Chapter 18: Consequences of the Catastrophe

— If you keep playing so passively... You'll face defeat again...

She ought to have rejoiced in this—every defeat of his brought her closer to the future she desired. Moreover, it benefited the one she cared for.
At least, that's what they both believed.
But it pained her to watch him wither away...

— I don't care anymore...
— Enough! Remember why you started all this! Why you ended up here! Why you keep fighting!
— What difference does it make to you? Don't you want me to lose quickly? Stop pretending you care.

She didn't want to tell him the truth. Or rather, she couldn't... That would ruin everything. But what would happen then?
She didn't know. Though she'd thought about it often. The reason was simple—she was afraid.
Yet he must never know, so, as always in such situations, she decided to brush it off with a joke and a jab at Deniale.

— A victory that comes too easily is worth nothing!
— Oh, I see... In that case, it's definitely not in my interest to entertain you here. Make your move already!

He ignored her pleas again and again. But for a moment, he paused to wonder—"Indeed... How did this all begin..."
He'd long forgotten. Memory slipped from his body and mind with every fragment of his soul she took...

— Indeed... Why...?
— What?!

Had he truly forgotten? She couldn't believe it. Over her reign, she'd claimed thousands of souls, yet she'd never seen with her own eyes how it affected people...
"Could he really have forgotten...?"

— I can't even recall... Why all this... It's as if my entire life is just these games with you and that one memory lodged in my head...

This wasn't her style. She'd never acted this way toward any living or departed soul.
Why she chose to do so now could only be guessed at. Perhaps strange, warm feelings for this odd, pitiful man had softened her, made her kinder.
Or maybe she'd simply grown bored of playing against an opponent who'd lost all hope.
The reason doesn't matter now. It will be significant later, when the eternal cycle makes its final turn and finally halts to tally the scores.
For now, what matters is that the fearsome Goddess retrieved a small fragment of Deniale's soul from her underwater vault.
It was the most precious in her collection—the most valuable among millions of others.
She'd been overjoyed when she claimed it, her heart swelling with hopes that now seemed unattainable. Were dreams and imaginary castles meant to be destroyed for something greater?
Greater for him—yes! But for her...?
She couldn't explain her choice to herself... Yet she did it...
What a strange, irrational, even foolish act...

Deniale didn't notice it at first... But for the first time in ages, she saw a flush on his face.

— So beautiful...

She needed to end the meeting. Take a break. Give his soul time to reunite. And for her to comprehend what was truly happening... Why she'd acted this way?

— That's all for today...
— Really? I thought we'd play some more.
— Sorry, but I have some matters to attend to. I need to prepare my next move.
— Well... Pity. It's somehow sad to part with you today.

She didn't respond further. But as she closed the door behind her, she smiled.
It wasn't a happy smile. More a defensive reflex. For the first time, she'd gained something truly valuable—something she couldn't seize by force from a pitiful human.

The game was over for today, but she had to hurry. They were waiting for her.

She strolled a bit longer through London's streets, then leapt into the Thames, dissolving into its cold depths, instantly transported to her vast yet empty underwater kingdom.

Amid the sunken grand ships, coral castles, and hidden caves, she saw the mermaid who'd been waiting for her.

— O GODDESS! Thank you for your gifts!
Thank you for the walls of despair that will be destroyed again.
I swear to serve you! As long as you quell the searing pain in my chest with your gifts!
The cycle has endured for ages.
It won't break this time either.
A sinful heart will be ensnared in my nets.
Nets of terror and fear.
So please, until the end of all worlds, continue rewarding me for my faith!
And I will give you all of myself again and again.
Or what remains of it.

— I'm glad... Truly glad for you, my night sun. Everything crafted by my hands is for you. For your happiness. So enjoy.
Do with Tom as you please. His body is yours now, and his soul is nearly in your grasp. The rest is up to you.

— Thank you, Goddess.
Soon I'll take the next step. Soon my task will be complete.
Tom must be the last in my collection and, at the same time, a gift for you.
After that, I'll finally find peace for my heart.
Peace for my soul, which belongs to you, and at last feel what I've longed for...
Freedom.

