Chapter 5: The Same Handwriting

Even after leaving the venue, the words of the invited guests wouldn't leave my mind. There was no butler. But I definitely exchanged words with that person who called himself Takeru every day.

I tried to ask Ryo about it in the carriage, but he had his eyes closed, looking tired, so I hesitated to speak to him. Even after arriving at the mansion, I ended up going straight back to my room.

Unable to sleep, I opened the box of portraits in bed. I gazed intently at the faces of the three women once again. A woman in a kimono, a woman in a dress, a woman in a sailor uniform. Though they were from different eras, their faces somehow resembled Riko's.

I noticed something written in tiny letters on the back of the third portrait. Tracing it with my finger, I realized it was a short, scribbled note, like a snippet from a diary.

"If the same thing happens again, I want you to tell the next person that it's not Ryo's fault."

My heart ached. Had this person, deep down, come to terms with the fact that they would be killed?

Wanting to know more, I searched the bottom of the portrait box. I found a small key tucked under a piece of cardboard. I didn't know what it was for, but I had a hunch it led somewhere in the mansion.

The next day, while Ryo was out, I headed to the library at the back of the mansion, a place I was usually told not to go. The key fit perfectly into an old drawer.

Inside were three old diaries. The owners' names weren't written in them, but the dates on the covers made it immediately clear that they belonged to the women in the portraits.

With trembling hands, I turned the pages. The diary of the woman in the kimono described Ryo in a gentle hand. The diary of the woman in the dress described loneliness in high society and her feelings for Ryo. The diary of the woman in the sailor suit expressed similar love and anxiety, but in more modern language.

All three of them had similar words on the last page: as their birthdays approached, they felt like someone was watching them, like someone in the mansion didn't think highly of them.

On the back cover of the last remaining diary, a diary of a woman in a sailor uniform, I found a hastily scribbled note.

"If anything happens, ask him. That butler who's always so kind to you."

My hands stopped moving. Butler. There it is again.

I casually took out my notebook and compared the scribbled letters to my own handwriting. At first, I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination. But no matter how many times I compared them, the angle of the strokes, the way the letters ended—everything was exactly like my own.

They should be a different person. Someone I've never met, someone from nearly a hundred years ago.

"Riko-sama"

I heard a quiet voice from behind me, and my heart almost stopped. When I turned around, Takeru was standing in the doorway. He had the same gentle smile as always.

"Is there something you need in the library?"

"you"

My voice trembled. There were so many things I wanted to ask, but I couldn't find the right words.

"Are you really the butler of this house?"

I thought I saw Takeru's smile waver for just a split second. Maybe it was the candlelight. Or maybe I wasn't imagining things.

"Riko-sama, you ask interesting questions."

His answer was evasive. He slowly approached me and lowered his gaze to his diary.

"If you've read that diary, you might have already noticed."

"What"

Takeru didn't answer. Instead, he said, in his usual calm voice, but with a slightly different tone:

"Riko's birthday is just around the corner."

For the first time, I felt a clear sense of fear at something hidden beneath those words.