After Charles lost consciousness, he gradually woke on a bed in the village temple. He felt disoriented, as if caught between the sweltering indoor heat and the cool air creeping in through a narrow window, the contrast forming a delicate haze.
Doctor Elias Harper had tended him with great care. Though Charles's head still throbbed, his overall condition was not too serious. Once he stirred, Elias filled him in on what had happened while he was out. They had gathered plenty of evidence from Robert's room, linking him definitively to the murders.
As for Charles's fainting spell, Elias suspected it was caused by exhaustion and stress, compounded by a lack of proper rest.
"How's Robert now?" Charles asked in a raspy voice.
"He's under lock and key, awaiting trial," Elias replied solemnly. "He's almost certainly bound for execution. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn't been here to stop him."
Charles was silent for a moment, recalling it all. Then he remembered the slip of paper with the strange writing.
"Did the guards find a scrap of paper in Robert's room? It had some odd text," he asked.
Elias nodded. "Yes. They said that when you collapsed, you dropped it. They assumed it must be important, so they left it with me. I was waiting for you to recover."
He handed Charles the paper, and Charles studied it once more. It was exactly the same slip. A nagging sense of significance gnawed at him, though he could not be certain why.
Elias spoke again, interrupting his thoughts. "What will you do now? Will you remain here or return to the capital?"
Charles mulled it over, then exhaled heavily, eyes weary. "I'll return to the capital, but there are a few things I need to settle first. I plan to leave today."
"In that case, make haste. The last public carriage departs this afternoon."
Charles nodded in acknowledgment, still glancing at the cryptic script on the paper in his hand, puzzling over what it could mean.
'There are still some answers I need before leaving…'
He was not sure if this paper connected to his missing memories, but it was the closest clue he had found in two years of searching. Deep down, he felt certain it had some connection to his lost past, even if he couldn't yet prove it. At the very least, this case had not been a wasted effort.
Before heading out, Charles bought his carriage ticket, then stopped by the prison to question Robert about the strange paper.
He entered the dimly lit dungeon, lit only by flickering torches. A musty odor mixed with the tang of rusting iron. Stares from other prisoners followed him, some fearful, some hostile. Charles paid them no mind. He was not there to make friends; he was there to find the truth.
At the far end of the prison, in a large iron cell, Robert sat with his back to the door. He gazed through a window slit with hollow, haunted eyes.
The moment Charles stopped in front of the cell, a guard promptly unlocked it with a resounding clank. Yet Robert remained motionless, still staring at the sky outside. His hair was matted, bruises from the recent struggle plainly visible.
"Robert Thorn," Charles said, his low voice echoing off the stone walls. Slowly, Robert turned to face him, dull eyes devoid of life.
"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.
Without delay, Charles held up the mysterious paper. "Have you seen this? What is it?"
Robert raised an eyebrow, peering at the unfamiliar characters. He frowned as if trying to recall something. "Oh… that scrap of paper. I don't really know. I never gave it much thought."
Charles sighed, disappointed by the vague reply, and stepped closer, posture intent. "Where did you get it? Think back."
Robert pressed his lips together, as if rifling through distant memories. Eventually he spoke in a subdued tone. "I think it came tucked inside a book I bought from a traveling merchant when he passed through the village. I noticed the weird letters—figured it might be valuable—so I kept it."
Charles nodded slightly, face relaxing a fraction. The information left him with more questions, but it was a start. "Could you read any of it?"
Robert shook his head, his brow furrowing in frustration. "No. It looked like some foreign language or an ancient script, and parts of it had faded. I couldn't make sense of it."
Charles paused, studying him carefully. Though Robert was clearly exhausted, he appeared sincere. At last, Charles pressed further: "After you found it, did you ever show it to anyone else—maybe a fortune-teller or someone who might recognize strange texts?"
Robert paused, as if sifting through his memories again. Then he shook his head. "No, I didn't. I was curious at first but ended up so busy with…everything else. I never bothered to bring it up with anyone. I never really thought it was important."
Accepting that, Charles let out a long breath. There would be no more leads here. He slipped the mystery paper back into his coat pocket.
"All right. In that case, I won't bother you further. Thanks for your cooperation."
He inclined his head in a curt gesture. His expression was still sober, but there was some trace of gratitude in his voice. Just before leaving, he glanced at Robert one last time.
"Is that all?" Robert asked dully.
Charles paused. "I was only thinking that if you hadn't clung so desperately to Mary, your life might have turned out better."
"Don't lecture me. You know nothing," Robert snapped, voice raw.
"Maybe I don't fully understand your love," Charles murmured. "But from what I see now, loving yourself a bit more might have spared you a lot of pain."
"Get out! Don't meddle in my business!" Robert shouted, fury flaring again.
Charles said nothing further. He walked calmly from the cell, and the guard clanged the iron lock shut behind him. Robert was left alone with his thoughts in solitary confinement, left to contemplate the gravity of his actions.
On his way back to Edmund's house, Charles remained preoccupied with the mysterious paper. He still had no clear solution, yet he felt sure in his heart that it must be tied to his missing memories. Perhaps he would search for its meaning somewhere else, or wait until new clues surfaced in the future.
