The White-Haired Girl

Mell: ...........

Mell: The rain just won't let up.

Mell: ..........

Mell: (I can't sleep...)

Mell: (I wonder what the commotion earlier was about...)

Mell: Oh, for goodness' sake.

Mell: It's all the storm's fault.

Mell: That's why I can't sleep.

Mell: I'm just fretting over nothing.

Mell: I'm sure Nellie was right—it was just a cat.

Mell: Maybe a dog.

Mell: .........

Mell: I can't sleep!

Mell: I hardly ever have this much trouble falling asleep.

Mell: .........

Mell: (What could this feeling be, I wonder? It's not quite foreboding...)

Mell: (Walking around the house at this time of night isn't going to help anything... but I'm not going to fall asleep just lying here...)

The only sounds that could be heard in the dark corridors were the sharp pitter-patter of the rain, his footsteps, and his breathing.

Though he was intimately familiar with the layout of the house, that night, the hallways felt like an endless labyrinth veiled in shadows.

No moonlight shone through the windows, so he naturally found himself moving cautiously, despite being in his own residence.

Keeping the palm of his hand pressed up against the chilly wall, he put one foot in front of the other.

But to where was he supposed to head? Mell, of course, had no way of answering that question himself.

If he had anything... it was guidance from above—the path to his destination lit by flashes of lightning.

Or perhaps there was something else leading him along.

Though he progressed with a fair bit of hesitation in his step, Mell was slowly but surely drawing nearer to one room in particular.

He made his way through the seemingly endless halls...

past the living room, its fireplace long since cooled...

into another corridor...

and then stopped outside an abigail's bedchamber.

The dim glow of a lamp spilled through the cracks in the door.

A gust of wind is not necessary to make a flame flicker. A person's movements, or vibrations in the air from someone speaking—the slightest of motions can cause the light of a fire to quiver.

Shifting subtly, as though nudged by an invisible fingertip.

Mell: (I can see light from inside...)

Mell: (Is she still awake?)

Mell: (...A voice.)

He seemed to be hesitating. It would not be difficult for him to approach the door and peer inside.

But he had reservations about peeping in on another's chambers, even if it was his own house.

Moreover, this room... was assigned to a woman.

There was a woman behind that door. What would you do, Master, in this situation? Would you succumb to your curiosity and gaze inside?

Or would you respect the owner's privacy?

Hehe...

Mell: (I shouldn't be doing this.)

Mell: (But the voice...)

Mell: (It feels like it's calling to...)

Mell: (me?)

Mell: (Or someone else?)

I—yes, me— could sense someone watching me at that moment.

He had succumbed to his curiosity.

He stood on the other side of the door from me, his flaxen eyes open wide, trying to remain as invisible as possible.

The wavering in his heart seemed to create faint ripples in the air, which I pretended not to notice.

Yes, I knew he was there.

I could sense his presence, and his wavering emotions. However, I could not begin to speculate as to his true feelings, or how great a surprise this was to him.

I too am discovering new facets of this tale by viewing it through the eyes of the mansion.

But it is not I who is of concern, Master. It is you.

You, and—

Mell: ..........

Mell: (I know I shouldn't be doing this.)

Mell: (I should be ashamed of myself.)

Mell: (But I... I can't look away.)

(Mell puts his eyes through the crack in the door and spots a woman.)

Mell: (Who is that?)

Mell: (Her skin, it's so pale you can practically see through it.)

Mell: (Is it that white because she was out in the cold rain?)

Mell: (Her hair is white as snow, and her eyes... they're like...)

Mell: (Like... How do I describe it?)

Mell: (My vocabulary truly lacks for situations like this.)

Mell: (They look like...)

Like blood?

Mell: (No, that's just disturbing!)

Then wine, perhaps?

Mell: (No, more translucent than that...)

Gemstones, then?

Mell: (Yes, gemstones...)

Mell: (Her eyes are like rubies. I've never seen anyone like her before.)

Mell: (What could they be talking about?)

