Sunset over the sea after the wind and rain have passed,
The stars twinkle quietly,
The crescent moon in spring is as beautiful as a painting,
My dear, your eyes are even more beautiful.
Martin Silva, whose real name was Philippe Beckett, kept humming a song that was stuck somewhere in his mind. It was a folk song that the natives of Novazelandia, an island nation south of the Pacific Ocean that was his mother's homeland and a colony of Trieste, enjoyed singing.
The kid who taught me this song and sang it with me... who was it?
Before he lost his entire family in the war and was sent to an orphanage, he occasionally recalled memories of someone teaching him something. These days, it seems like he thinks about it more often.
Martin got off the train and glanced around the rather dreary winter country station. When he caught the carriage and arrived in the middle of the town, the dreary atmosphere remained the same. But the dreary atmosphere was different from the gloomy atmosphere because it was the cold of February.
On the outskirts of Bintergar, the small village of Levan looked different than it had a few months ago. A newly built community center, a bridge over the river, a power plant site that was about to be built, and a construction site where new land was being plowed were all signs of the community’s progress.
The windmill was changing rapidly. Soon the whole country would have the benefit of electricity. Within a few years, a railroad would be built that would allow rapid crossings of the continent, and the day would soon come when all sailing ships would be replaced by steamships. The aftermath of the continental wars that had broken out several times over the decades was nowhere to be seen.
But across the border, Trieste is trying to turn back the clock...
According to the information network, the situation in Trieste was getting worse by the day. The imperial family was attempting to return to feudalism by strengthening the curfew centered around the capital city of Hedestad and imposing strict restrictions on women's social activities, following the official recognition of Caelumism. They were not paying any attention to the changes in neighboring countries such as Vintergar, such as the Industrial Revolution and the active rise of the middle class.
The new Duke of Blackwell will soon be coming to the capital. Kyle Lordan Blackwell. What will he do? No, before that... What happened to Angie? She keeps not appearing in Martin's dreams.
Willem van Armitage came to Breen's house last night and told him that the ship was ready. With three weeks to go, it was now only a matter of praying for a smooth voyage and a successful discovery of the island. There was no more trouble, but Bryn had volunteered to go along, so it was a bit of a hassle.
"Bryn. Absolutely not. Sailing itself is hard for a woman and with that body..."
"It's okay. It's not a big deal to walk with a stick. There's no need to run around inside the ship anyway."
"Bryn. To be blunt, if you follow him, you'll only be a burden to Martin. The best thing to do is to sit still and wait, so don't make a fuss anymore."
It was only thanks to Willem's intervention that Bryn was finally able to be stopped. Five years ago, while he was rescuing her from a kidnapper's den, Bryn fell off the third-floor railing and twisted her right ankle, leaving her with a limp.
There was no major disruption to her daily life. A slight limp on her right leg would not be a problem on board. However, since this was not an ordinary voyage, she could never accompany him.
“Guests. They’re all here.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Martin got out of the carriage and entered a small country road lined with farmhouses. An old woman sitting in a rocking chair by the window, stroking a cat, jumped up and greeted him. It was Catherine Beckett, his grandmother who had survived the war.
“Come on in, Philip!”
“Is everything okay? I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been here.”
Martin kissed the old woman's dry cheek affectionately and greeted the lady who looked after her. The two had a short tea time with the madeleines and financiers he had brought, along with apricot jam and scones. The cook at Bryn had baked them the day before, deliberately making them soft, so that Maria, who was nearing seventy, could chew them easily.
“Grandma, Bryn asked me to say hello. Something came up at home, so she couldn’t come with me today.”
“Who? Hey, I know Brianna, the grocery store girl, but this is the first time I’ve heard of Bryn.”
“This is my fiancée, as I told you before. Bryn Meyer Armitage.”
“Ah... Ahh! Yes, I remember.”
The old woman clapped her hands as if she finally remembered after a long time of searching her memory. Catherine was in her late sixties and suffering from the aftereffects of the war, which made her very forgetful.
Martin tried to keep his composure and poured more tea into her cup. He was worried that she seemed to forget more and more frequently as he visited her every few months. Strangely enough, she remembered the details of the past clearly, but she seemed to forget more recently.
Catherine Beckett was his only remaining precious blood relative. When his family was torn apart during the war and he was sent to an orphanage, he thought he would never see any of his family again.
