The Door

Gluck's drawing room.

The fire in the fireplace burned quietly, occasionally crackling and bursting into a few sparks.

Macht sat ramrod straight in a high-backed chair opposite the fireplace. He had changed into a dark suit, but still wore his signature gold coat draped over his shoulders. The hole in his chest had been repaired, and there was no trace of damage to the fabric.

He stared silently at the flames, his crimson eyes reflecting the flickering light, empty and devoid of any emotion.

Gluck sat on the sofa opposite him, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. He didn't smoke it, but just watched the ash slowly accumulate and fall, piling up in a small gray-white mound on the books on his lap.

Lowell strolled in from outside and closed the door behind him.

"Alright, alright, Old Ma," he walked to the fireplace and casually patted Macht's tense shoulder, "Don't be so silent, smile. What's wrong, lost to your own apprentice, feeling depressed?"

Macht didn't move, his gaze remaining fixed on the flames.

After a few seconds, he spoke, his voice flat.

"I was just thinking."

"Good, good, good. Learning without thinking is futile; thinking without learning is dangerous. I think, therefore I am." Lowell withdrew his hand, crossed his arms, and tilted his head to look at him. "Thinking more is a good thing, Old Ma..."

"I don't think we're that familiar," Macht interrupted him, his tone flat.

Lowell scratched his head.

"Ahem," he coughed twice, "I was just teasing you because I was afraid you'd be upset if you lost. How does it feel?"

He leaned closer, lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret.

Did you sense my 'goodwill'?

Macht looked at him, stared at him for two seconds, and then met his gaze.

"No."

Lowell's shoulders slumped.

"Tsk... alright, alright." He straightened up, waved his hand, and said, "You guys chat, I'm going out for a walk."

The door hinges turned, making a slight creaking sound, and then closed.

The living room fell silent again, with only the faint hissing of Burning firewood remaining.

The corridor was long and covered with a thick carpet that was soft and silent underfoot.

Lowell took a few steps and turned a corner.

Then he stopped.

Not far ahead, in front of a carved, light-colored wooden door, Duncan stood quietly.

His injuries had healed, and he stood ramrod straight with his back to us, like a javelin driven into the ground. He had changed out of his tattered, blood-stained robes and was now wearing a clean, crisp dark gray coat, his hair carefully combed. But his shoulders were taut, his fists clenched at his sides, the veins on the back of his hands clearly visible.

The door was closed.

Two heads peeked out from the shadow of a pillar on the other side of the corridor, diagonally opposite the door.

One on top of the other, stacked together.

Above is Frieren. Her silver hair gleams a pale moon-white in the dim light, and her emerald green eyes are wide open, staring unblinkingly at Duncan's back.

Below was Fern. Her pale purple eyes calmly reflected the same scene, her expression unchanged, only her body leaned slightly forward, maintaining a vigilant posture as if she could retreat at any moment.

The two held their breath, focused as if they were trying to decipher a complex ancient magic circle.

Lowell looked at them and remained silent for two seconds.

Then he spoke, his voice not loud.

"Hello."

Ah!

Frieren shuddered and quickly ducked back behind the pillar. Fern was also jolted, but she quickly regained her balance, turned around, saw who it was, and let out a soft sigh.

"Lord Lowell."

Her voice was steady, as if she hadn't been the one secretly watching from there.

Lowell walked over, stopped beside them, and crossed his arms.

"... What are you doing squatting here?"

"It's nothing," Fern said, turning his gaze back to the door and the person standing in front of it.

Frieren also peeked half her face out from behind the pillar, adding in a whisper.

"Just take a look."

Lowell glanced at them, then at Duncan, who stood like a statue in the distance, and clicked his tongue.

"Tsk..."

He shook his head, lowering his voice, as if talking to himself, or perhaps speaking to them.

"Duncan... he's getting nervous about returning home..."

Frieren turned her head, her eyes sparkling with pure curiosity.

"Hmm... what would it be like after fifty years?" she asked. "I asked you before what 'swear words' were, and you said if I didn't see you for a hundred years, I might swear like that... would Lektüre swear when she sees Duncan?"

Lowell was taken aback.

"Uh..." He raised his hand and touched his nose. "Cough cough, no way. Probably."

He looked at the door, his gaze darkening.

"For Lektüre, this place is still fifty years ago. Goldification only takes away time, not memories. She probably hasn't seen Duncan for... a few months, or a few years? It doesn't feel like that long."

"The one who hasn't seen his wife for over fifty years... is Duncan."

Frieren blinked, a look of understanding mixed with confusion on her face. She then gazed at Duncan's retreating figure for a while.

"So why hasn't he gone in yet?" Her voice held a hint of confusion. "Doesn't he want to see him?"

Lowell did not answer immediately.

The corridor was quiet, with the faint sound of a clock pendulum from somewhere in the mansion in the distance, thump, thump, thump, rhythmic and dull.

Duncan remained standing there, motionless. Only his fingers, hanging at his sides, showed a few knuckles curling up and stretching out repeatedly.

"You always have to be mentally prepared..."

Lowell said softly.

The moment the words left his mouth.

Duncan, who had been standing still, suddenly raised his right hand.

The arm movements were somewhat sluggish, as if resisting an invisible force. The fingers curled up, and the knuckles hovered in the air for a brief, almost imperceptible moment.

Then, it fell.

"Knock, knock."

Two clear, restrained, and evenly forceful knocks, as if measured with a ruler, echoed down the long corridor.

It wasn't heavy, yet it felt as if it had struck a string stretched to its limit, the lingering sound seeping into the surrounding silence and slowly dissipating.

There was no immediate response from inside the door.

The few seconds of silence felt as long as if they had been stretched out by an invisible hand.

Then, a soft, slightly sleepy, nasal voice faintly came from behind the door.

"May I ask who this is?"

Duncan's body tensed up suddenly.

His Adam's apple bobbed slowly as he inhaled and exhaled. Then he spoke, his voice strained and steady, yet still betraying a worn-out hoarseness.

"... It's me."

There was a moment of silence inside the door.

It was so quiet you could hear the dust motes floating in the light.