142. Don't go
As she hastily opened the door, a snowstorm swept in as if it had been waiting for her.
Erna was pushed back by the force. Only when the wind had somewhat abated was she finally able to open her eyes and look outside the front door. The white winter night, the streetlights, and Bjorn. The man, with the snowstorm at his back, stood before Erna.
“11:52. It’s still Saturday.”
His voice, mixed with his gasping breath, was carried by the rough wind.
“It’s not too late, is it?”
He waved the pocket watch he was holding in his hand and smiled. It was hard to believe he'd braved the harsh weather, barely able to stand properly.
Erna, at a loss, was awakened by another blizzard. Reflexively reaching out, she pulled him into the hallway, then quickly closed the door. As the roar and the wind ceased, a profound silence enveloped the two who stood facing each other.
This guy is crazy.
That was the only conclusion Erna could draw after examining Bjorn. Even under the dim hallway lights, the snow-covered, mangled figure was clearly visible. His complexion was so pale that it was almost believable even if he were a ghost.
“Why on earth...”
A trembling voice flowed out from between Erna's lips, which had been letting out nothing but a sigh of bewilderment.
“Why did you come?”
Erna took several deep breaths before finally continuing. An unconscious force gripped Bjorn's arm, frozen stiff as a block of wood.
“Why in the middle of the night, and in such dangerous weather?”
Embarrassment, anger, resentment. Countless other emotions, countless indescribable, burst forth as questions mixed with resentment.
“I promised.”
A soft light appeared in Bjorn's eyes as he quietly looked down at Erna.
“Since when have you considered your promises to me important?”
Erna, who had been making a blank expression as if she had heard an unfamiliar foreign language, shouted in anger.
She didn't understand.
Why would a man who had always treated promises so lightly now commit such an outrageous act? After all, it was never even considered a promise. What's the point of it all?
“Look here, my wife. Do you get angry even when I keep my promise?”
As Bjorn smiled calmly and questioned, a drop of melted snow fell from his hair. Only then did Erna remember that the man was drenched.
Erna, who had been tightly shut, opened her eyes and let go of Bjorn's arm, taking a step back. Water dripping from him was leaving a dark stain on the carpet in the hallway.
“Please come in first.”
Erna, no longer wanting to see him, turned around in a hurry. The sound of water droplets dripping from his drenched coat and jacket onto the floor rang in her ears.
“Let’s take a bath first. I’ll get ready.”
Erna, who had caught her breath, left the front door after saying those calm words.
Erna's diligent and frequent movements permeated the dense silence.
She lit a fire in the guest bedroom fireplace and hurried down to the kitchen. While she rummaged through the cupboards, searching for her grandfather's liquor, the milk boiled. The aroma of cloves and cinnamon rising from the pot slowly began to drift through the midnight kitchen.
Erna first took the warmed milk from the stove and then cleaned up the cupboard. The clatter of dishes and Erna's quiet sighs mingled in a strange harmony.
Despite the wood-filled fireplace, the guest bedroom, unheated for days, was filled with a chill. A surge of regret, coupled with a surge of irritation, overcame Erna, who suddenly dropped the plate she was holding.
The sound of the plate shattering on the kitchen floor tore through the silence of the night.
Erna hastily covered her mouth, which nearly burst into a scream. The sharp light from the shards of the shard stung her dazed eyes.
As consciousness gradually began to return, tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't understand why a mere broken plate could cause her such an upset, but the overflowing emotions wouldn't be easily contained. She felt as if her heart had been shattered into pieces, like a broken plate.
Erna leaned against the wall in a corner of the kitchen, out of the light, and covered her face with both hands. Tears, as if they had been waiting for a long time, began to flow down her palms.
Erna waited for Bjorn to return.
The moment she saw him, who had braved the blizzard to come back, Erna realized her own feelings that she had tried so hard to deny and ignore.
But at the same time, she waited for Bjorn to return.
The fact that it was also a sincere wish left Erna deeply confused.
Why are my feelings for that guy always so incoherent?
The memories of the past that burst forth with tears made Erna's crying even more intense.
It wasn't because she hated Bjorn that she decided to divorce him. It was because she didn't hate him that she had no choice but to run away.
She couldn't possibly hate the man she should have hated. Instead, her hatred for herself, for loving him, only deepened with each passing day. It was so painful and exhausting that she couldn't bear it. So she turned away. Before the wound consumed her.
But then again, back to square one.
Erna looked down at her soaking wet hands with terrified eyes.
She was scared.