When he was kidnapped on Cullinan Island and miraculously returned to Vintergar with his memories intact, Martin searched for any survivors of his family. Then, he heard the news of the survival of his kind grandmother Catherine and returned to Levan Village. However, the joy of reunion was short-lived, and he could not visit often for fear that the Duke Blackwell's men might trace his origins.
“Bryn... Yes. You brought her here before. She was a very pretty girl with brown hair. Although the hair and eye colors were different, she resembled that child, Lillian’s daughter.”
“Lillian...? Who was she?”
The Beckett family, who lived together in the village of Levan, was quite a large family. Martin tried to recall the dozens of female relatives on his father's side when he was young, but he had no clue.
“Oh, your cousin Lillian. Lillian married the eldest son of Thomas Wynne, a large landowner in Lorsha Village. Do you remember her? Everyone called her Lillian, Lillian. I’ll show you a picture. Just wait.”
The old woman got up from the living room, went to her room, and after a long time came back with a frame. It was a picture of her family that she had taken for the first and last time thirteen years ago, on a spring day before the war. Martin vaguely remembered that on a day when the camera was first invented before the war and had flown from the center of Wintergarh to this countryside, the photographer had placed his heavy rectangular device in the middle of the road and exposed its lens to the sunlight for hours.
“Look. It’s black and white, but here, the blonde girl is Lillian. She was your father Henrik’s second sister, your aunt. This is Lillian’s daughter. Her name was... oh, Amber. Yes. Amber Wynne.”
“Amber...”
Martin stared intently at the little girl in the photo. The girl, who looked to be five or six years old, was as lovely and pretty as a doll. It was a face he definitely remembered. The honey-colored blond hair and green eyes overlapped the child’s smile, which was all black and white. Then the small face changed into someone very familiar. Martin’s heart sank.
“Angie...?”
The name came out naturally through his lips. The old woman shook her head and corrected him.
“No, Philip. It’s not Angie, it’s Amber. You taught Amber your mother’s hometown song, don’t you remember? The village of Lorsha, where Lillian and her husband lived, was quite far away, so they only came two or three times a year. You didn’t see each other often, but you and Amber were quite close.”
Then he hummed the tune. He couldn't remember the lyrics, so he just hummed. But it was enough to awaken an image buried deep in Martin's mind. He remembered the moment when he was thirteen years old, a little boy, and sang to the much smaller girl in the photo.
Sunset over the sea after the wind and rain have passed,
The stars twinkle quietly,
The crescent moon in spring is as beautiful as a painting,
My dear, your eyes are even more beautiful.
"Philip, am I doing well now? I memorized it all!"
"Yeah. I'll teach you another song next time. Be sure to come to Levan next year too."
This can't be happening.
Martin was left alone, his eyes fixed on the child in the photo, dealing with the shock. Confusion was raging in his head. Now he thought he understood. Why Angie Ridsdel had appeared in his dreams? Why was it possible to communicate through dreams with her and not with someone else?
It wasn't just because he was an escapee, an escapee. It was because Amber, now Angie Ridsdel, was his blood relative. They weren't direct descendants, but they were definitely family. Of course, it was still difficult to explain scientifically, but anyway, the two communicated with each other in their dreams.
“Angie was that... Amber. My cousin. Amber Wynne.”
“That’s right. It’s not Angie, it’s Amber. I guess you're just remembering it now.”
Catherine tilted her teacup and nodded. Her gaze was somewhat hazy as she looked at the bare trees outside the window as if caught up in memories of the past.
“She was such a lovely child... I don’t know what happened to her during the war, and I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I wish she were alive somewhere so I could see her again before I die.”
Martin's heart continued to pound, pound, dully. At last, everything made sense. The sense of duty he had felt since he first saw the child in his dream, the urgency to save her, was finally coming to him.
Maybe, apart from my grandmother, I'm the only Beckett left. In Angie's case, it's Beckett on her mother's side... but we're still one family.
He was taken to Cullinan Island when he was about thirteen and escaped when he was sixteen. He never saw Angie again in the three years or so that followed. She had been to the island for some reason, it seemed, after he had escaped.
“Grandma Catherine. Angie, no, Amber... she’s alive. I’ll bring her back safely, for sure.”
The old woman was asleep, her head leaning against the rocking chair. Her thin, hunched shoulders moved up and down faintly. Martin turned his gaze back to the photograph.
The sunlight of a languid winter afternoon was gently falling on the stillness of him and the old lady.
