"Good day, Professor!"
"Good day, my student!"
Those two booming greetings crashed through the carriage like a pair of cannon shots, silencing every murmur within. Unbothered by the stares around them, the two madmen carried on—singing, laughing, raising imaginary cups as though the world itself were their private stage.
When the excitement ebbed, Oscar seemed to recall something.
"Oh, right. This is Buscalo—my friend. A doctor."
He gestured toward the man beside him. Buscalo wore a strained, almost tragic smile, as if unsure whether to laugh or flee. Before he could say anything further, Lloyd spoke first.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Buscalo."
He extended his hand warmly—yet his eyes told another story entirely, brimming with naked killing intent, as though a single misplaced word would earn a bullet.
Buscalo nodded stiffly, his voice trembling as he echoed the greeting.
A pleasure?
Well… perhaps it was. At the very least, this time Lloyd hadn't pressed that damned shotgun against his skull.
With that thought, Buscalo wiped the sweat from his bald forehead, his fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary. Every encounter he'd had with Lloyd had been theatrical—absurdly so—and, curiously, the women accompanying him were never the same.
"You don't look well," Oscar remarked, studying his friend's flushed, sweat-drenched face.
"Probably just the air—too stuffy," Lloyd answered smoothly, shooting Buscalo a pointed glance.
Buscalo froze for a heartbeat, then nodded vigorously.
"Yes… yes, that must be it."
The carriage had been sealed tight to keep the warmth in, its temperature pleasant enough for most. But for Buscalo, it felt suffocating.
"Still, I never expected to see you again, Lloyd. Did you leave the academy?" Oscar asked after the introductions.
Lloyd had once been something of a legend there—only to vanish one day without a trace. His name was gone from the rolls, his presence erased from every record. He lingered only in memory, a ghost shared between teachers and students. If not for a few handwritten assignments, Oscar might have believed they had all suffered some collective hallucination.
"More or less… yes," Lloyd replied vaguely.
Back then, he had drifted from lecture to lecture, picking up whatever strange knowledge caught his interest, only to disappear again once satisfied. By all rights, their paths should never have crossed again. Yet here they were.
Oscar studied him for a moment but chose not to press further. Perhaps, in his mind, Lloyd was the hidden child of some powerful figure—one of those quietly inserted into institutions, only to be withdrawn just as silently. The headmaster, after all, kept a list for such shadows.
With a genial smile, Oscar's gaze shifted to Selu.
Lloyd's heart tightened. Her identity was not one to be recognized—future Duchess of Stuart that she was.
"And this is…?" Oscar asked, only now noticing the quiet girl, as though her faint presence had cloaked her until this very moment.
"She is my—"
"Selu."
She cut Lloyd off cleanly, leaving him no room to improvise.
Was this fragile, twisted hostage dynamic about to shatter? One shout from her could paint him a kidnapper before the entire carriage. A witch-hunter's blade might settle many disputes, but not those of morality.
And yet, what followed surprised him.
"Selu Holmes. I'm his younger sister. A pleasure to meet you."
Both men blinked.
Oscar looked Lloyd over—unshaven, rough, barely presentable—then glanced at Selu, delicate as a porcelain doll. He shook his head slowly, as though weighing an unsolvable equation, and sighed.
"What are you sighing for?" Lloyd snapped.
"Nothing! Nothing at all!" Oscar waved it off hastily.
Watching Lloyd bristle, Selu recalled his earlier description of this man—a teacher of questionable sanity, once a playwright obsessed with comedy, who rewarded laughter above all else.
"Pleasure to meet you, my dear!" Oscar said, shaking her hand with delight.
"To encounter such a lovely young lady—what a fortunate surprise!"
For a moment, he seemed years younger.
"So, what brings you here?" Lloyd asked.
"Traveling, of course."
"This is a tourist line?"
"Well… not exactly," Oscar admitted before continuing. "I've hit a creative wall. I need inspiration. I hear the northern snows are beautiful—I thought I'd see for myself."
Lloyd's gaze drifted to Buscalo.
"Traveling alone is dull," Oscar added lightly. "Buscalo happened to be free, so I dragged him along."
He went on, almost casually, "Poor fellow. His wife divorced him—took their daughter, too. He tried to reconcile, but she's already gone back to her hometown."
There was a trace of pity in his tone, the sort one might hear from a priest murmuring, 'poor child.'
"Bald, overweight, foul-tempered, no prospects… I'd say his chances of winning her back are slim."
Buscalo, who had only just steadied himself, nearly collapsed again, clutching the window as he struggled to breathe.
"But hey—divorce isn't so bad!" Oscar declared, slapping his shoulder. "After all, divorce is just a prelude to marriage!"
He laughed heartily, utterly unaware of the devastation he had just inflicted.
Selu fell silent. At last, she understood why Lloyd had been so animated upon seeing him. This was no bond of scholarship or gratitude—merely two lunatics recognizing their own kind.
Like two grotesque creatures, delighting in another's misery.
