Haruto didn't open the box immediately.
Partly because he was cautious.
Mostly because his hands had suddenly forgotten how to work.
The wooden box sat between them.
Small.
Ordinary.
Silent.
Yet it carried more weight than anything he had encountered since arriving in this world.
Arthur left this with me.
The words refused to leave his mind.
The old bookseller returned to his chair.
As if he hadn't just casually dropped the most important revelation in weeks.
Haruto stared.
The old man stared back.
Then pointed at the box.
"...well?"
"Oh."
Right.
The box.
Haruto reached forward.
The wood felt smooth.
Worn by time.
Someone had held this many times.
Opened it.
Closed it.
Protected it.
The realization made his chest tighten slightly.
Arthur had touched this.
Years ago.
Maybe decades.
Maybe longer.
Haruto slowly lifted the lid.
Inside were three objects.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
A folded letter.
A small leather notebook.
And a brass key.
Haruto blinked.
"...that's it?"
The old man looked offended.
"Those are important."
"I wasn't saying they weren't."
"You sounded like you were."
Haruto decided not to argue.
The old man clearly enjoyed being difficult.
The letter rested on top.
Yellowed with age.
The paper looked fragile.
Haruto carefully unfolded it.
Immediately—
his heart skipped.
The handwriting.
He recognized it.
Not because he had seen Arthur write before.
Because it looked exactly like the messages from the ruins.
Messy.
Hurried.
Human.
The first line read:
> If you're reading this, then either I succeeded...
> or we both failed.
Haruto stared.
Belial peeked over his shoulder.
"...that's very Arthur."
The bookseller sighed.
"Unfortunately."
Haruto continued reading.
> First things first.
> If the goat is still alive, don't let him convince you he's harmless.
Belial immediately exploded.
"WHAT IS WITH THIS MAN?"
The bookseller laughed.
Actually laughed.
Haruto continued.
> He'll pretend he's stupid.
> He isn't.
Belial looked betrayed.
> He'll pretend he doesn't know anything.
> That's also a lie.
The goat pointed dramatically.
"I OBJECT."
Haruto kept reading.
> Most importantly
> If he's helping you...
> then things are already worse than you think.
The silence that followed was glorious.
The bookseller covered his mouth.
Trying—and failing—not to laugh.
Belial sat down.
Deeply offended.
Haruto smiled despite himself.
Then continued.
The tone changed.
Subtly.
The humor faded.
The next lines felt heavier.
> By now you've probably found the cloak.
> Good.
> It means I wasn't completely erased.
Haruto unconsciously touched Arthur's cloak.
The old fabric rested against his shoulder.
Familiar.
Reliable.
Present.
Arthur's words continued.
> If you're wearing it...
> then you're like me.
The smile vanished.
Immediately.
> Which means reality has noticed you.
The market noise suddenly felt distant.
Haruto kept reading.
> If that's true...
> then I'm sorry.
No joke followed.
No sarcasm.
No clever comment.
Just:
> I'm sorry.
The simplicity hit harder than expected.
Because Arthur understood.
Not the curse.
The loneliness.
The fear.
The waiting.
Haruto continued.
> You're probably looking for answers.
> I did too.
> I spent years searching.
Years.
The word lingered.
Haruto glanced at the bookseller.
The old man noticed.
But said nothing.
The letter continued.
> I found some.
> Not enough.
> Never enough.
A pause.
Then:
> The key isn't for a door.
Haruto frowned.
His gaze shifted toward the brass key inside the box.
Small.
Simple.
Ordinary.
The type of key people ignored.
Arthur apparently disagreed.
> And the notebook isn't a diary.
Wonderful.
Arthur had somehow managed to be mysterious through a letter.
Haruto was beginning to understand why people found him annoying.
The final section was shorter.
The handwriting shakier.
As if written in haste.
Or exhaustion.
> If you reached Ardent...
> find the place where stories go to die.
Haruto blinked.
"What does that mean?"
The bookseller immediately groaned.
"Lousy instructions."
"You know what it means?"
"I know what he thought it meant."
"Which is?"
The old man pointed at the letter.
"He never explained anything properly."
Fair.
Very fair.
Haruto returned his attention to the page.
Only one line remained.
The final line.
Written more carefully than everything else.
> And if you're searching for someone...
> don't stop.
Silence.
Haruto stared.
The words felt strangely personal.
Not because Arthur knew Sakura.
He couldn't.
Yet somehow—
the message still reached him.
Don't stop.
A simple sentence.
A simple instruction.
But after everything—
the desert.
The ruins.
The loneliness.
The uncertainty—
it was exactly what Haruto needed to hear.
Slowly, he folded the letter.
The market returned.
Voices.
Movement.
Life.
Everything felt normal again.
Almost.
His gaze drifted toward the notebook.
Then the key.
Questions multiplied rapidly.
The bookseller watched him.
Patient.
Knowing.
Waiting.
Finally, Haruto looked up.
"...who exactly was Arthur?"
The old man's expression changed.
Not surprise.
Not hesitation.
Something closer to regret.
A long silence followed.
Then—
he answered.
Quietly.
"He was my student."
Haruto froze.
The bookseller stared toward the horizon.
Toward something long gone.
Then added:
"...and the worst mistake this world ever failed to forget."