The stars twinkle quietly,
The crescent moon in spring is as beautiful as a painting,
My dear, your eyes are even more beautiful.
Martin Silva, whose real name was Philippe Beckett, kept humming a song that was stuck somewhere in his mind. It was a folk song that the natives of Novazelandia, an island nation south of the Pacific Ocean that was his mother's homeland and a colony of Trieste, enjoyed singing.
The kid who taught me this song and sang it with me... who was it?
Before he lost his entire family in the war and was sent to an orphanage, he occasionally recalled memories of someone teaching him something. These days, it seems like he thinks about it more often.
Martin got off the train and glanced around the rather dreary winter country station. When he caught the carriage and arrived in the middle of the town, the dreary atmosphere remained the same. But the dreary atmosphere was different from the gloomy atmosphere because it was the cold of February.
On the outskirts of Bintergar, the small village of Levan looked different than it had a few months ago. A newly built community center, a bridge over the river, a power plant site that was about to be built, and a construction site where new land was being plowed were all signs of the community’s progress.
The windmill was changing rapidly. Soon the whole country would have the benefit of electricity. Within a few years, a railroad would be built that would allow rapid crossings of the continent, and the day would soon come when all sailing ships would be replaced by steamships. The aftermath of the continental wars that had broken out several times over the decades was nowhere to be seen.
But across the border, Trieste is trying to turn back the clock...
According to the information network, the situation in Trieste was getting worse by the day. The imperial family was attempting to return to feudalism by strengthening the curfew centered around the capital city of Hedestad and imposing strict restrictions on women's social activities, following the official recognition of Caelumism. They were not paying any attention to the changes in neighboring countries such as Vintergar, such as the Industrial Revolution and the active rise of the middle class.
The new Duke of Blackwell will soon be coming to the capital. Kyle Lordan Blackwell. What will he do? No, before that... What happened to Angie? She keeps not appearing in Martin's dreams.
Willem van Armitage came to Breen's house last night and told him that the ship was ready. With three weeks to go, it was now only a matter of praying for a smooth voyage and a successful discovery of the island. There was no more trouble, but Bryn had volunteered to go along, so it was a bit of a hassle.
"Bryn. Absolutely not. Sailing itself is hard for a woman and with that body..."
"It's okay. It's not a big deal to walk with a stick. There's no need to run around inside the ship anyway."
"Bryn. To be blunt, if you follow him, you'll only be a burden to Martin. The best thing to do is to sit still and wait, so don't make a fuss anymore."
It was only thanks to Willem's intervention that Bryn was finally able to be stopped. Five years ago, while he was rescuing her from a kidnapper's den, Bryn fell off the third-floor railing and twisted her right ankle, leaving her with a limp.
There was no major disruption to her daily life. A slight limp on her right leg would not be a problem on board. However, since this was not an ordinary voyage, she could never accompany him.
“Guests. They’re all here.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Martin got out of the carriage and entered a small country road lined with farmhouses. An old woman sitting in a rocking chair by the window, stroking a cat, jumped up and greeted him. It was Catherine Beckett, his grandmother who had survived the war.
“Come on in, Philip!”
“Is everything okay? I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been here.”
Martin kissed the old woman's dry cheek affectionately and greeted the lady who looked after her. The two had a short tea time with the madeleines and financiers he had brought, along with apricot jam and scones. The cook at Bryn had baked them the day before, deliberately making them soft, so that Maria, who was nearing seventy, could chew them easily.
“Grandma, Bryn asked me to say hello. Something came up at home, so she couldn’t come with me today.”
“Who? Hey, I know Brianna, the grocery store girl, but this is the first time I’ve heard of Bryn.”
“This is my fiancée, as I told you before. Bryn Meyer Armitage.”
“Ah... Ahh! Yes, I remember.”
The old woman clapped her hands as if she finally remembered after a long time of searching her memory. Catherine was in her late sixties and suffering from the aftereffects of the war, which made her very forgetful.
Martin tried to keep his composure and poured more tea into her cup. He was worried that she seemed to forget more and more frequently as he visited her every few months. Strangely enough, she remembered the details of the past clearly, but she seemed to forget more recently.
Catherine Beckett was his only remaining precious blood relative. When his family was torn apart during the war and he was sent to an orphanage, he thought he would never see any of his family again.