For fear of hoping again. For fear of falling in love. For fear of being stabbed by the shards of that shattered heart and being wounded. For fear of ending up like her mother, killed by love.
As the crying gradually subsided, Erna drew water and washed her face thoroughly. She then closed the cupboard door, put away the remaining dishes, and headed to the living room with milk and brandy for Bjorn. Bjorn, having finished his bath, sat before the fireplace, warming himself by the flames. Erna's eyes narrowed as she noticed his still-wet hair and his unbuttoned robe.
“If you’re still very cold, add some alcohol to your drink. It’ll warm you up.”
Erna handed over the glass in a curt manner.
Bjorn nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise, but he obediently accepted it. The large porcelain cup was half-filled with sweet-smelling milk.
Without much thought, Bjorn filled the remaining half with brandy. He then slowly brought the warm glass to his lips. Meanwhile, Erna retrieved a blanket from the sofa and handed it to Bjorn.
Erna stood a step away and watched him. Fortunately, he seemed unharmed, and at first, her mind was reassured, but then a sudden surge of anger surged through her.
“It’s still cold in the room, so stay here a little longer and then go up.”
Erna, who had made up her mind coldly, turned around.
“Erna.”
Bjorn, who had been examining her back and the blanket on his lap, impulsively called out to her. Erna stopped walking and slowly turned her head to look at him.
“How is your divorce?”
Bjorn just blurted out whatever came to mind.
“What does that mean?”
“The calf. The calf that received the name the Prince gave it.”
He couldn't have been drunk on a few sips of brandy mixed with milk, yet he was spouting out such nonsense. Erna, who had been staring at him, turned away with a laugh, as if she found it absurd.
“It’s Christa.”
Erna frowned and spoke forcefully.
“That calf’s name is Christa.”
“Don’t you think that’s too grand a name to give to a calf?”
“I don’t think that’s something someone who would call an innocent young animal something as insulting as divorce would say.”
In contrast to her sharp, sharp tone of voice, Erna's eyes looking at him were pure and clear.
Christa.
Bjorn, who had been mumbling the name, let out a long sigh mixed with a soft laugh.
“Things in Schwerin went well.”
He looked at Erna and continued talking nonsensically.
"Our cookie jar got a little bigger. We ate one of the lousy ones."
“Your Highness.”
"I was thinking of buying a gift as a souvenir, but as you can see, I'm empty-handed. My wife really hates my gifts."
Bjorn carefully examined the drawing room. The Baden family's drawing room, once filled with piles of gifts, had regained its original order.
“Did you put all those gifts away?”
“Yes. Thanks to you, the warehouse is about to burst.”
“Did you open it?”
“No. I left it there, so please take it back. And that brooch too.”
Erna's eyes, bathed in the fireplace light, sparkled like the jewels he had given her. Bjorn returned his hand from stroking his chin to his glass.
“Wasn’t that something you agreed to receive?”
“I didn’t want to make things difficult for everyone that day, so I didn’t refuse, but no matter how much I think about it, I think it would be better to return it.”
"Why."
“It would be very strange to receive expensive jewelry while we are talking about divorce.”
Erna argued seriously. Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at her serious face, found himself smiling.
“The letter? Surely you won’t return that, will you?”
“I will make sure to receive the letter.”
Erna, who had been pondering, nodded. Bjorn, who had been staring at Erna's flushed cheeks, turned his gaze back to Erna's eyes.
“How was my letter?”
"Yes?"
“I was curious. It’s my first time writing a love letter.”
“Well, I know the Prince once wrote a very beautiful proposal.”
“A proposal? Oh, that one.”
Bjorn chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
“The writing skills of the royal poets of Letzen are quite excellent.”
“Does this mean ghostwriting?”
“Then do you think I would have written that?”
Erna, who was watching Bjorn questioning calmly, laughed in disbelief.
“It was a very personal letter.”
“Is that a curse?”
“Think as you wish.”
Erna seemed to be ending the conversation here and summarized her thoughts on the letter.
“Bjorn, stop it now...”
"Don't go."
His true feelings spilled out before he knew it. His eyes, staring at Erna's bewilderment, cooled.
"I missed you. I missed you, so I came back. So, Erna..."
A drop of water clung to the tips of his wet hair and ran down his smooth, straight nose. Bjorn, raising a stiff hand to brush his face, swallowed dryly, unable to continue speaking. The blazing firelight from the fireplace highlighted the outline of his slowly moving chin.
"Don't go."
Those soft words, spoken with a tone of resignation, broke the silence between the two people who were staring at each other with bated breath.
The snowstorm in Buford was still howling fiercely.
