The Returning Spring
Miriam sat at the bedside, caring for her elderly mother.
Her mother, now in her sixties, lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling, her face completely expressionless. Since the onset of dementia, she spent much of her time in a daze.
Miriam peeled some fruit and fed it to her. After chewing for a while, the old woman swallowed some and then spat the rest out with a gag.
"Would you like to sleep?"
Miriam asked as she wiped around her mouth.
"I'll sleep."
At that, the old woman closed her eyes, and soon her breathing grew quiet. Miriam lifted her head and looked out the open window.
It was the end of the month, the season when autumn approached, and the sky was especially blue. A breeze drifted in through the window. Not long ago it had been hot and sticky, but now it felt refreshingly cool.
After confirming that her mother had fallen into a deep sleep, Miriam rose from her seat. She left the bedroom, walked through the corridor and down the stairs, and entered the hall. It was close to noon, so the hall was quiet. The servants were likely gathered in the dining room, filling their stomachs.
She should have eaten as well, but she had no appetite.
"Maybe I'll take a walk in the garden."
As she was about to leave the mansion, a youthful voice called out from behind her.
"Hello?"
The voice belonged to a boy—around fifteen or sixteen—and he was not alone. A young man accompanied him. She recalled that they were guests who had visited the mansion early that morning.
"Yes, hello."
She smiled and greeted them, but then hesitated.
What were their names again?
They had introduced themselves in the reception room, but her mother's fussing had distracted her. She had no time to properly attend to the guests and had rushed out.
"Call me Ulrich."
As if reading her thoughts, the young man spoke, and the boy beside him added that his name was Fritz.
"I'm sorry. Things were hectic earlier, so I couldn't greet you properly."
"That happens. I understand."
Miriam gave an awkward smile, then stared intently at Ulrich. There was something strangely familiar about the young man who spoke with the tone of someone much older.
A sense of déjà vu?
As far as she could remember, she had never encountered either the name Ulrich or the person himself. And yet, looking at him, she felt an inexplicable familiarity—as if they had met before.
"Have we perhaps met before?"
"We have. Though you would not remember."
She blinked.
Not remember? Did that mean they had met when she was too young to recall? It didn't make sense.
She was already past forty, while the young man appeared to be in his early twenties—if she had a child, they would be around his age.
"It was so long ago that I only vaguely remember it myself. I once held you wrapped in swaddling clothes, and after your first year, I even administered your baptism."
Only after hearing that did Miriam begin to suspect that Ulrich was of mixed blood.
If he were a pure non-human, his traits would have been visible, but he appeared entirely human. And if he had lived long while retaining his youth, there was no other explanation but mixed heritage.
Moreover, the mention of administering a baptism suggested that, though he did not wear priestly robes, he was a priest like Roberta.
If one were to suddenly reunite with the priest who had baptized them as an infant, what should one even say?
"Ah… I see." She trailed off, her face filled with surprise.
"May I ask what brings you here?"
"A promise. I came to see you."
"To see me?"
Ulrich resumed walking.
"You already know, don't you? That you are not of this family's blood."
Miriam stared at his back, then hurried after him. The three of them left the mansion and walked through the garden.
"It was I who entrusted you to this household. Your mother—an old friend of mine—asked me to take care of her child, and I promised I would. So I left you in the care of this couple."
She was neither surprised nor flustered. As she had once told Roberta, it was an open secret. The vast difference in age, and the lack of resemblance, had made her aware of it since childhood.
"And to think one has fulfilled their duty simply by leaving a child in another's care—that would be heartless. After entrusting the child, shouldn't one at least check how they are growing up?"
"…So that's why you came to see me?"
Ulrich stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Those who raise a child can easily say, 'I love them,' or 'I care for them.' But the child may feel differently. Good intentions do not always lead to good outcomes."
Miriam let out a hollow laugh. She couldn't help it. At her age, what was the point of questioning parental matters now?
"I appreciate your concern, but isn't it too late to ask such things?"
"From your perspective, it must seem that way."
He muttered something under his breath.
"I'm fine. I've never been saddened by the fact that we're not blood-related. If anything, I was cared for to the point it felt overwhelming. If you truly entrusted me to them, then I'm grateful."
"That is good to hear. But what about something else?"
"Something else?" she asked, tilting her head.
"What do you mean?"
"Is there anything unusual about your body?"
"Not at all. If I were ill, I wouldn't be standing here like this."
She smiled with her eyes, but Ulrich shook his head.
"Not illness. Something else. Have you ever experienced anything… unusual? Something others do not experience."
For a moment, she nearly stopped walking.
Something came to mind.
But she wasn't sure whether she should speak of it, so she answered as if she didn't know.