When he was kidnapped on Cullinan Island and miraculously returned to Vintergar with his memories intact, Martin searched for any survivors of his family. Then, he heard the news of the survival of his kind grandmother Catherine and returned to Levan Village. However, the joy of reunion was short-lived, and he could not visit often for fear that the Duke Blackwell's men might trace his origins.
“Bryn... Yes. You brought her here before. She was a very pretty girl with brown hair. Although the hair and eye colors were different, she resembled that child, Lillian’s daughter.”
“Lillian...? Who was she?”
The Beckett family, who lived together in the village of Levan, was quite a large family. Martin tried to recall the dozens of female relatives on his father's side when he was young, but he had no clue.
“Oh, your cousin Lillian. Lillian married the eldest son of Thomas Wynne, a large landowner in Lorsha Village. Do you remember her? Everyone called her Lillian, Lillian. I’ll show you a picture. Just wait.”
The old woman got up from the living room, went to her room, and after a long time came back with a frame. It was a picture of her family that she had taken for the first and last time thirteen years ago, on a spring day before the war. Martin vaguely remembered that on a day when the camera was first invented before the war and had flown from the center of Wintergarh to this countryside, the photographer had placed his heavy rectangular device in the middle of the road and exposed its lens to the sunlight for hours.
“Look. It’s black and white, but here, the blonde girl is Lillian. She was your father Henrik’s second sister, your aunt. This is Lillian’s daughter. Her name was... oh, Amber. Yes. Amber Wynne.”
“Amber...”
Martin stared intently at the little girl in the photo. The girl, who looked to be five or six years old, was as lovely and pretty as a doll. It was a face he definitely remembered. The honey-colored blond hair and green eyes overlapped the child’s smile, which was all black and white. Then the small face changed into someone very familiar. Martin’s heart sank.
“Angie...?”
The name came out naturally through his lips. The old woman shook her head and corrected him.
“No, Philip. It’s not Angie, it’s Amber. You taught Amber your mother’s hometown song, don’t you remember? The village of Lorsha, where Lillian and her husband lived, was quite far away, so they only came two or three times a year. You didn’t see each other often, but you and Amber were quite close.”
Then he hummed the tune. He couldn't remember the lyrics, so he just hummed. But it was enough to awaken an image buried deep in Martin's mind. He remembered the moment when he was thirteen years old, a little boy, and sang to the much smaller girl in the photo.
Sunset over the sea after the wind and rain have passed,
The stars twinkle quietly,
The crescent moon in spring is as beautiful as a painting,
My dear, your eyes are even more beautiful.
"Philip, am I doing well now? I memorized it all!"
"Yeah. I'll teach you another song next time. Be sure to come to Levan next year too."
This can't be happening.
Martin was left alone, his eyes fixed on the child in the photo, dealing with the shock. Confusion was raging in his head. Now he thought he understood. Why Angie Ridsdel had appeared in his dreams? Why was it possible to communicate through dreams with her and not with someone else?
It wasn't just because he was an escapee, an escapee. It was because Amber, now Angie Ridsdel, was his blood relative. They weren't direct descendants, but they were definitely family. Of course, it was still difficult to explain scientifically, but anyway, the two communicated with each other in their dreams.
“Angie was that... Amber. My cousin. Amber Wynne.”
“That’s right. It’s not Angie, it’s Amber. I guess you're just remembering it now.”
Catherine tilted her teacup and nodded. Her gaze was somewhat hazy as she looked at the bare trees outside the window as if caught up in memories of the past.
“She was such a lovely child... I don’t know what happened to her during the war, and I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I wish she were alive somewhere so I could see her again before I die.”
Martin's heart continued to pound, pound, dully. At last, everything made sense. The sense of duty he had felt since he first saw the child in his dream, the urgency to save her, was finally coming to him.
Maybe, apart from my grandmother, I'm the only Beckett left. In Angie's case, it's Beckett on her mother's side... but we're still one family.
He was taken to Cullinan Island when he was about thirteen and escaped when he was sixteen. He never saw Angie again in the three years or so that followed. She had been to the island for some reason, it seemed, after he had escaped.
“Grandma Catherine. Angie, no, Amber... she’s alive. I’ll bring her back safely, for sure.”
The old woman was asleep, her head leaning against the rocking chair. Her thin, hunched shoulders moved up and down faintly. Martin turned his gaze back to the photograph.
The sunlight of a languid winter afternoon was gently falling on the stillness of him and the old lady.
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