After Carlson left, the room fell quiet again.
Eline didn't move immediately. He remained seated on the bed, his gaze unfocused, his thoughts catching up with everything that had just happened.
Why would he care?
The question came naturally, almost reflexively.
It didn't fit.
Carlson was not someone who acted without reason. There was always a purpose behind what he did, something calculated, something deliberate. This—coming to his room, bringing ointment, applying it himself—it didn't align with anything Eline had understood about him so far.
For a moment, the question lingered without answer.
Then something clicked.
Oh.
Of course.
The realization settled in quickly, almost too neatly.
I'm a surrogate.
The logic followed easily after that. He had to be kept healthy. That was the entire point. Nothing more than that. This wasn't care. It was maintenance. Precaution.
It made sense.
It was supposed to make sense.
And yet—
A quieter thought rose beneath it.
Getting a sunburn… has nothing to do with that.
It wasn't something that would affect anything significant. Not really. Not in the way that would justify this level of attention.
The thought stayed there for a moment, soft but persistent.
Eline pushed it down.
It doesn't matter.
He let out a slow breath, almost forcing the conclusion into place.
That's the reason.
He didn't want to think about it further. Thinking too much about things like this only made them more complicated than they needed to be.
So he let it go.
Carlson, on the other hand, did not allow himself that kind of pause.
The moment he stepped back into his room, he moved straight toward his desk. The familiar environment, the order of it, the structure—it all settled around him like something practiced, something reliable.
He picked up the papers he had left earlier and resumed his work without hesitation.
It was easier this way.
If he kept his mind occupied, it would not wander. It would not circle back to unnecessary questions. It would not ask why he had acted the way he did, or whether it had been required.
There was no need to think about it.
He focused on the work in front of him, letting it take over completely.
Back in his room, Eline's gaze drifted toward the small tube resting on the table.
The ointment.
For a moment, he just looked at it.
Then his thoughts shifted again, slower this time, less defensive.
His life.
How he had ended up here.
The choices, the lack of choices, the circumstances that had brought him into this place—it all felt distant and immediate at the same time.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes still on the table.
Life here…
It wasn't what he had imagined in the beginning.
He had expected something worse. Something harsher. Something that would make every moment unbearable.
But it wasn't like that.
He was fed. Regularly. Even if the food was repetitive, it was still provided without fail. He had a room, space, air. And now—he could even go outside.
And today—
Someone had brought him ointment before he even asked.
Even if there was a reason behind it.
Even if it was just because of what he was meant to be here.
Still.
From a certain point of view, it wasn't bad.
The thought came carefully this time, not as a conclusion but as a possibility.
Almost immediately, something in him resisted.
This isn't what you thought.
The reminder came sharper, more grounded.
This isn't why you're here.
His expression tightened slightly.
He couldn't let himself get used to it. Couldn't let these small things blur the reality of it.
Still, the contradiction remained, unsettled but present.
He let out a quiet breath and leaned back further against the bed.
"I'm tired of sleeping," he murmured under his breath.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
He needed something to do.
His thoughts drifted briefly toward the library. It was the most obvious option—something to pass time, something to distract himself.
But the memory of the last time he had gone there surfaced just as quickly.
It hadn't gone well.
The idea lost its appeal almost immediately.
He dismissed it without much resistance.
Going outside?
No.
He had just been out the day before. Asking again would feel excessive. And after what had happened under the sun, the thought of stepping into the garden again wasn't particularly appealing either.
That option closed just as quickly.
He lay there for a moment, staring at nothing in particular, the room quiet around him.
For the first time that day, the earlier energy he had woken up with had faded, replaced by a familiar kind of stillness.
And he was left again with the same question.
What now?
Eline lay back for a while, staring at the ceiling again, the same familiar stillness settling over him. The earlier restlessness had returned, but this time it felt directionless, like energy without purpose.
What would I even do at a time like this?
The thought lingered.
Then, almost abruptly, he sat up.
"Let's just get out of here," he muttered to himself, meaning his room more than anything else. Staying inside wasn't helping. Maybe if he stepped out, he would find something to do.
He got off the bed and moved toward the door.
But as he passed the mirror, his steps slowed.
His reflection caught his attention again.
The redness hadn't faded much. His face was still flushed, slightly swollen, the irritation clearly visible even in the softer evening light. It looked worse than he had hoped it would by now.
He stared at it for a second, his expression tightening.
"…No."
Stepping outside like that didn't feel like an option anymore.
With a quiet exhale, he turned back and dropped onto the bed again, one arm falling over his eyes as if that alone could block the irritation—not just on his skin, but in his thoughts.
For a while, he stayed like that.
Then his gaze shifted.
The desk.
It had always been there, untouched, almost unnoticed. Neatly arranged, as everything in the mansion was. A few books lay on it, aligned too perfectly to look like they had ever been used.
For the longest time, he had assumed they were just for decoration.
Why would anyone expect him to read?
Still, the thought lingered just enough for him to get up again and walk toward it.
He pulled one of the books closer.
Not a book.
A diary.
Blank.
He flipped through a few pages. Clean, untouched paper. No marks, no signs that anyone had ever written in it.
"Why even keep these here…" he murmured.
But when he looked at it again, it made sense in a strange way. The desk, the empty diaries, the quiet arrangement—it all fit the atmosphere of the mansion. Something like a silent, abandoned academy. Everything in place, but nothing alive in it.
He picked one up anyway.
"If I'm going to sit here, I might as well try," he said under his breath.
Then paused.
"I need a pen."
He checked the desk again. Nothing.
With a small sigh, he stepped out and asked a passing maid. She returned shortly after with a pen, handing it to him without question.
Back inside, he sat down at the desk, placing the diary in front of him. His elbows rested on the surface, pen in hand, his posture unconsciously mirroring someone who actually knew what they were doing.
He stared at the blank page.
"Let's write something," he muttered. "Who knows… I might be the next Shakespeare."
The thought lasted all of two seconds.
"What would I even write?"
Silence answered him.
"Lo, my heart burneth for thee like a tragic flame, and also I have just sat upon a particularly aggressive hedgehog."
"What the hell is even that???"
It's not my cup of tea .