"I was being nice to him. That's all."

It was a broken heart that ended Horace's past life—a few honest words drifting out of the break room on the seventeenth floor. A better man might have brushed them off. But Horace wasn't that better man. He was a lesser one, already ground down by a company that treated its employees like equipment.

Convenience store meals had ruined his health. Endless hours had broken his spirit. His world was painful and gray, and one lovely smile had kept him going.

That day, the very last of his old life, he'd just wanted to thank her.

"He should get that you're out of his league! But he keeps hanging around because you never tell him to buzz off."

"Well, he just… doesn't know how to read a room. He's harmless enough."

"More like hopeless. It's creepy how he always comes up here and hovers."

"Yeah…"

One voice was sharp. Almost gleeful. He didn't know her. And the other…

He stared at the bouquet in his hand.

"I wish he'd just leave me alone."

So he did.

No one on the seventeenth floor ever figured out where the flowers in the trash came from. And no one in the office noticed that he'd decided to go home.

He returned to an empty apartment, suit drenched from the sweat of a sweltering summer afternoon, chest quietly thumping with a splintering ache. He took a single step inside and collapsed right there, only dimly aware of the pain shooting through his right arm.

Any number of things could have saved his life that day. A healthier breakfast. A cooler day. A simple glass of water before he decided to walk through the hot streets. But he'd already lost the ability to tell discomfort from distress.

In his final moments, he thought he was fainting from exhaustion.

The man passed into his next life so seamlessly, he never even realized he died. The pain in his chest stopped all at once—the sweat clinging to his skin seemed to dissolve. The aches and ills that had always plagued him fell away, until nothing remained but a long dreamless sleep.

Then the cold hit him.

He came to, half-delirious, the weight of summer suddenly replaced by a blanket of snow. He lay half-frozen, just as helpless as the moment he'd collapsed—legs stiff, arms numb, torso so rigid he almost couldn't breathe. The wind stung his cheeks and whistled in his ears; he struggled to open his eyes against its relentless bite. But through the flurries, a figure began to waver into view.

Winter's white veil seemed to flutter aside. And the face he saw could have belonged to an angel.

The angel scowled at him, eyes teary from the cold—as if she'd hurt herself on her journey from heaven to the mortal plane—and she reached for his frostbitten hand, whose fingers had curled uselessly stiff.

"Was your plan to shame me, dying like some—some vagrant?!" She clasped both of her hands around his wrist, and tugged to no avail. "Get up, you ass!"

She must truly have been an angel, for gathered between her mittened palms he glimpsed a fleeting shimmer of light, caught the sound of something stirring at her fingertips—a delicate breath somehow audible amidst the roaring winds, as if the air were about to sing.

Yet the light flickered out. The melody never began. And the briefest distress clouded her eyes as she looked down at her own hands.

The moment passed. Jaw clenched and face scrunching back into a glare, she tightened her grip and yanked harder, hauling him up with all her might, catching his weight on her shoulder before staggering forward a few clumsy steps.

"Walk for God's sake!" she shrieked.

His memories from that point on were fuzzy. The path they walked was a blur, but he could still recall how her small frame trembled with each step—her labored breathing, the flushed warmth of her cheek against his, her hair damp with sweat despite the blizzard.

Only after a long, effortful trudge did they come across a group of knights. The scowling angel carrying him wasted no time thrusting him into their care. Assured at last he would no longer burden his beautiful rescuer, the man let himself slip back into unconsciousness.

He never slept better.

A full day later, he woke in an unfamiliar bed, stunned to find she was still nearby—nodding off in a chair, arms crossed and slumped over, loose strands of hair spilling forward to cover her face.

He tried to sit up. But what felt like a cocoon of silk and wool pressed against his already heavy limbs, and for all his efforts he only produced a breathless groan.

The woman who'd saved him jolted awake at the sound.

"Wha—?!" she gasped, head jerking up in a flustered stammer. "I—I would never doze off whilst you lecture, Celine!"

She blinked. Half-awake, her gaze flitted through the room in confusion before finally coming to rest on him. That was the moment her eyes met his for the very first time.

The man peered back. It was all he could do. He was too weak to move. And he found himself powerless to turn away. One look into her almond-shaped, chestnut-colored eyes, and he'd already fallen in love.

"Awake at last, are you?" she asked.

He could hardly speak. "How… long…?"