Reaching Edmund's home, he began packing for his trip to the capital. He double-checked all documents and evidence before gathering his clothing and other necessities into his travel bag.
By early afternoon, the sun shone brightly across the damp ground, and a sense of renewed life stirred in the village. Birds circled overhead, chirping with a carefree spirit that briefly lifted Charles's own.
He emerged from Edmund's house, breathing in a lungful of clean air and tilting his head back to regard a sky now free of storm clouds. At last, he glimpsed the natural beauty he had been too busy to appreciate while investigating the grim events.
Standing by the doorway, he took his leave of Edmund and the young boy by his side. Edmund handed Charles a slip of paper confirming the successful completion of the job, which would allow Charles to collect his fee from the guild.
"Thank you," Charles said, shaking the man's hand one last time.
"Travel safely, and know that we're the ones in your debt for everything," Edmund replied with a gentle smile, looking far more at peace than when Charles first met him.
Charles inclined his head, then headed for the waiting carriage. His steps echoed in the quiet, merging with the soft sounds of luggage being hoisted aboard.
Before climbing up, he paused for one final look around, eyes lingering on the houses and the people who had endured so much. The villagers would need to adapt to a new reality, shedding their old superstitions. Charles trusted that with Doctor Elias's guidance, they would endure whatever hardship came next.
His duty here done, the young detective settled onto the carriage seat with practiced ease, gave a last farewell wave, and allowed the vehicle to carry him away on the road to the capital.
The villagers watched in silence as Charles's carriage rolled away in the bright afternoon sun. A few nodded with gratitude; others simply looked on in wonder.
Inside, Charles leaned back, letting the steady clip-clop of hooves and the rattling of wooden wheels lull him. Fields and rural paths gradually gave way to busier roads and clusters of buildings, reminding him that he was returning to city life.
Yet he felt oddly disconnected, recalling the peacefulness of the village—despite its recent horrors. He remembered the scent of wet grass and the wind rustling through ancient trees. It was the first time in two years that he had stayed away from the bustling capital long enough to forget its constant turmoil.
His thoughts drifted to the cryptic paper and the many unresolved questions. Worry weighed on him, his body more exhausted than he cared to admit. Eventually, fatigue overcame him.
He shook his head, recalling Elias's admonition to rest before embarking on this journey. In his haste, he had brushed that advice aside.
A gentle jolt roused him as the carriage stopped at a midway inn. Other passengers got down to stretch their legs or seek refreshment. Charles stayed behind, leaning against the seat, eyes half-lidded with drowsiness.
A cool breeze rustled the dried leaves outside, their crisp crackle forming a lullaby. His eyelids felt heavier and heavier until they shut.
He slipped into sleep, consciousness drifting away from the real world, sinking into a dream.
In that dream, he heard crashing waves and the rumble of thunder from a darkened sky. Lightning forked overhead, the sea taking on a murky, gray hue churned by gigantic swells.
He saw himself struggling in these waters, trying in vain to swim against the relentless surf. Arms and legs thrashed, but it was aimless. His limbs felt paralyzed, dragging him into the watery depths. Salt water filled his lungs whenever he tried to gasp for air, his body wracked with pain. He searched desperately for anything to cling to, finding only emptiness.
Despair crept in. He had never truly feared the water, but he had no real skill in swimming. He could only try to stay afloat as the currents dragged him ever downward. Vision and breathing blurred, consciousness fading. He coughed, choking on bitter seawater, certain he was done for.
Then, abruptly—a large piece of driftwood struck his head, cutting everything short. No cry of pain, no time to react. He felt his mind teetering on the edge of nothingness. The last image etched into his mind was that of a fair-haired young man swimming toward him through the stormy waves, fighting fiercely to reach him.
Charles came to with a jolt, sprawled on the carriage floor as voices buzzed around him. Disoriented, he realized he must have tumbled from his seat while caught in that nightmare. Bruises throbbed in his limbs, but reality anchored him again. Fellow passengers hovered in concern.
Swallowing, he reassured them he was fine. It had been a mere dream, yet the terror and hopelessness still clung to him, as vivid as if he had truly been on the brink of drowning.
He rubbed the sweat from his brow, calming his breath. When the other travelers saw he was safe, they stepped back to give him room. Charles felt strangely chilled by the lingering memory of that dream, uncertain what it portended.
After steadying himself, he eased back onto the seat as the carriage resumed its journey. The dream haunted him, just like the other flashes of memory he had experienced. He could not place its meaning, and his exhausted mind offered no immediate answers.
For the moment, he had to focus on reporting back to the guild and collecting his payment. After that, he would figure out how to pursue the mysteries that still plagued him—his forgotten past, the cryptic slip of paper, and the unsettling dreams slipping in and out of reach.
Those were burdens he alone had to bear. Absentmindedly, Charles raised a hand to the concealed scar on his head, wondering whether what he had glimpsed was truly part of his past—or simply a phantom conjured by a weary mind.