Still can’t reach her?

Lian lay on the bed, her mood a knot of thorns, and stretched her mind like a hand into fog. Ling was gone—no thread to tug, no warmth to find, just blank ice where memory should be.

She knew it too well: that stubborn fool had sealed the door from her side, a shutter slammed, a bridge burned, and the river gone quiet.

Irritation gnawed like sand in the shoe, so she called up the Script. The moment her fingers closed around it, cool calm washed over her like rain after heat, and the noise in her head thinned.

The door eased open with a soft creak, and Alicia stepped in on quiet feet, a ribbon of morning light pooling around her.

“Ling, did you rest well? I’ve already signed you off for today. I’ll stay here and keep you company.”

“Mm. Thank you, Alicia.” The reply was polite and smooth, like porcelain, yet a chill distance trimmed the edges, and Alicia’s fist tightened, knuckles pale as frost.

“Hey, Ling, do you still hate me?”

“Hm? Of course not. I said it before—it was just my own whim. If it’s troubled you, let me apologize first.” Her tone was a lake, flat and clear, no ripples.

Again with the apology. Ling never did that. It felt wrong, like a song off-key—strange upon strange, the whole room skewed.

“Ling, what’s weighing on you? You can tell me. I’ll do everything I can.” Heat rose in Alicia’s voice, and she leaned in, gripping Lian’s delicate hands like a lifeline, a tide rushing the shore.

“Ah! That hurts—hurts—” Lian yelped, masking surprise with a wince.

Alicia jerked back at once, face full of apology, like a lantern dimmed. “Sorry, sorry. I got carried away. Are you okay?”

Lian shook her hands as if to shake off a sting, then shook her head. “I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt anymore. And you don’t have to keep apologizing. It makes me feel awkward.”

Seeing the talk sliding, Alicia hooked it back, like reeling a kite out of a tree. “Ling, you still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”

With nowhere left to dodge, Lian let out a sigh, a cloud slipping past the eaves. “Honestly, it’s nothing. Even if it were, if it’s something I can’t handle, why burden you with it?”

The words were clean, but in Alicia’s ear they struck like cold drizzle. “I see… so I’m too weak.”

Lian froze, taken aback; this one, like Ling, turned a pebble into a mountain. Why do I always get the ones who read storms into clear skies?

“It’s not that, Alicia. I’m not looking down on you. Just forget what I said. I said it because there isn’t anything to worry about.”

Her reassurance fell like leaves; Alicia’s resolve stayed sharp, a blade set. “Is that so… I understand. I’ll get stronger. I’ll make sure Ling can rely on me.”

She pivoted and left, the draft she stirred leaving Lian’s hair in a small storm.

After a long beat, Lian calmed herself and smoothed her bird’s-nest hair, letting out a sigh that drifted like smoke. “Ah-la-la~ Looks like my way of talking is still off.”

The next morning, Lian stretched in bed like a cat under sun and sat up.

“Hah! Hah! Hah!” Heavy breath thudded from outside, like a drum in fog.

What’s that? Noisy at dawn?

She went to the window and leaned out. Alicia stood in sportswear, the Demonblade in her hands, swinging it again and again, a metronome of steel. Every few strokes she shook her head, unhappy with the arc, like a painter scrubbing a flawed stroke.

Sweat ran along Alicia’s hair, flung into the air in silver beads. The newborn sun caught them, crystals thrown into a red sky, and the whole scene framed itself into a painting that held Lian’s gaze.

Clack. The door opened, and Remi entered in her maid uniform, her smile soft as morning steam. “Good morning, Miss Ling. Breakfast is ready. Shall we serve it now?”

Lian ignored the question, pointed at Alicia under the crimson sky, and asked, “When did she start?”

Remi checked her watch, then lifted her eyes. “Since four a.m. Until now: two hours, three minutes, forty-two seconds.”

“I see.” Lian looked again at the steady swings, her eyes warm as lamplight. “That girl… really pushing herself. I told her it wasn’t her problem…”

Remi slipped in with a gentle cut, tugging Lian back from her daze. “I think Ms. Alicia is the kind who’d do anything for Miss Ling. Like I would for Flan—even death would be fine. That kind of feeling is precious. You’re lucky, Miss Ling~”

Lian let out a thin, self-mocking laugh, a blade turned on herself. “Heh… maybe. Maybe that’s Ling’s luck.” The words were a whisper in reeds; even Remi couldn’t catch them.

Seeing Lian drift again, Remi nudged like a tap on the window. “Miss Ling, it’s getting late. If you don’t eat, we’ll have to ask Ms. Alicia to drive us to school again.”

Yesterday’s memory rose cold, like a hand on the nape, and Lian hurried to find clothes.

Remi passed them at just the right moment, like a bird bringing thread. Lian took them but didn’t dress; instead she watched Remi with an odd look, a question behind glass.

Remi shifted under the gaze, heat pricking like afternoon sun. “What is it, Miss Ling? Is something off?”

Lian shook her head and met Remi’s eyes, deep as a well. “Hey, Remi, I suddenly felt that, somewhere far away, someone named Sakuya Izayoi might start crying.”

Remi searched her internal records like riffling a library, but the name didn’t exist. “Is that someone you know?”

“Not really. I just heard the name somewhere. Then I saw you and thought of her, and it made me feel she was kind of pitiful.”

The meaning scattered like leaves, and Remi couldn’t gather it.

Seeing her confusion, Lian waved it off, like shooing a moth from lamplight. “Alright, don’t mind it. Treat it as me talking to myself.”

“Understood…” Curiosity lingered like scent, but Remi let it go. A maid shouldn’t pry into a master’s thoughts; she’d learned that from a book titled “How to Be a Perfect and Dashing Maid.”