Mand had seemed somewhat absentminded lately.
After dinner every day, he used to take little March out for a walk. Sometimes they would run into Sheriff William from next door, who was also out strolling, and they would even arrange to go fishing together on weekends.
But as his exchanges with Old Mark grew more in-depth, Mand stopped liking going out. Whenever he came home, he locked himself in his study. Sometimes he even forgot to feed March, only remembering when she whimpered and scratched at the door.
The bookshelves had become a mess. Books that had once been arranged by category with near-obsessive-compulsive precision were now scattered haphazardly across the floor and desk. The leaves of the lily of the valley by the window had turned yellow, while bowls piled up in the kitchen sink, faintly beginning to stink...
A few days ago, he had even written the wrong prescription for an elderly woman with a fever and cold. It was only after a caregiver pointed it out that he realized his mistake.
As for Mand himself, perhaps because he had delved too deeply into Mark's case history, he had begun displaying similar symptoms. Occasionally, he heard strange sounds, caught odd black shadows at the edge of his vision, and invariably woke at three in the morning.
At first, Mand had been somewhat worried. But after using the mental health self-assessment methods he had learned from his mentor and discovering that he was perfectly healthy, with no problems at all, he stopped worrying and simply attributed it to overwork.
After all, all of this was worth it.
As Old Mark's condition gradually worsened, Mand became increasingly convinced that he had discovered a complex mental illness with no precedent in the medical world.
He had even written a letter specifically