So much time had passed since I had seen my otherworldly companion that his absence from day to day became an aching emptiness in my heart to which I had grown accustomed. I found the feeling similar to how Victor Frankenstein described it:
“Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear.”
Indeed, the events which led to my kindred relationship with Takamatsu did flower far too quickly for me to keep up with them; and his disappearance was so sudden, I was left breathless and alone. His return, however, was not so abrupt.
Things looked up the day I was taking a walk in Aprilla’s garden—she had designated a small patch of it to me, which I still hadn’t found the time to tend. But when I looked the other day, I perceived a single rose that had blossomed there. It was a coral-coloured shade of red. After taking a moment to admire it, I went inside and inquired as to who had planted it. Aprilla, who was busy baking a cheesecake in the kitchen, told me that no one had been in the garden except for herself, and no, she had not touched my patch.
I thought it strange that such a brilliant flower would sprout up out of the ground by itself, but wasting no more time wondering about it, I plucked it from my garden patch and set it in a vase on my writing desk.
The next day held even greater surprise for me—more out of curiosity than a need for exercise, I took another stroll in the garden, and found in my designated patch nothing less than another red rose.
I concluded that this rose had not been planted with a seed, but must have arrived in my garden patch by some other means. I uprooted this one as well and placed it with the first in the vase on my writing desk, but I found it difficult to write, and my eyes often drifted from my typewriter to admire the enchantingly beautiful flowers.
The same phenomenon occurred the next day and every day until there were twelve roses in all.
On the twelfth day, I habitually strolled into the garden carrying my vase with me and just as surely as the past eleven days, a solitary blossom stood erect in the middle of the patch. I bent down to pluck it, and didn’t see the cloaked figure until I lifted my head again.
I first spotted a pair of thin black boots, met by a crimson-coloured hem. Everything else was concealed by a black cloak. Two gloved hands held a giant walking stick—the one detail I recognized.
“Takamatsu!” I exclaimed, and he lifted the hood from his face to reveal a glaring red mask with an elongated nose. At first, I was frightened, but I recognized his voice when he spoke.
“That name no longer bears meaning with me,” he said behind the mask. “I’ve served my time for the tengu, and am now a free man once more. You may call me Alexander.”
“Alexander..?” The name was unfamiliar on my tongue, but sweet.
He took off his mask, then. I gasped at what lie underneath, and thought for a moment that I’d been tricked.
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