They soon drifted into reminiscing. In Lloyd's telling, Oscar was a brilliant mentor, a man of boundless talent. In Oscar's version, Lloyd was a paragon—upright, respectful, diligent, practically a candidate for the Empire's Ten Outstanding Youth.
Truth and fabrication blurred together. Yet in those few minutes, their true natures shone through—unfiltered and unmistakable.
"So, what kind of story will this be?" Lloyd asked suddenly, his tone turning serious.
"A comedy, of course," Oscar replied with a grin.
"A comedy…" Lloyd frowned.
"What's wrong?" Selu asked, puzzled.
"Because at the heart of every comedy lies tragedy, child," Oscar said quietly.
For once, he seemed every inch the teacher.
"Have you read my work?"
Selu searched her memory. The name lingered—faint, distant—until it carried her back years ago, to the moment she first arrived in Old Dunling, a stray cat thrown into a gilded palace. She had panicked, struggled, collided with invisible walls she could not break.
Later, she learned to adapt. She had been taught to read then—slowly, patiently—and one of the books she encountered was…
"The Nightingale and the Rose?" she ventured.
Oscar blinked, genuinely surprised.
"You've actually read it?"
Lloyd chuckled softly. "His stories are… peculiar. You noticed, didn't you?"
She nodded. It had felt like a fairy tale—yet without a happy ending.
"Yes," Lloyd continued, "people love perfect endings. They crave beauty, satisfaction. But he prefers to defy them—writes tragedies no one wants. That's why his works aren't popular."
He glanced at Oscar. "What's that line you always say?"
Oscar thought for a moment, then recited, "A young man in his twenties, unemployed, will likely imagine himself a writer."
"That's the one!"
They both laughed again.
"But that was when I was young," Oscar protested. "I'm nearly fifty now—and I do have a job."
"Because writing doesn't pay, right?"
"Well, a man must eat."
Their laughter returned, now tinged with something almost conspiratorial.
"In the end, one must compromise," Oscar sighed. "Otherwise I'd starve—and then the story would truly end. I doubt anyone now could inherit my love and beauty."
"But… why write tragedies, if you love comedy?" Selu asked softly.
"Because only those who have known beauty can bear to shatter it," he said.
"Emotion is the strongest force—and sorrow is its fiercest form."
"Tragedy ends in pain, unforgettable pain… like a wound that never heals."
"And precisely because of that, it reveals beauty," Lloyd murmured. "Like numb souls who seek pain just to feel alive."
Selu recalled a line:
"Draw closer, little nightingale, or dawn will break before the rose is finished."
The tree's urging, the nightingale's sacrifice—blood staining petals red before the coming dawn.
"The darker it is, the brighter the light appears," Lloyd continued. "The deeper the sorrow, the clearer it becomes."
"What becomes clearer?" she asked.
"Love, of course!" Oscar declared, eyes alight.
"You've never even been married!" Buscalo snapped, regaining his voice. "You said marriage is just two fools chasing each other!"
"And what does my marital status have to do with admiring love?" Oscar shot back. "Worry about the alimony you owe them instead!"
He straightened, suddenly impassioned.
"Some fight for wealth, others for power—honor, history… people will fight over anything, even sweet versus spicy."
"But me?" He grinned. "I fight for love. I am a warrior of love!"
"…And yet it's still a sad story," Selu murmured.
It felt like a dark fairy tale—the tree losing its nightingale, the sacrifice meaningless.
Strangely, it mirrored her own path. She, too, was walking toward death for Lloyd's absurd wish. Not for love, not for sorrow—just a madman's self-destruction.
"And that is why no one cares," Oscar sighed. "Love has become something only fools speak of."
He sounded weary, though the sadness never quite clung to him. His spirit remained childlike—laughing at the world, fighting for things he did not possess.
"Yes… it's time for us to go, Selu," Lloyd said, glancing at his pocket watch.
She frowned. They were already on the train—where else was there to go?
"You're as busy as ever," Oscar observed. "Just like before—disappearing without warning."
"Life is busy," Lloyd replied lightly. "Busy working, busy marrying… busy dying."
He extended his hand once more.
"So busy there's no time even to say goodbye. Still… it was good to see you again."
"Yes—yes, indeed!"
Two kindred lunatics, parting with mutual understanding.
As Lloyd walked away, Oscar felt an unexpected loneliness settle in. Few appreciated his work—and fewer still amused him so thoroughly.
"What a pity," he sighed. "If the Cleansing Agency hadn't claimed him first, he might have belonged here."
"Such a fine boy."
Buscalo, for his part, was simply relieved to see Lloyd go. Though he had no idea where Lloyd could possibly be headed, there was comfort in his absence.
…Yet something lingered. Something he shouldn't have heard.
"What agency?" he asked.
"What agency?" Oscar echoed, his expression blank with confusion.
"You just said—"
"You must be hearing things," Oscar interrupted. "As a doctor, you should take better care of yourself."
He slung an arm around the unfortunate man, pulling him close. Around his neck, a silver pendant swayed gently—a finely wrought eye enclosed within a triangle, silently watching the world.