"I'm not sure what exactly you're asking."
"There must be something. For example… your dreams."
Ulrich spoke with certainty, as if making a firm declaration.
Did he know how to read minds?
Her eyes widened.
He was right.
She had experienced something strange—or rather, she was still experiencing it. It was her dreams.
Since childhood, she had been having peculiar dreams. Normally, dreams fade upon waking, but these did not. Even after waking, they remained vivid—clearer, even. Each time, she could not tell whether she had dreamed or remembered something.
The dreams were consistent.
They were not always identical—sometimes different elements mixed in, variations appeared—but there was one unchanging theme.
"…Did my brother mention it? About my dreams?"
"I only heard that you've been plagued by troubling dreams."
"It's not that bad."
She added, maybe in the past, but not anymore.
"These days I don't have them as often, and I've gotten used to them. At most… I occasionally have strange dreams that feel a little unsettling, but that's all."
Ulrich stopped walking and turned to face her.
"Do you know why you dream?"
"My father said it was because of something dwelling within me."
"And did he explain what that was?"
"No."
He studied her for a moment before speaking.
"There are many interpretations to the question of why we dream."
Some believed dreams were messages from gods or the dead, revealing the future or fate. Others thought they were manifestations of inner desires surfacing within the mind.
After explaining both, Ulrich asked which one she thought applied to her.
She hesitated.
To her, her dreams were neither.
"What you are seeing is neither a message nor your inner desires. It is nothing more than the reflection of remnants."
He bent down and picked up a fallen leaf. It was dark and dried; when he placed it in his palm and closed his hand, it crumbled effortlessly.
He opened his hand to show the remains.
A gentle breeze passed, scattering the fragments. Less than a tenth of the leaf remained in his palm.
"When a fire burning on firewood dies down, it becomes embers. Those embers eventually turn to ash—traces left behind. But what if those traces were immense? What if, though they are only remnants, they contain an overwhelming span of time?"
He asked her,
"If you could see them no matter where you looked—even if you tried not to—wouldn't you inevitably see them?"
"…If that's the reason I dream, then it will continue, won't it?"
"In the end, even that ash will disappear. But not yet."
Then he added,
"If you wish, I can hasten that moment."
As she mulled over his words—remnants—she lifted her head at his final remark.
"Hasten it… you mean you can make it so I no longer dream?"
He nodded.
A short while later, Miriam returned to her mother's bedroom.
Though quite some time had passed, her mother was still in a deep sleep. Worried, Miriam placed her hand beneath her nose to check her breathing. The old woman stirred slightly and murmured—it was the peaceful sleep of someone truly at rest.
Miriam sat in the chair beside the bed, watching her, and wondered what kind of dreams her mother might be having. In those dreams, was she as she had been before dementia—or as she was now?
"So I can stop dreaming…"
She muttered to herself absentmindedly.
Thinking about dreams brought back her conversation with Ulrich. He had claimed he could make it so she would no longer dream.
She had said she had grown used to them, but that was only half the truth. In reality, it was resignation. There was nothing she could do about them. As he had said, even if she tried not to see them, she had no choice but to.
That was why her heart had wavered so strongly.
And yet, she had not been able to answer immediately. She had excused herself, saying she needed time to think.
There was something else holding her back, just as strongly as her uncertainty.
Her father had never explained what her dreams were, nor the nature of what dwelled within her. He had merely brushed it off awkwardly, reassuring her that it was nothing to fear.
Ulrich had said her dreams were neither messages from outside nor desires from within.
Then what were they?
What was the source—the "firewood" he had spoken of—that gave rise to her dreams?
She knew.
There was no way she could not know.
She was the one dreaming them.
"Moira… these dreams belong to that person."
Each dream was only a fragment, revealing very little on its own. But they were vivid. And there had been so many of them.
Even fragments, when pieced together like puzzle pieces, eventually reveal the whole.
She connected the fragments, assembling the story.
At some point, she realized the truth of her dreams.
In those dreams, she was Moira.
She was dreaming the life of a knight from a thousand years ago—someone who had yearned for immortality, only to fail in the end and collapse.
—Mergius
Even now, if she closed her eyes in a quiet place, she could hear another version of herself speaking clearly. It was a voice she had never heard before, yet it felt as vivid as if she had just heard it moments ago.
As a child, she had been afraid of this. Each time she dreamed, it felt as though she became someone else—and she had witnessed the ending of those dreams over and over again.
But now she was over forty.
As an adult, she had grown numb. Even when she dreamed, it stirred no strong emotions.
—"You will live forever, won't you?"
Leaning back against the chair, she closed her eyes and recalled the dream—
—or rather, the memory.
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