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chapter 12
Sylvester stared into the mirror. Reflected in the clear glass was a haggard, unimpressive face.
From the messy bangs that covered his eyes, to the sunken eyelids, the heavy dark circles, the rough skin and gaunt cheeks. Even his lips were drained of all color.
“Nothing ever works out.”
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face. Droplets scattered everywhere.
“Pathetic.”
His bangs, wet, clung to his forehead. Water dripped down along his jawline. Sylvester wiped it away with the back of his hand, then lowered his head, staring blankly into the abyss of the drain.
“The person who painted your portrait. Who was it?”
It had already been several days since he’d asked that question. His jaw tightened, making his already harsh expression turn fiercer.
“……”
Velita’s cold expression, her subdued voice, even her stiff gestures—all of it lingered in his mind.
He’d never seen her like that before.
“Why the hell… would that matter?”
The moment she threw the question back at him, he knew he’d stepped on something wrong.
It hadn’t been the same gentle, coaxing voice she’d been using just moments ago.
But instead of regret, guilt, or shock… what Sylvester felt first was jealousy.
A strange envy stirred within him at Velita’s sudden change in tone.
She had always been so composed, so unshaken.
And yet, here she was, bristling like a cornered animal over a single, simple question.
“What kind of past does she have, to answer like that…?”
Sylvester had wanted to ask her—
“…Why?”
Had his question been such a mistake? Was it something forbidden, something he never should have brought up? If so, then tell him, and he’d apologize.
“Am I not allowed to be curious? I thought it was a perfectly natural question.”
But instead of voicing his concern, his mouth betrayed him. Petty, pointless words tumbled out instead. A sarcastic tone slipped free.
Maybe it was because she wouldn’t answer him. Maybe her silence had pricked his pride.
“That portrait was buried in the sand, right? But it was discovered without a scratch on either the frame or the canvas. Judging from the style and the materials, it’s clearly old.”
If it had been nothing, she would have said so easily.
If the painter had meant nothing to her, if there hadn’t been anything special about it, there would’ve been no reason to refuse him an answer.
“Interesting.”
“What’s interesting? Can’t you just say why? Who painted it, and why they painted you?”
Sylvester exhaled a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut. His teeth pressed hard against each other.
“You could just tell me instead of acting like this.”
He bowed his head, shaking it side to side. Droplets sprayed against the bathroom wall.
“…Haah.”
When he opened his eyes again, the same sour face glared back at him from the mirror. His cheeks, rubbed raw, were flushed as if he’d been slapped, and the inside of his lip tasted faintly of blood from where he’d bitten down too hard.
“…Heh.”
And yet, Velita’s voice still wouldn’t leave his head.
“Sylvester.”
His golden eyes, sunk deep with frustration, locked with his reflection.
“Who do you think you are?”
Her tone had been almost wounded.
“…What am I?”
“Seems like you’re misunderstanding something.”
“……”
“Like you said, if I don’t want to answer, then you should just shut your mouth. That’s all there is to it.”
Sylvester bit down harder.
Even if she really did have some scar from the past, it wasn’t something he had caused.
Velita had told him not to treat her like a human, not to think of their fake relationship as real.
So he couldn’t ask any further. Even if she wouldn’t give him a single reason for her anger, she hadn’t been wrong.
It was he who had pressed, who had been nosy, who had irritated her.
And yet, Sylvester couldn’t help but wonder—who had hurt her badly enough to leave behind such sharp thorns?
Which bastard had branded themselves into her memory?
“If not me… then who the hell…?”
He ran his hand through his wet hair.
The conversation had ended without conclusion. All that remained was unresolved curiosity, anger toward that unknown man, and a trace of self-reproach.
All he’d wanted was to know her better.
Who else, besides him, had ever wanted to paint her? Who had convinced her to sit for them?
Or… had she requested it herself?
Because all he knew was that Uncle Hubil had given him the portrait. He knew nothing of the life its subject had lived.
He didn’t know why the frame had absorbed his painting only to spit Velita out, how long she had been trapped inside, or how many years she had lived.
He really didn’t know anything at all.
Sylvester rubbed his damp face with both hands, took a deep breath, calmed himself, and finally opened the door.
“You washed up?”
But as if oblivious to his turmoil, Velita was just the same as always since that day.
“…No. Just a little hot. You came back quickly.”
“Yeah. Out there it’s even hotter than here, and there’s nothing worth doing.”
“Summers here are especially harsh. I hear other regions are better.”
“…Maybe.”
Sylvester wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried.
It was good that their argument hadn’t torn a rift between them, but perhaps that only meant Velita was burying something inside.
Whether feelings, words, or memories—something.
“So how do humans usually beat the heat?”
“For commoners like us… we splash water on ourselves.”
“That’s it?”
“Or sit under a tree, or by a lake.”
“Any other methods?”
“None.”
“…What an inefficient life.”
Velita muttered and collapsed onto the couch. She buried her face in the damp cushion and didn’t move.
“There’s an ocean not far from here, if you go down a bit.”
“Too hot. Don’t want to.”
Sylvester gave a short laugh. For all their casual conversation, the suffocating feeling inside him refused to fade.
How did demons endure summer? What was it like inside that portrait?
And before that, back when there had been a painter in her past—how had she endured the heat then?
Questions itched at the back of his throat, but the memory of her reaction made him swallow them down again.
Where exactly was the line? What could he ask, and what was forbidden?
Sylvester sat on his stool, gazing at Velita.
“…Ah.”