Mell's eyes were affixed on the peculiar young woman.

She had glass like skin, eyes that glimmered in the flickering candlelight, and snow-white hair that flowed like luxurious silk.

But her lips were bluish-purple; her soft, delicate skin sullied with grime; her twinkling eyes pointed down at the floor; and her hair a disheveled mess.

She was, even at a glance, clearly not a lady of means.

The tips of her fingers were cracked from the cold, her nails pale from malnutrition, and her garb little more than rags.

However, true beauty is always visible, no matter what it may be hidden beneath.

Even wrapped in a veil of insalubrity. Even if she thought herself hideous.

Mell: (I wonder what happened to her...)

Mell could no longer avert his gaze from the girl's visage. He had, for the time being, forgotten the shame he felt for peeping.

As he strained his ears to hear the conversation taking place inside, a sickly voice arose from the White-Haired Girl's purple lips.

So feeble was the sound that a gentle breeze blowing through the room could carry it away.

The White-Haired Girl: I apologize for the trouble...

The Maid: Think nothing of it.

The Maid: Give your apologies, and thanks, to the mistress.

The White-Haired Girl: Understood...

The Maid: ..........

The White-Haired Girl: There is something strangely comforting about this house—almost as if I've been here before...

The White-Haired Girl: If my father were here, I'm sure he would be quite fond of it.

The Maid: I am sorry about your father.

The White-Haired Girl: That's not—

The White-Haired Girl: There's... nothing you could have done, I imagine.

The White-Haired Girl: When you came to our rescue, he was already...

The Maid: ............

Mell: (Rescue? Father?)

Mell: (Was that, perchance, what the commotion was about?)

He stared intently, entranced by the scene unfolding beyond the door.

A gaze can often signal one's presence to others more effectively than words. The White-Haired Girl could likely sense him there as well. 

She flicked her gemlike eyes upward.

Mell: ...!

That was when the boy finally felt a pang of panic. For a split second, his flaxen eyes met her ruby eyes, causing him to recoil from the door.

His heart was pounding like the rain outside. Careful not to make a sound, he took one, two steps away.

Mell: (D-Did she catch me? I'm... not sure...)

Mell: (I-It was only for a moment. She can't have seen me.)

The boy did not have the courage to peek in on the room a second time, so he cautiously returned to his bedchamber as quietly as he could manage.

But even beneath his covers, he could not erase that girl's eyes from his memory.

Her melancholic red irises.
Her voice, delicate as a glass sculpture.
Her pale, almost lifeless skin.
Her pure-white hair.

Every singular detail kept him from banishing her image from his mind.

Nor could he restrain his heavily pounding heart.

Mell: Who could she be?

(Back in The Maid's room.)

The White-Haired Girl: ...........

The Maid: Is something the matter?

The White-Haired Girl: No... I just thought I felt someone watching us...

The Maid: Hehehe. It's only your imagination, I'm sure.

The White-Haired Girl: ..........

The Maid: If not your imagination, then perhaps some unseen force was watching you.

The White-Haired Girl: ...Unseen force?

The Maid: Are you familiar with how people refer to this mansion?

The White-Haired Girl: Rose Manor...

The Maid: Yes, indeed. It is called Rose Manor because you can smell the sweet fragrance of the rose garden even at a great distance.

The Maid: But that is not what I meant.

The Maid: It is said...

The Maid: that a witch resides within the house.

The White-Haired Girl: ... A witch? I have not heard any such stories...

The Maid: You probably wouldn't have. It was a very, very long time ago. Nothing you need concern yourself with.

The White-Haired Girl: You have... a peculiar presence about you.

The Maid: Should I consider that a compliment? Hehehe...

The Maid: It's getting late; you should get some rest. A room has already been set aside for you.

The Maid: But first, may I ask you one thing?

The White-Haired Girl: Yes?

The Maid: I do not believe you have given me your name yet.

The White-Haired Girl: My name...

The White-Haired Girl: My name is—