Chapter 25
“Sign here and bring it back by tomorrow.”
“Huh? Uh… okay….”
“Emergency! Total emergency!”
A voice filled with urgency rang through the studio. The place was so wide and empty that the words echoed.
Rutger covered his ears with an expression of sheer annoyance. Would there ever be a day when Lilliana Lifton was quiet?
“Hey. You should join the shooting club.”
“If you’re going to cut out the beginning and end of your sentence, am I supposed to answer you the same way? Fine, I’ll answer.”
As always, Rutger replied with sarcasm, but Lilliana was not the kind of person such a tone worked on. Just as he expected, she waved her hand and continued.
“I don’t want to make enemies, you know?”
“……”
“Anita’s definitely mad because I pretended to be your girlfriend.”
Snap.
The lead in Rutger’s pencil broke. He had pressed down so hard that the tip punched into the canvas.
“Anita? Why are you bringing her up now?”
“Well, because Anita joined the shooting club. And do you know what she said? That there’s someone she wants to shoot. That’s obviously about me, right? Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t want to die. Do you think it’s easy to be born this pretty, rich, and with such a great personality? It’d be a waste to die.”
“Calm down and just sit.”
“Okay.”
Lilliana settled down with surprising speed.
Rutger tried not to let it bother him. The Anita he knew wasn’t the type to make such a scary threat, and Lilliana had a habit of exaggerating everything. But still… the tiny possibility nagged at him, and it took quite a while for him to settle his mind.
Anita woke earlier than usual that day, yawning as she rolled out of bed. Almost out of habit, she glanced at the back of her hand. The mark had faded a little after she’d scrubbed it hard yesterday, but there was still some pigment left—proof it hadn’t completely disappeared.
Would he show up before the mark was gone?
And if he did…
No.
She quickly cut off the strange, unrealistic thoughts that were starting to form.
His fickleness was nothing new. That was why she, at least, had to act rationally.
If she didn’t, she would be the one to suffer and get hurt. That much was obvious.
It was the weekend, so there were no lectures today. Even so, Anita couldn’t just laze around in bed. She had to work a shift at the café, return the library books she’d borrowed, and submit her application form to officially join the shooting club.
After changing into her going-out clothes, Anita stood in front of the mirror for a final check. She shouldn’t have done that.
In the reflection, her face overlapped with the lines from that portrait.
No matter how hard she stared, she didn’t look like the girl in the painting. The basic features—eyes, brows—were the same, but she still looked like an entirely different person.
The lively, bright-smiling girl in the picture was nowhere to be seen.
After a brief glare at the pale-faced girl in the mirror, Anita turned away without regret. She had too much to do today to waste time staring at her reflection.
When she opened the door to leave, she paused.
The door felt heavier than usual, and when she checked, she found a package sitting outside. Looking at the note with the sender and recipient written on it, Anita brought the box back inside. It was from her parents.
Her birthday had long passed, so what on earth had they sent?
With a rather indifferent expression, Anita unwrapped the package. Having grown up in a wealthy environment, she wasn’t easily moved by gifts. If she wanted something, she could simply buy it herself.
She removed the ribbon wrapped around the box and lifted the lid.
It was light, so she had already guessed there wouldn’t be much inside. Sure enough—just two envelopes, a book, a flower-pressed bookmark, a small picture frame about the size of her palm, and a seashell.
Glancing over the items, Anita picked up the book. It was in a language she didn’t know, which meant her mother was probably off traveling again.
The plain brick-colored cover had no illustrations—nothing that gave away what it was. Anita opened it and lazily flipped through the pages. She couldn’t read it, but to her eyes, it looked like it was written in Philas.
After skimming over the worm-like script for a moment, she slid the book into her bookshelf.
Her mother’s letter was just a single sentence.
Even so, Anita couldn’t read it—because it, too, was written in Philas.
So, clearly, the message was: learn it.
With a sigh, Anita set the letter down and picked up the other envelope. Inside the plain, stamp-less white envelope was, thankfully, a letter in a language she could read.
The problem was, she didn’t want to.
It was from her father, and it was very long. Five whole pages filled entirely with reminders—eat three meals a day, go to the hospital if you feel unwell, and so on.
Anita stuffed the letter back into the envelope. She had heard his nagging so many times that now, just seeing his handwriting made her hear his voice in her head.
Monday felt gloomy.
Raindrops pattered down from the morning, and the happy weekend was over, replaced by the start of lectures.
The student council was shouting through megaphones about the upcoming freshman welcome party, trying to inject some energy into campus life.
Some students giggled in anticipation of the event, but the laughter soon faded—probably because the party was still far away, while classes loomed far too close.
Anita was grateful for the rain.
Last weekend—she had no idea what she’d been thinking—she’d submitted her shooting club application. And the moment it landed in the hands of the club president, Richet, she’d instantly regretted it.