Suddenly, Velita lifted her head. Disheveled, she stared up at the wide window before her.
For a while she sat like that, then straightened her back. A few fine strands of hair fluttered across her forehead before sliding back over her crown.
“There’s wind.”
The greenery in the yard rustled faintly. The humid western breeze tousled her hair.
Thick waves of hair slipped behind her shoulders, while the sweat-dampened underlayers clung to her pale nape.
Her thin clothing rippled with the air, tracing her form, making her sunlit skin glisten.
Velita brushed the damp strands from her neck. A bead of sweat shimmered at her jaw, glowing softly before rolling down into her cleavage.
Sylvester’s throat bobbed before he realized it.
The breeze reached him a moment later.
“……”
And with it came a sudden awareness of distance—
The gap between his stool and her couch, the delay of the wind traveling that space.
“Why…”
Or perhaps something deeper, far older.
“Why won’t you come closer to me?”
He remembered the first day they met.
The endless monsoon had made morning feel like night and night like morning. He had been sorting through a few damp paintings that refused to dry.
Practice sketches of June roses, the white beach and blue sea below the hill, a peach tree bathed in cool cloud-shadow.
And then, reaching for his next canvas, he had lifted the first portrait he had ever attempted. For some reason, he’d thought—it needed to be kept somewhere safe. He couldn’t just leave it lying around.
As he looked around the room, his gaze met the original of that copied portrait.
It had felt like someone was calling to him.
Come closer.
Just a little closer.
That was the feeling.
The woman in the portrait smiled faintly, but her beauty was at odds with her weariness.
Her tightly pressed lips looked lonely, tired, sad. As if life itself had lost meaning.
And he had wanted—vaguely, foolishly—to soften that sorrowful expression.
To ease those drooping corners of her mouth.
Even if it was absurd, he had thought: I wish I could help you.
He knew it was madness.
But still, he had leaned in and kissed her.
He had whispered love and offered her a painting of his own—a useless gift to someone who wasn’t even real.
No one liked his paintings. She wasn’t even human. But it was all he had to give.
He just didn’t want her to cry.
Sylvester unrolled the bundle of brushes on the table. As the old leather unfurled, the tied-up brushes scattered across the surface.
He picked up the thin cord that had bound them. Rising from his stool, he walked over to the couch.
Drops clung to the ends of his bangs, blurring his vision.
Through the messy strands, he recalled the first time he had seen her step out of the painting—
A blinding white flash freezing the world, time itself seeming to stop. Then she had appeared, bathed in soft turquoise light.
Sylvester had caught her as she drifted down as though untouched by gravity.
The moment his hands touched her, he’d felt the undeniable weight of another life.
She had collapsed weakly into his arms. He had propped her up against the wall, half-afraid it was a dream, half-fearing he’d lost his mind.
Her complexion had been ghostly pale. He remembered the moment her eyes had opened.
He remembered, too, how she had suddenly lunged for him, clutching his throat with desperate strength.
“…Want me to fix your hair?”
Cord in hand, Sylvester stepped behind Velita.
She tilted her head back, glancing up at him. A few loose strands fluttered across her face.
Seeing her like that, all the heavy emotions from earlier melted away.
Yes—this was enough.
That same woman who had once bristled so sharply was now sitting with such unguarded ease.
And yet, incongruously, her gaze remained solemn… too solemn.
Eyes that held only him.
“…You’ve got a cord?”
Her tone carried a trace of resignation.
“Here.”
Sylvester dangled the cord. Velita lowered her chin obediently and let him gather her hair.
“You’ve got short hair too. Where’d you get this?”
His rough hands worked surprisingly carefully through her locks.
“I use it to tie my brushes.”
He murmured an excuse—she just looked hot, that was all.
He liked the feel of her hair sliding between his fingers. He gathered it up and lifted it.
“You even know how to tie it?”
“…Do I look like someone who can’t tie a cord?”
Such a harsh assessment. At his muttered protest, Velita chuckled softly.
Sylvester couldn’t help but smile as he tightened the knot, pulling her curls up into a neat bundle.
“All done. Next time I’ll buy you a proper one.”
Her wild hair was now tamed into a single ponytail. Velita ran her fingers through it, testing the weight.
“…Thanks.”
She whispered over her shoulder. Sylvester fidgeted with his hands.
Even though he’d tied it slowly, he missed the feel of her hair already.
“……”
He looked back at her.
Thanks.
…Was that all?
“But I wanted more.”
He thought back.
Since that first night together, Velita hadn’t touched him again.
She had been the one to initiate, the one to take control. They had spent hours until his voice broke. He knew she hadn’t been unwilling.
“Then why won’t she touch me?”
Her turned back seemed almost spiteful. Sylvester finally spoke.
“…If you’re thankful.”
“Hm?”
Velita glanced back.
“Why?”
Her green eyes, as always, pressed him to answer. Instead, Sylvester leaned forward, bracing his arms on the couch.
“How about touching me, for once?”
Velita’s eyes narrowed.
The look said it all. This guy’s scheming again…
“…What are you, a dog?”
Sylvester laughed quietly. Velita muttered as she stretched out a hand.
Well, she didn’t touch him where he wanted, but it was enough.
Those beautiful eyes, fixed only on him. That faint smile at her lips. The lazy, warm afternoon.
Even the gentle neighing of horses drifting in from outside…
It was perfect.
Her delicate hand was just about to brush his dark hair when—
Wait. Horses?
SLAM!
His perfect day shattered.
“I have arrived, my lady!!”
Ah. Damn it all.
It was Roman.