"It has been two days, Horace." Her tone was as sharp as her glare. "Such a fine betrothal this is. Our first proper meeting, and you've a tongue of lead. Well! Not that I wish to hear any of your rancor!"

Horace? He had no idea who that was. Yet that was what she called him. He tried once again to lift his hands, as if the sight of them would tell him anything.

Was there a mirror anywhere? Trying and failing to sit up, his neck creaked in search of a way to see his own face.

"You despise me so much, you'd attempt to leave your bed in that state?" she murmured, sounding more shocked than hurt. "...It matters not. I shall… take my leave now. You need not trouble yourself with my presence until our wedding."

He watched as she slowly rose from her chair with all the dignity she could muster, the stiffness in her posture betraying her exhaustion.

Her chestnut-colored eyes were bloodshot.

The newly christened 'Horace' could barely piece together the situation. It was all astonishing to him—the sudden blizzard, the beautiful woman who'd saved him, the knights—but the only explanation he could think of was that he'd somehow ended up in another world.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Either that, or he was still dreaming.

If it was a dream, it was a pleasant one, despite his snow-battered body. Anything was better than that summer day where he'd died unnoticed.

"Your… name…" Horace mumbled. "What's… your name?"

"Just how much did the cold addle your mind?!" the woman replied, mystified. Then she scoffed. "Or did you simply never learn the name of your fiancée?"

…Fiancée?

"My name. Is. Ennieux! I trust you'll at least remember that much moving forward!"

She fixed her glare upon him, waiting for a response. But Horace's mind was reeling.

What could he say? He wasn't even Horace. He'd been thrust so suddenly into this world, this dream, this body. None of this was truly his.

Not even this unhappy engagement.

Ennieux began to trudge out of the room, seemingly gobsmacked by the audacity and indifference of her husband-to-be. "Rest up, then! See you at the altar! Do make sure to find your voice for the vows!"

She flung the door wide, a moment from stomping out when his croaking voice stopped her.

"...Wait…" Horace gasped out. He had forced himself upright, arms trembling with the effort, his breath ragged.

He couldn't let her leave without saying one thing.

"Thank you… Ennieux…"

He trailed off.

And the image flashed through his mind of a smile from his past life—one that had helped him through so many painful days, and yet broke his heart on his very last.

'I wish he'd just leave me alone.'

"I won't trouble you…" Horace mumbled. "I know… where I stand."

Ennieux, who'd been lingering at the doorway in silence, turned at last to face him, hurt clouding her brown eyes like rain.

"Then, I shan't trouble you either," she said, quietly yet stiffly. "We need not try to love each other. Then, we will never wound each other."

Back in the present, husband and wife were testing the limits of that very premise.

While the young woman who'd brought their pasta stammered on, Ennieux—having pulled the trencher entirely to her side in a rare fit of shamelessness—noisily slurped the noodles.

"Y-yes, every morning with the ah, folding and the pressing, you know, I knead the dough myself, and when you 'ave it perfect, you can just feel how buoyant it is with your fingers, and you feel the—the suppleness," the woman cleared her throat, fumbling with her apron.

"It must require a delicate touch," Horace said thoughtfully. His gaze rested on her hands.

She only twisted her apron more fitfully, hiding her hands. "Ah! That is very kind but, well, I know, you know, my 'ands are not so pretty, and it is simply an occupational 'azard—"

"Nonsense," Horace said, shaking his head. "There's nothing finer than the devotion one gives to their craft."

"I-I am most grateful, milord," the woman replied, her voice softer than before.

She gazed shyly at Horace, hands slipping free of the apron only to fidget together. Her face was still red, but there was a flicker of confusion too, as though she couldn't fathom why a simple compliment had struck her so strongly.

Slrrrrp.

The young woman flinched, eyes flitting to Ennieux.

Horace glanced at his wife, blinked once, then politely turned back to the young woman. "I've kept you for too long. I'm sure you wish to get back to work."

"Ah, yes, you know, I don't wish to bore you, thank you very much, and I am glad you are enjoying the dish, thank you," the woman said in a rush, bowing once to Horace, then several times to Ennieux, before walking off so fast it seemed as if she were fleeing.

"...Is it good?" Horace asked.

Ennieux looked up.

"Why, it'sh precisely as the girl described," Ennieux said. "Creamy, zesty, and possessed of a most supple bite."

She gave a rave review and left it at that, trencher still pulled firmly to her side of the table. His attempt at small talk dead on arrival, Horace sighed and grabbed a chestnut, if only to have something to do. It was already cold.