As she hastily opened the door, a snowstorm swept in as if it had been waiting for her.
Erna was pushed back by the force. Only when the wind had somewhat abated was she finally able to open her eyes and look outside the front door. The white winter night, the streetlights, and Bjorn. The man, with the snowstorm at his back, stood before Erna.
“11:52. It’s still Saturday.”
His voice, mixed with his gasping breath, was carried by the rough wind.
“It’s not too late, is it?”
He waved the pocket watch he was holding in his hand and smiled. It was hard to believe he'd braved the harsh weather, barely able to stand properly.
Erna, at a loss, was awakened by another blizzard. Reflexively reaching out, she pulled him into the hallway, then quickly closed the door. As the roar and the wind ceased, a profound silence enveloped the two who stood facing each other.
This guy is crazy.
That was the only conclusion Erna could draw after examining Bjorn. Even under the dim hallway lights, the snow-covered, mangled figure was clearly visible. His complexion was so pale that it was almost believable even if he were a ghost.
“Why on earth...”
A trembling voice flowed out from between Erna's lips, which had been letting out nothing but a sigh of bewilderment.
“Why did you come?”
Erna took several deep breaths before finally continuing. An unconscious force gripped Bjorn's arm, frozen stiff as a block of wood.
“Why in the middle of the night, and in such dangerous weather?”
Embarrassment, anger, resentment. Countless other emotions, countless indescribable, burst forth as questions mixed with resentment.
“I promised.”
A soft light appeared in Bjorn's eyes as he quietly looked down at Erna.
“Since when have you considered your promises to me important?”
Erna, who had been making a blank expression as if she had heard an unfamiliar foreign language, shouted in anger.
She didn't understand.
Why would a man who had always treated promises so lightly now commit such an outrageous act? After all, it was never even considered a promise. What's the point of it all?
“Look here, my wife. Do you get angry even when I keep my promise?”
As Bjorn smiled calmly and questioned, a drop of melted snow fell from his hair. Only then did Erna remember that the man was drenched.
Erna, who had been tightly shut, opened her eyes and let go of Bjorn's arm, taking a step back. Water dripping from him was leaving a dark stain on the carpet in the hallway.
“Please come in first.”
Erna, no longer wanting to see him, turned around in a hurry. The sound of water droplets dripping from his drenched coat and jacket onto the floor rang in her ears.
“Let’s take a bath first. I’ll get ready.”
Erna, who had caught her breath, left the front door after saying those calm words.
***
Erna's diligent and frequent movements permeated the dense silence.
She lit a fire in the guest bedroom fireplace and hurried down to the kitchen. While she rummaged through the cupboards, searching for her grandfather's liquor, the milk boiled. The aroma of cloves and cinnamon rising from the pot slowly began to drift through the midnight kitchen.
Erna first took the warmed milk from the stove and then cleaned up the cupboard. The clatter of dishes and Erna's quiet sighs mingled in a strange harmony.
Despite the wood-filled fireplace, the guest bedroom, unheated for days, was filled with a chill. A surge of regret, coupled with a surge of irritation, overcame Erna, who suddenly dropped the plate she was holding.
The sound of the plate shattering on the kitchen floor tore through the silence of the night.
Erna hastily covered her mouth, which nearly burst into a scream. The sharp light from the shards of the shard stung her dazed eyes.
As consciousness gradually began to return, tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't understand why a mere broken plate could cause her such an upset, but the overflowing emotions wouldn't be easily contained. She felt as if her heart had been shattered into pieces, like a broken plate.
Erna leaned against the wall in a corner of the kitchen, out of the light, and covered her face with both hands. Tears, as if they had been waiting for a long time, began to flow down her palms.
Erna waited for Bjorn to return.
The moment she saw him, who had braved the blizzard to come back, Erna realized her own feelings that she had tried so hard to deny and ignore.
But at the same time, she waited for Bjorn to return.
The fact that it was also a sincere wish left Erna deeply confused.
Why are my feelings for that guy always so incoherent?
The memories of the past that burst forth with tears made Erna's crying even more intense.
It wasn't because she hated Bjorn that she decided to divorce him. It was because she didn't hate him that she had no choice but to run away.
She couldn't possibly hate the man she should have hated. Instead, her hatred for herself, for loving him, only deepened with each passing day. It was so painful and exhausting that she couldn't bear it. So she turned away. Before the wound consumed her.
But then again, back to square one.
Erna looked down at her soaking wet hands with terrified eyes.
She was scared.
