Early the next morning, the light of day had just pierced through the thin mist.
When Ophelia pushed open the door to the second-floor bathroom, a muffled, gurgling sound came from inside.
Klein was leaning over the white porcelain washbasin, his face scrunched up and his brows furrowed as if he were enduring some form of capital punishment, as if he were tasting the bitterest thing in the world.
Hearing the door, he looked up and saw her in the mirror but didn't stop; he unhurriedly spat out the liquid in his mouth and rinsed twice with fresh water.
That expression of deep-seated resentment gradually smoothed out, replaced by a sense of relief, as if he had just survived a disaster.
He cleared his throat, his voice still carrying a hint of thickness from just rinsing, and turned around.
"Morning."
Ophelia's gaze swept over a small porcelain jar containing a grayish-white powder next to his hand, then settled on his face, which had just recovered from the "torture," and she nodded calmly.
"Good morning." She paused, not asking any more questions.
...
Today, Klein had risen even earlier than Ophelia, not out of any sudden burst of diligence, nor did it have anything to do with Daisy's wedding.
It was purely because he had once again fallen into that deep-sea dream.
It was still that boundless deep blue, his body wrapped in cold yet gentle seawater, the feeling of weightlessness following him like a shadow.
The currents around him seemed like living things, lifting him in a nearly tender way, making it so he could neither sink nor rise.
But this time, there was no ethereal singing of sea monsters in the dream.
Instead, there was the sound of a sobbing flute.
The sound was desolate and distant, unlike any human music; it was more like a lonely river flowing across an ancient wasteland, every turn carrying the desolation of water washing against stone banks.
It was also like the low hum of some ancient creature in the deep sea, carrying a sadness that was hard to describe.
Following the source of the sound, he saw it.
A... creature.
Calling it a monster might not be appropriate; though its appearance was certainly strange, it didn't bring even a hint of fear.
On the contrary, beneath that strange silhouette, Klein captured a trace of almost timid caution, like a wild beast used to being driven away by humans—even if it possessed sharp teeth and claws, it would only watch from a distance.
It had the head of a goat, its two curved horns creating no ripples in the water, and its wet fur clung tight to its bones.
Its lower half was the tail of a fish covered in fine scales, moving slowly in the gloom, shimmering with a murky, almost sickly light.
It looked like a goat living in the sea had been swallowed in one bite by some giant fish, with only its head still sticking out—but as soon as this thought formed in Klein's mind, it was shattered by the sound of the flute.
This was not a creature that had been preyed upon.
This was... the performer.
Klein couldn't understand how it was playing that flute music.
The sound didn't seem to come from its mouth but rather seeped directly from the depths of its soul, passing through the seawater, through the void, through the boundaries of the dream, reaching straight to his heart.
Every note was like a fine needle, gently piercing into his chest—not painful, yet impossible to ignore.
The music stopped abruptly.
The goat born from the sea turned its head and looked at him with a pair of calm eyes that didn't belong to a beast.
There was no aggression in those eyes, no hostility, not even curiosity.
There was only a bottomless tranquility.
And... a hint of something Klein couldn't name.
Like a request, or perhaps a warning.
Just one look.
Then Klein woke up.
...
After waking, Klein was the same as yesterday; he didn't feel unwell, but that salty, astringent bitterness in his mouth seemed to have seeped out from the dream, stubbornly clinging to the base of his tongue.
But unlike yesterday, this time, his heart was just beating a little fast.
The gaze of that sea goat felt like some silent contract, or perhaps an omen of something to come.
He shook his head and got up to head toward the bathroom, trying to wash away this sense of foreboding along with the newly formulated tooth powder.
He didn't even know if this newly mixed rinsing powder was actually useful.
Just as he was thinking this, he looked up and saw Ophelia in the mirror.
After the greeting was exchanged, only the soft dripping of the faucet and the subtle silence between the two remained in the bathroom.
Klein didn't leave immediately. He followed Ophelia's gaze to the small porcelain jar containing the grayish-white powder.
He picked up the jar, his fingertips brushing against the smooth surface.
"Tooth powder," he explained. "An alchemical product..."
He held the jar out a bit, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Want to try?"
Ophelia's movements paused for a moment.
Her gaze shifted from Klein's mischievous face back to the small porcelain jar he held out.
The jar was smooth, the white porcelain devoid of any extra decoration except for a simple silver rim around the opening.
The powder inside was grayish-white, emitting a strange scent that mixed mint with some kind of mineral, along with a faint, almost imperceptible saltiness like sea salt.