It pleased her to see the mermaid in good spirits. After all, she was a crucial part of the game.
Moreover, she felt a genuine, motherly pity for her and wanted to help.
Over the time under her care, the mermaid had become very dear and precious to her.
She loved seeing her smile, her genuine joy—something she rarely experienced in her human life.

The most important thing was that she never found out... And then all would be well.
It didn't matter to the mermaid.
Not as much as it did to her...
She would give the mermaid what she asked for, and in return, she'd get what she desired.
Everyone would be satisfied.
Everything would be fine! Right...?

Meanwhile, Deniale stood smoking thoughtfully on the balcony of his London apartment.
Before, he'd needed to smoke about three cigarettes in a row to feel anything, but this evening, the first one brought a bitter taste he hadn't felt in ages.

It wasn't a new sensation, but one long forgotten. And strangely, he no longer felt like smoking.
He stubbed out the cigarette and returned to the room.
He noticed a ficus plant by his bed.

— Where did that come from?

The plant had been there since Deniale moved into the apartment, yet he'd never noticed it before.
Against the backdrop of the ficus, he saw the old red wallpaper in the room, which he'd also never paid attention to.
It clashed terribly with the bedding and furniture.
But Deniale hadn't noticed that either.

— How could this even happen? Who decorated this room?

Suddenly, a feverish wave hit Deniale. As if by chance, he'd noticed so many details he'd overlooked before.
The dirty floor, cigarette burns on the desk, a wet umbrella that had soaked the hallway.
A broken chair, scattered unwashed clothes, an old painting hanging crooked.

The world around him assaulted Deniale with its imperfection. The sharp outlines of objects strained his eyes, while the dirt and the owner's indifference knocked him off balance.

— What's happening to me?! How did I end up here? What is this apartment, and who lives here?

Deniale was baffled. How could he not have noticed all this?

— I need to clean this up.

Deniale couldn't stand the chaos any longer. Not for nothing did the Little Prince say one must tidy their planet every morning.
Your desk, your room, your home—it's your temple; you can't let it stay dirty.
Deniale knew this and had tried to uphold it... But how his home had turned into such a mess, he couldn't fathom.

He set to a thorough cleaning. He mopped the floor, cleared the cigarette butts, wiped away dust and ash.
He straightened things, leveled the painting, watered the ficus, and moved it closer to the window.
A sunny day in London was a rarity, but let it be so...

Finally, he turned to the wardrobe at the room's end. He'd spotted it immediately—the lacquer had peeled off the doors, which were loosely hinged and needed their bolts tightened.
But he was afraid to approach it.
At the same time, he felt both drawn to it and terrified... Yet he had to look inside.

Deniale opened the doors and, to his surprise, found nothing unusual.
His old coat, inherited from his father—the only thing he'd left him.
Below sat his old suitcase, covered in stickers from various countries. "Did I travel a lot? I don't remember anything." Some old household tools and a yellow shoebox.

— Well, what do we have here?

Opening the box, Deniale found diaries... His diaries...
Sensations slowly returned to him, and he nearly fainted.
There they were... Answers... His answers. Answers that had been so close yet so far.
He might finally recall why this was all happening.
Deniale carried the box to his desk and laid out its contents.
Seven identical diaries, a few letters from unknown senders, and a small red notebook.

He couldn't recall that one...

Opening it to the first page, he read:

"Notes and Thoughts of Steffen Wilson. For those who wander. For those who don't wish to get lost."

— Strange... Steffen Wilson... Who is that?

Deniale set the notebook on the table. Before delving into it, he needed to finish cleaning.
He returned to the wardrobe to close the doors, but his gaze lingered on the suitcase.
Or rather, on something barely visible behind it...
Not immediately, but Deniale realized what it was. He recoiled quickly, lost his footing, and fell.
Sitting on the floor... Sitting on the now-clean floor of his London apartment, Deniale wept.
It wasn't ordinary crying—it was sobbing mixed with hysterical laughter.
A chilling sight for any witness.
As if Deniale had gone mad...
And why? Because of an old, battered guitar? Hidden in the wardrobe's corner, behind that equally battered suitcase.