For fear of hoping again. For fear of falling in love. For fear of being stabbed by the shards of that shattered heart and being wounded. For fear of ending up like her mother, killed by love.
As the crying gradually subsided, Erna drew water and washed her face thoroughly. She then closed the cupboard door, put away the remaining dishes, and headed to the living room with milk and brandy for Bjorn. Bjorn, having finished his bath, sat before the fireplace, warming himself by the flames. Erna's eyes narrowed as she noticed his still-wet hair and his unbuttoned robe.
“If you’re still very cold, add some alcohol to your drink. It’ll warm you up.”
Erna handed over the glass in a curt manner.
Bjorn nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise, but he obediently accepted it. The large porcelain cup was half-filled with sweet-smelling milk.
Without much thought, Bjorn filled the remaining half with brandy. He then slowly brought the warm glass to his lips. Meanwhile, Erna retrieved a blanket from the sofa and handed it to Bjorn.
Erna stood a step away and watched him. Fortunately, he seemed unharmed, and at first, her mind was reassured, but then a sudden surge of anger surged through her.
“It’s still cold in the room, so stay here a little longer and then go up.”
Erna, who had made up her mind coldly, turned around.
“Erna.”
Bjorn, who had been examining her back and the blanket on his lap, impulsively called out to her. Erna stopped walking and slowly turned her head to look at him.
“How is your divorce?”
Bjorn just blurted out whatever came to mind.
“What does that mean?”
“The calf. The calf that received the name the Prince gave it.”
He couldn't have been drunk on a few sips of brandy mixed with milk, yet he was spouting out such nonsense. Erna, who had been staring at him, turned away with a laugh, as if she found it absurd.
“It’s Christa.”
Erna frowned and spoke forcefully.
“That calf’s name is Christa.”
“Don’t you think that’s too grand a name to give to a calf?”
“I don’t think that’s something someone who would call an innocent young animal something as insulting as divorce would say.”
In contrast to her sharp, sharp tone of voice, Erna's eyes looking at him were pure and clear.
Christa.
Bjorn, who had been mumbling the name, let out a long sigh mixed with a soft laugh.
“Things in Schwerin went well.”
He looked at Erna and continued talking nonsensically.
"Our cookie jar got a little bigger. We ate one of the lousy ones."
“Your Highness.”
"I was thinking of buying a gift as a souvenir, but as you can see, I'm empty-handed. My wife really hates my gifts."
Bjorn carefully examined the drawing room. The Baden family's drawing room, once filled with piles of gifts, had regained its original order.
“Did you put all those gifts away?”
“Yes. Thanks to you, the warehouse is about to burst.”
“Did you open it?”
“No. I left it there, so please take it back. And that brooch too.”
Erna's eyes, bathed in the fireplace light, sparkled like the jewels he had given her. Bjorn returned his hand from stroking his chin to his glass.
“Wasn’t that something you agreed to receive?”
“I didn’t want to make things difficult for everyone that day, so I didn’t refuse, but no matter how much I think about it, I think it would be better to return it.”
"Why."
“It would be very strange to receive expensive jewelry while we are talking about divorce.”
Erna argued seriously. Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at her serious face, found himself smiling.
“The letter? Surely you won’t return that, will you?”
“I will make sure to receive the letter.”
Erna, who had been pondering, nodded. Bjorn, who had been staring at Erna's flushed cheeks, turned his gaze back to Erna's eyes.
“How was my letter?”
"Yes?"
“I was curious. It’s my first time writing a love letter.”
“Well, I know the Prince once wrote a very beautiful proposal.”
“A proposal? Oh, that one.”
Bjorn chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
“The writing skills of the royal poets of Letzen are quite excellent.”
“Does this mean ghostwriting?”
“Then do you think I would have written that?”
Erna, who was watching Bjorn questioning calmly, laughed in disbelief.
“It was a very personal letter.”
“Is that a curse?”
“Think as you wish.”
Erna seemed to be ending the conversation here and summarized her thoughts on the letter.
“Bjorn, stop it now...”
"Don't go."
His true feelings spilled out before he knew it. His eyes, staring at Erna's bewilderment, cooled.
"I missed you. I missed you, so I came back. So, Erna..."
A drop of water clung to the tips of his wet hair and ran down his smooth, straight nose. Bjorn, raising a stiff hand to brush his face, swallowed dryly, unable to continue speaking. The blazing firelight from the fireplace highlighted the outline of his slowly moving chin.
"Don't go."
Those soft words, spoken with a tone of resignation, broke the silence between the two people who were staring at each other with bated breath.
The snowstorm in Buford was still howling fiercely.
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