A faint ache stirred in Horace's chest as he chewed it to a bland paste. He'd set out this evening wanting a simple dinner with his son. Yet he'd spent the brunt of it trying to be considerate of his wife who wanted nothing to do with him.

He stared vacantly out into the plaza. There seemed to be a restless fidget rippling through the crowd—heads flicking aside, voices dropping into hushed tones, conspicuously avoidant gazes that only left him feeling more on display.

The ache in his chest tightened. And then it swelled, heating up into a prickling irritation.

"There was no need to be so curt with her," Horace said.

The slurping of noodles stopped. "...What?" Ennieux asked.

"All she did was bring food," Horace muttered, eyes averted.

"I hardly spho—spoke a word to her!" Ennieux shot back, forcing her elocution steady. "Even ashhe—as she spent every moment making eyes at you as though I weren't even preshent!"

"Making eyes?" Horace echoed, genuinely baffled.

"Yes! Making eyesh!" Ennieux repeated it once more, her tone starting to flail. "And somehow you're the only one who never sees it—you must be one of the imperial princes, with how often your eyes make maidens swoon and flutter!"

His… eyes?

The faint grimace on Horace's face belied the sudden pit opening in his stomach. Alicia Greystone's behavior in the tavern rose to mind, together with Ailn's pointed questions about the imperial siblings and their red eyes.

"And then you have sho—so many wonderful things to say about her handsh, don't you?! Not a single word for your wife all night! " Ennieux went on. "I suppose my smooth hands are jusht proof of my ugly idleness!"

"You're putting words in my mouth, Ennieux," Horace said, his voice rising a notch, though still nowhere near hers.

"Go on! Tell every simpering woman in thish plaza what makes them beautiful except for me!" Ennieux cried out, her voice carrying clear across the square. "I know they're all vultures waiting for me to depart!"

"The only one who's ever acted untoward in this marriage is you, Ennieux!" Horace snapped.

Ennieux's drunken ranting stopped at once. Horace, who'd been avoiding her eyes, finally met them.

Her face was blank, though her pupils trembled.

"...You're quite right," Ennieux said, tone hollow. "Only I've… ever acted disgracefully."

"Ennieux, that's not what I—" Horace started.

But her next words came crisp, almost painfully sober. She swallowed hard, her lip quivering. "The only one who bears any shame… is me."

She slowly stood up. That's when her gaze began to dart around.

The plaza had fallen nearly silent. And Ennieux became suddenly aware of the crowd she had, until now, been almost heroically oblivious to.

Her gaze still seemed to spin as she gathered herself, arms trembling, lashes fluttering in rapid blinks. She turned to flee without a word—only to feel Horace's panicked tug on her wrist.

"Where are you going, Ennieux?" Horace asked, his throat catching.

"I'm off to the festival!" Ennieux blurted, summoning an almost indignantly chipper tone. "Why, I'm already here, what better opportunity to enjoy the Festival of Light?"

"You mean to run to the main thoroughfare like this?" Horace asked, incredulous.

"Just leave me be, Horace!" Ennieux yelled, her voice cracking. "Please!"

'I wish he'd just leave me alone.'

Horace's grip fell slack, and Ennieux tugged her hand away, her almond-shaped, chestnut-colored eyes still creased with shame as she took one last look back at him.

She ran off, leaving Horace behind, his hand hanging uselessly in the air.

Across the plaza, Ailn and Renea had watched it all unfold, just like the rest of the crowd. Renea had gulped her way through three cups of wine and was biting her nails so frantically Ailn thought she really might chew them off.

"W-what do we do—we just—we ruined a marriage, Ani, how did this happen, I told Camille—" Renea blabbered, unable to finish a sentence.

"Just calm down," Ailn said, though he had to admit he felt pretty thrown off himself. "We've just—wobbled off-course a bit."

Or a lot. He glanced down at the drawing of Horace and Ennieux happily eating skewers, then up toward a certain pasta stall. There Ceric stood looking like a deer in the headlights, while Safi, hands glued to her face in an expression of gaping terror, was a dead ringer for the subject of The Scream.

"We just… need to adjust," Ailn said, flipping through Bea's drawings. He found the one of Horace catching Ennieux next to the florist's stall.

Judging by the statue of a woman in the background—presumably the Saintess statue—that was supposed to happen here in the plaza.

Ailn sighed. "Let's find our little seer and see if we can get things back on track."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.