I’m dreaming.My nape is warm. It feels like I’m resting against someone’s thigh, that soft heat. I open my eyes. I see a glossy, expensive necktie, a rumpled shirt, a slender, graceful neck rising above the collar, and, on that sleek, elegant jaw, lips curved in a gentle smile, revealing white teeth. Above that straight nose, familiar eyes are shining.It’s Jérôme. Twenty-year-old Jérôme. He’s wearing his school uniform from our boarding-school days. Our gazes meet. Now that he’s grown up, his eyes look almost absurdly youthful. In the past, those eyes seemed consumed by irreversible madness. But reunited with the younger Jérôme, that madness feels pointless. The cruelty of twenty-year-old Jérôme is no different from a child tearing off a grasshopper’s leg. To him, I’m no more than a grasshopper caught by chance in a field.Suddenly I realize he’s stroking my hair. There’s no malice in his hand. Have we ever been this peaceful? From the moment I first met him, I sensed something bizarre in Jérôme, and I kept my distance. Even in dreams I never lay with my head on his thigh, gazing at each other this intimately. Yet now we’re staring at each other like close friends, devoted brothers, affectionate lovers. I decide I should speak.I ask, “What time is it?”The question escapes me without thinking. We’ve rarely shared such everyday conversation—asking the time, complaining about a math test, suggesting a swim, debating lunch. Questions flood out of me like a spring. Just as young Jérôme glances at his wristwatch to answer, I fire off more questions.“Did you have class this morning? Is it cold again today?”“Are you going into Goron this weekend?”“Have you finished your Spanish homework?”“I heard the second-floor ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) bathroom in the Main Hall is clogged.”“In this afternoon’s geography class…”“But what’s the date today?”“Carles—do you know where Carles is? I have something important to tell him.”“Wait—what time was it again? I have to—”Suddenly Jérôme interrupts me.“What is it?”Youthful Jérôme brushes my forehead with his hand and asks,“What do you need to tell Carles?”“I didn’t answer. You asked me whether I’m with Julia or McLean… so I am Julia.”Jérôme says softly, “Oh. Raymond. You’re too late. Carles is dead.”I look up at young Jérôme. I’m still lying with my head on his thigh. I touch his cheek. My twenty-five-year-old hand cups that soft, warm boyish cheek. Jérôme leans into my hand. He can tell Carles. I’m dreaming, and you’re twenty—if you’re twenty, Carles must still be alive. So go tell him. You can do it. Carles is still alive. I tell him,“He’s alive. Go find him. Bring him back.”Jérôme, cheek resting in my hand, sighs. His lips, sighing, still trace a smooth curve.“Oh, come on.”Another voice slips from Jérôme’s lips. Not youthful Jérôme’s voice, but“Why did you make him like this again?”It’s the voice of the grown-up Jérôme.With each blink, everything shifts. First his eyes change—from the boyish gaze to that of an arrogant man. The soft cheek hardens; the pale, slender neck bronzes in the sun and thickens with manly strength. The school uniform becomes an expensive suit; the thigh I rest on grows thicker and more solid. When the dream’s veneer peels away, it’s a cruel man who dragged me back into hell stroking my hair.When did Jérôme come here? How long have I been lying on his thigh? Can I really say this isn’t a dream? Maybe I’m still dreaming. But it doesn’t matter. I know I’m mad. Soon—maybe in a few days, if I’m lucky, a week—I’ll be murdered.And that’s fine. Having brutally killed a friend, I deserve an equally miserable, painful punishment. That’s why they’re here: Jérôme, Simon, and the judge Acacia they brought with them. My reunion with the boys on the top floor was always destined to be my condemnation.I withdraw my hand from the man-grown Jérôme. He leans down and kisses my forehead.“You never fail to disappoint me, Raymond.”With eyes still faintly showing the youth of twenty, Jérôme whispers,“But now I know you’re an excellent liar.”I don’t deny it. I don’t want to deny it. If Jérôme calls this all a lie and treats me even more cruelly, that too will be my due. I try to rise, but I have no strength—only a slight twist of my shoulders. It feels as though all the blood has drained from my body. There’s no pain. Only my nape, resting on Jérôme’s thigh, is warm.Just as when I touched his cheek, I try to reach out—but my fingers won’t budge, as if that motion only happens in dreams. I look at Jérôme with powerless eyes. He notices my feeble attempts but doesn’t help. He’s amused—like someone watching a grasshopper flail on the ground after losing its leg. I don’t feel ashamed under that gaze.“An excellent liar,” a hoarse voice rasping.“I look forward to it.”That voice belongs to Mr. Acacia. He’s here too. I want to see Simon, but I can’t move. My body refuses me. It feels like a dream.