An alchemical product.
She was no stranger to this term.
She had seen many alchemical products, though that was on the front lines of the west coast—ointments used to heal wounds, potions to purify contaminated seawater, incense to dispel the whispers of sea monsters.
But not... a powder used to clean teeth.
She was silent for two seconds, then reached out and decisively took the small porcelain jar.
"How... do I use it?" Ophelia asked. Her voice was as steady as ever, showing no emotion, but Klein keenly caught the slight tightening of her fingertips.
She was actually a little nervous.
This discovery made Klein's mood inexplicably pleasant.
He cleared his throat, pointed to her hand, and then to his own teeth.
"Wet your finger, dab a little, then rub it on your teeth." He paused, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. "The taste might be a bit... well, unique. It is very refreshing; the results are outstanding."
Ophelia stepped closer to the washbasin.
Cold fresh water poured from the faucet, hitting the bottom of the white porcelain basin with a crisp sound.
She extended her right index finger under the flow of water, her joints well-defined, her movements as sharp as if she were carrying out a military mission.
With her fingertip wet, she reached into the jar Klein held out, giving it a light dab, and a thin layer of grayish-white powder adhered to it.
She looked up at the mirror in front of her, seemingly confirming how to proceed.
Then, she pulled her lips back slightly, revealing her even teeth.
It wasn't a smile, just an expression made purely for the convenience of the action, carrying a scholarly seriousness and focus—as if she were checking if a weapon was sharp.
A very light chuckle came from the side, as if being forced down in a throat, yet a hint of it still leaked out.
Ophelia's gaze briefly met Klein's in the mirror.
She saw him biting his lower lip, his shoulders trembling slightly, clearly trying his best to suppress his laughter.
Her gaze was flat and waveless, as if asking him the reason for his laughter.
Klein raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry, sorry. It's just... your expression is so serious, it's like you're preparing for a tooth extraction rather than brushing your teeth."
Ophelia didn't respond.
She simply turned her attention back to herself.
When her finger, coated in powder, touched her teeth, a strange sensation followed.
First, there was a slight grittiness, followed immediately by an intense, almost bone-chilling coolness that exploded in her mouth—
That wasn't ordinary minty freshness.
It was a violent, icy sensation that felt as if even her soul were being frozen.
This taste...
It certainly was refreshing.
Too refreshing.
She snapped her head around, looking at Klein with an accusing gaze.
The latter was leaning against the doorframe, wearing an innocent expression that said "I warned you," though the mirth in his eyes betrayed him.
"I said the results were outstanding." He shrugged. "So, are you wide awake now?"
Ophelia didn't answer; she turned to rinse the powder from her mouth with fresh water.
Klein leaned against the doorframe, just watching Ophelia.
The morning light crossed the windowsill, casting a soft, warm hue on her profile, even making her slightly damp blonde hair look like melted honey, shimmering with a soft glow in the light.
The simple gray shirt she wore looked exceptionally soft because of this light, shedding some of the sharpness she unconsciously projected on normal days and adding a bit of... the flavor of an ordinary girl.
Water droplets dripped from her chin; she raised the back of her hand to wipe the corner of her mouth, her movements casual and natural.
In that moment, a thought popped into his head without warning.
Like this... it doesn't seem bad.
If he could see her rinsing her mouth in the morning light every day, see her treating a jar of tooth powder so seriously, see her eyes widen slightly because it was too stimulating...
It wouldn't be bad.
The thought came so suddenly that Klein was stunned for a moment.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to shake off this overly comfortable, overly dangerous thought.
He turned and walked out of the bathroom, his steps a bit faster than usual.
Behind him, Ophelia's voice came, carrying a rare, slightly husky quality—a voice that had been stimulated by the tooth powder:
"Next time... you can explain clearly beforehand."
Klein's footsteps paused, but he didn't look back, only curling his lips into a smile.
"Then it wouldn't be any fun."
...
Downstairs, the scent of toasted bread mixed with the fatty aroma of fried sausages wafted toward them.
This scent announced that Raymond had retaken control of the kitchen—it was far more sumptuous than his eternal buttered bread and fried eggs.
On the long table, there was also a dish of fresh strawberry jam and a small plate of neatly sliced cheese.
The meticulous steward was standing by the long table, filling two cups with milk, his movements as precise as if he were performing a ritual.
Klein took his seat, his gaze crossing over the steaming food to rest on the empty chair opposite him.
He didn't pick up his cutlery; he simply waited for the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs.
Rate on N.U.
