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Chapter 59
Ian watched Betty quietly for a long moment, then glanced around the surroundings and spoke in a tone that suggested mild exasperation.
“We should stop lingering here and focus on the purpose that brought us here in the first place.”
Betty observed him as he stepped forward again, organizing and opening the boxes, and realized he was doing it on purpose.
He was giving her the last bit of time to properly think things over, in case her mind happened to change.
“I’ll handle this side,” Betty offered.
She willingly played along. She didn’t want to make the atmosphere unnecessarily heavy, pretending not to notice his considerate gesture.
“Don’t stray too far from me.”
The concern in his voice, as if worried about a repeat of the earlier mishap, drew Betty closer to Ian.
Betty picked up a box that seemed filled mostly with useless papers and settled down nearby.
After that, Ian didn’t speak another word, but Betty felt an unprecedented, comfortable silence settle between them.
“I’ll take care of this.”
“No.”
There were occasional moments when their arms or hands brushed, causing brief awkwardness.
Betty quickly grew accustomed to Ian’s presence so close to her.
Even when her hand accidentally met his warm skin while reaching for another paper, her face no longer immediately flushed like before.
“…I don’t think this is going to work.”
Time had passed, and the light streaming in from outside was fading. Betty thought it might soon be hard to distinguish anything and was about to suggest returning to the mansion.
She sighed, straightened her back, and lightly tapped her shoulders again.
Ian, who had gone to put some boxes aside and had been deeply examining something, called her back.
“Betty.”
“Yes?”
“This… I think you should take a look.”
In his hands was a piece of paper so old and poorly preserved it looked ready to crumble.
Betty carefully approached, avoiding the scattered miscellaneous papers that had spilled from the box.
The title at the top of the paper was clearly “Rocselon.” Judging by the long-ago date, what he had found might be the original manuscript before it had been adapted.
But what made Betty’s heart race wasn’t the title itself—it was the handwriting.
The handwriting was the same one she had often imitated as a child. It was neater, more orderly, unmistakably her mother’s.
“…This… this is my mother’s handwriting.”
The words came out as she whispered them, her hands trembling slightly as she carefully held the fragile paper.
“Yes, this is definitely my mother’s handwriting.”
Her fingers gently brushed over the paper, a gesture full of longing.
Betty turned the page slowly. The sentence written on the next page was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“For my beloved Betty. You are my pride.”
What had her mother been thinking while writing this? Did she hope this play would become Betty’s pride?
Or had she been unable to tell her daughter about the manuscript before leaving, for fear it might not be meant to be revealed?
Regardless of whether it had succeeded or failed, Betty had always been her mother’s pride.
Betty’s eyes lingered on the next line.
“And for the one I loved most, Aaron. Meeting you—there wasn’t a single moment I regretted.”
It was her father’s name. A man Betty barely remembered, whom her mother would mention but always with a hidden sadness, never allowing Betty to ask too closely.
Betty recalled the play’s story, thinking of the two protagonists who had to meet a tragic end, and quickly flipped through the manuscript.
This version of Rocselon was different. More precisely, it dealt with the next life after the original ending—a reunion, a story celebrating eternal love.
“The story… it’s different.”
This was the point where it had been adapted. But originally, this wasn’t a tragedy. Rocselon had never mentioned a reunion.
“Different?”
“Not even death could separate us…”
The manuscript’s depiction of the reunion and the events that followed was dreamlike and floating, almost as if describing an afterlife.
Perhaps the adapter had chosen to end the story tragically.
But if there was a continuation, the interpretation changed entirely: their love was no longer filled with regret, but a sublime story of a love that had to exist, no matter what.
“My father passed away early. My mother… must have loved him very much.”
This manuscript was her mother’s promise, written with her entire heart, hoping to meet her father in the next life.
And it was the only one of its kind in the world.
Tears began streaming down Betty’s face. They fell so quietly that Ian didn’t realize she was crying at first.
Seeing her curl up, clutching the manuscript, and wiping her cheeks with her hand, Ian sank down beside her. After a long moment of hesitation, he carefully rested a hand on her shoulder and awkwardly patted her.
“I miss Mom… a lot.”
The emotions she had been holding back with all her might were now impossible to suppress. From the moment she held onto one of the few remaining traces of her mother, it had been unavoidable.
Ian tried his best to comfort her as she sobbed, feeling almost useless in the process—but still, he stayed.
“…It’s okay.”
Countless thoughts tangled in his mind. This manuscript must have been a part of her mother’s past that she had never revealed.
It was connected to her father, filled with sorrow, stories her mother perhaps couldn’t easily share with her daughter.
The few times her mother spoke of her father were always happy memories. Only good stories.
She never spoke of hardship or pain, as if wanting to leave only happy memories for Betty.
Yet Betty found herself wishing, for once, that her mother had shared all of it with her. Perhaps if she had shared the pain, her mother would have suffered less. Perhaps she wouldn’t have lost her mother from her life.
“…She didn’t want me to worry about anything, I guess.”
Betty realized her mother must have hoped her daughter wouldn’t spend her childhood burdened with worry. She understood—but she still missed her mother.
With a deep breath, Ian finally helped Betty to her feet.
“Let’s get out of here for now.”
He wanted to let her speak freely, but it was getting dark. He felt they needed to leave and hear her story properly.
Betty nodded, hastily wiping the tears from her sleeves. Ian glanced down at the manuscript she was holding.
The name that had been lingering in his mind since earlier floated across the page: Aaron.
It felt familiar. Somewhere he had definitely heard it before, and he had to recall why.
He tried to think of anyone he knew with that name, or any famous figure—but he still couldn’t place why it felt so familiar.
“Are you okay?”
Betty, seemingly a bit calmer now, looked at him questioningly as they reached the carriage.
Ian shook his head lightly, signaling that it was nothing serious, and helped her into the carriage.
It wasn’t an urgent matter to think about just yet.
