Arnold spent his days like a man with too much time—popping up out of nowhere. But to Caro, it didn’t matter. She was curious about him, yes, but she had no intention of prying aggressively into his past. Stories needed the right atmosphere. Forcing someone to speak just for the tale felt hollow.

Besides, for Arnold, it might not even be a happy memory to revisit.

Caro wasn’t the type to dredge up someone else’s pain. She considered herself magnanimous—and so her actions stayed the same.

She compiled the ghostly maiden’s tale and composed a song: *The Call Across a Century*. Honestly? She wasn’t sure if it was good. Music wasn’t her strong suit. But she’d poured her heart into the melody, crafted the lyrics with care—and that was enough.

Whether Lucy would approve, she didn’t know. But Caro was satisfied. And that was enough.

She’d learned this clearly after her parents passed: funerals, memorial rites—they were performances for the living. Without an audience… those rituals held no meaning. The ones who truly grieved? Only a handful. Even as heir to wealth, her parents’ greatest impact was a shift in inheritance. Then came distant relatives, suddenly eager to reconnect, hoping for a share—

She’d simply changed her bank details, moved, and vanished from their sight.

It didn’t matter.

No matter how hard it was to accept—Lucy was gone. Reality. She didn’t know if summoning Lucy’s projection would grant it consciousness or wisdom. Bards were rare; powerful bards, rarer still. Little reference existed.

But she’d given her all. As long as she felt she’d tried—enough. The outcome? Left to talent and skill. At least in heart, she’d done her part.

This was all Caro could do.

Two weeks later.

The tavern, quiet for so long, buzzed with guests. Caro had become a familiar face in Maelzu Town. Though new, her presence was strong—working the tavern, asking daily about Lucy. Most recognized her. Today, she would tell Lucy’s story. Perform for her.

Hence, the crowd.

The owner cleared the space generously, offering free drinks—cheap ones, but still costly.

When Caro asked why, he replied, “Lucy looked after me too, growing up.”

Perhaps that was how the whole town saw Lucy.

This was Caro’s first truly formal, large-scale performance as a bard.

“Everyone.” Caro cleared her throat. No boy’s disguise today—just a softly cute dress. She faced the crowd. “Lucy has left us.”

Murmurs stilled.

“To be honest… I’m a bit shameless. Writing Miss Lucy’s story? At first, I hoped it’d strengthen my skills as a bard, boost my fame—that’s why I stayed in Maelzu Town.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

“But!” Caro’s voice rose. “Lucy is gone. For all of you—no one will scare you from that mansion again. No one will sit with you in old age, sharing life’s long tales. You’ve lost Lucy—the gentlest playmate, the kindest elder.”

“…”

“I don’t want her to vanish.” Tears glistened in Caro’s eyes. She’d always been moved easily—even by atmospheres she crafted herself. “I heard once: a person isn’t truly dead when body and soul fade. Only when forgotten. When their spirit fades from memory.”

Her gaze settled on a disguised figure in the crowd—Arnold.

“I won’t forget Lucy. And I don’t want any of you to forget her. She stayed here two hundred years. She watched you grow. Watched your ancestors grow. No one knows this town like her—she cared for every soul here.”

“Therefore…” She placed a book beside her. “Pass this story on. So no one forgets what Lucy shared with you… so she lives on.”

“Call it a bard’s trick. A friend’s plea. Or your own nostalgia… Please—pass down the story! The poem! The song!”

She whispered, “Sing with me.”

Her harp swelled suddenly huge. She took a deep breath. “Listen now… to *The Call Across a Century*.”

*Within the ancient mansion,*

*A ghostly song echoes.*

*Listen closely—*

*It is the voice of a century…*

Caro’s melody was simple. No deep artistry. Not for the refined—only for Maelzu Town.

*She calls out,*

*Mary,*

*Tell me again of love.*

An elderly woman named Mary covered her mouth, tears streaming.

The song was plain. Repetitive. Long. But every word Lucy left behind was there.

When it ended, Caro smiled softly. “Shall I sing it again?”

“…SING!!!” the crowd roared.

“Sing with me~”

“YES!!!”

Voices rose—off-key, forgotten lines—but they sang. Sang until breathless.

The performance ended.

…

“Cough! Cough! Cough!!!”

Caro gulped water, coughing harder.

“Sang yourself hoarse?” Arnold teased.

“None of your business! Cough! No mic—had to sing loud so everyone remembers!” She clutched her throat, wincing.

Arnold felt a pang. Helpless. Just a swordsman. A priest would’ve helped—but pride kept her from asking. She’d felt proud of herself.

“Arnold… a favor.” Her whisper was faint. He leaned close. Warm breath brushed his ear. A hint of scent—then gone.

*She won’t ask a priest… but me?* Arnold thought shamelessly. *Do I matter more to her?*

“Can you… carry me home?”

Her breath sent his pulse racing. *Carry her home?* She was exhausted—yes. But this request… carried weight.

He bent slightly. “Y-You’re serious?”

Caro stared as if he were dense. *Do I look like I’m joking?*

He scooped her up.

“?”

She struggled weakly. “I said… *carry*… not *hold*…”

*Princess carry.* Now he understood. The pose framed her delicacy perfectly.

His palms dampened. Left hand under her knees. Right near her back—too close.

*Bad. Very bad.*

He swallowed. “My giant sword’s on my back. Can’t carry you that way.” A flimsy excuse.

Caro blinked. Nodded. Her harp *was* cumbersome.

*So cute.*

No—“cute” wasn’t right. Maybe his mind was too lewd, but Caro stirred something deep.

Cheeks flushed, gaze averted—pretending indifference. That shy blush… made him want to tease her more.

*Caro. Be my wife!*

…He kept it locked tight inside.