“You look forward to it? In this state, you can’t even tell if it’s a lie.”Jérôme speaks again, playful yet cutting. I keep struggling.“Simon, what on earth have you been doing all this time?”Simon is here, too. His characteristically blunt, slow voice answers,“…A fair reproach, but things haven’t turned out too differently from what we intended.”“Simon’s right,” Mr. Acacia says, his tone tinted with amusement,“We just lost our minds a bit sooner than expected.”“No,” Jérôme says quietly,“We can’t let this slide, Mr. Acacia. We all deserve equal recompense.”“But now that it’s like this, how can I fix it?” Mr. Acacia teases Jérôme. Surprisingly, Jérôme doesn’t get angry. He smiles and turns his gaze to me again, kissing my forehead once more.“I’ll fix it. Go back to sleep, Raymond. You’ll feel better when you wake.”He strokes my hair and, absurdly, begins to sing a lullaby:“Rocking on the treetop… the wind rocks the cradle… the branch snaps and rocks the cradle… a baby is born and rocks the cradle…”More absurdly, the lullaby makes me sleepy. I nod off before the chorus.A hand shaking me wakes me. This time I really open my eyes. It seems so. Jérôme is crouched beside me. He looks exhausted. My eyes open only briefly. I see his face, then close them again. But as soon as I shut them, he shakes me again. Annoying, but I don’t have the strength to push him away. When I finally force my eyes open, Jérôme beams at me.“It’s morning already, Raymond. Are you going to sleep all day?”“……”“Come on, don’t dawdle—get up. Now!”He grabs my arm and hauls me upright with surprising strength. But the moment he lets go, I collapse like a rag doll. Lying on the mattress, I blink and close my eyes again. Just standing up drains me. I want Simon. I want to fall asleep in Simon’s arms. Why can’t I? The thought makes me furious. I was Simon’s lover. Jérôme has no right to treat me this way.Jérôme shakes me again to wake me. I frown and turn my head away. Immediately, a chillingly cold hand grips my cheek and jaw. Though his touch is tender, its coldness snaps me awake. When I open my eyes, Jérôme is looking down at me with a bright smile, his face close.“It’s morning, Raymond.”He slips an arm under my neck and slowly lifts my torso. His touch is unusually gentle. Supported by his arm, I open my eyes and look around. We’re still in that log cabin. Morning light pours through a large window frame without glass. No one else is here—just Jérôme and me. He sits me up and waits until I can support myself before letting go.I sit dazed, staring at him. Jérôme takes my hand and presses something into it. It takes me a few minutes to realize what it is—it’s been so long since I last saw one.It’s a toothbrush. I hold it and stare at Jérôme.“Here—brush your teeth.”For some reason he’s delighted, squeezing toothpaste onto the brush with a radiant smile. I just gape at him, toothbrush in hand. Maybe impatient, he pulls my arm and puts the brush in my mouth like teaching a child.“……”“Brushing, remember?”“……”“Hurry, okay?”“……”“Like this.”Jérôme crouches before me, fists raised, and moves them up and down.“Try it like this.”I watch his bizarre display for a long moment before finally realizing he’s demonstrating how to brush. I clumsily rub the brush against my teeth. The toothpaste softens and mint fills my mouth. Jérôme stays crouched, watching me miserably work the brush.When a white foam droplet falls from my chin, I quickly reach out and wipe it away.“Clumsy.”He smears toothpaste foam on my cheek with his fingertip.“Ha ha!”“……”“All right, that’s enough. Let’s rinse.”He holds a cup of water to my lips. I stare at it blankly.“Can’t even rinse? Simon wouldn’t have had to do that for you.”“……”“Hmm. Excuse me.”Jérôme moves close and wipes the foam from my lips. Then, kindly, he helps me sip water and rinse. At last we sit down to eat. Even during breakfast, he can’t stop sneering.“No, you can’t scoop if you hold it like that.”He laughs for a while, then says,“See? Like this. How do you plan to eat if you forget how to hold a spoon?”“……”“All right. Now put it in the bowl…and scoop.”He watches me struggle, pouring stew all over my lap before any reaches my mouth. It takes me tens of minutes; my pants end up stained with stew.Jérôme doesn’t sigh once. For hours after I woke, he never sighed or lost patience. When it took me thirty minutes to brush my teeth, when he handed me clothes and I just sat there, he remained calmly patient, demonstrating each step as if teaching a child.At first I was baffled, but as time passed I missed Simon more and more. Simon never asked me to do things I didn’t know how to do. No—he never asked me to do anything at all. He’d cared for me meticulously, head to toe. In his arms I felt comforted, safe. I longed for Simon. Even as I reluctantly took the handkerchief Jérôme offered, I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I just missed Simon.“Time to wipe.”

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