from her body, the young girl pranced about the rose garden. Mell, his eyes on her back, gave a little shrug.
—Oh, Nellie...—The boy muttered to himself amusingly.—Don't come crying to me if you trip running like that.
But Mell was not entirely disapproving of his sister's excitement.
He carefully brushed aside the petals of his book, set in the shade of the tree, and began chasing after Nellie.
They were picturesque siblings, brimming with hope. And at this time. in their lives, there was nothing to jeopardize that hope.
Would it not be wonderful if children could stay children forever, Master?
As I see it, though, the pleasant, gentle times in our lives have value because they come to an end. Wouldn't you agree?
Time continues to flow, impartial and without exception. And as such, everyone's childhood comes to an end.
Be that as it may… does time also flow at the same speed for each individual?
…Hehehe. Now, let us take a trip down the river of time.
I would be very much delighted if we could remain at this point in time, but unfortunately, we cannot.
Please, do not let go of my hand, Master.