NOMAMWTM Chapter 34

"…Haha."

Charlotte let out a bitter laugh as she opened her eyes in the estate's corridor, though she distinctly remembered collapsing into sleep.

Whoever was making her dream these dreams—she'd punch them the moment she met them. She swore it.

Today would be another death, no doubt. She couldn't understand the purpose of showing her these things.

By day, every nerve stretched taut against death that might come. By night, she watched someone actually die.

She really was going to lose her mind.

"Ah, ahhh…"

And there—the likely star of today's nightmare.

Charlotte watched with hollow eyes as a man staggered past her down the corridor, weaving unsteadily.

She didn't want to follow. But the moment awareness returned, her body was already moving after him.

Her own dream, yet her body refused her control—only returning autonomy once she'd begun following the man of her own volition.

"No. No. No."

Today's dream differed markedly from the past several days.

In the others, she'd synchronized with someone who actually existed in the estate, forced to watch through their eyes as someone died. Not today.

Charlotte followed the man, watching her own translucent hand. He didn't notice her hovering close behind—she must be something like a ghost.

The man entered a room in the West Library.

The room was enormous. Papers covered with writing scattered across the central desk. Bookshelves lined every wall.

Something about it felt familiar.

The man crossed directly to the bookshelves.

She saw only his back. He didn't seem to be dying yet, so Charlotte turned to examine the papers strewn across the desk.

He wore no servant's clothes, and his access to such a room suggested he was no ordinary man.

The paper she picked up bore disconnected phrases:

Save me. ← Dozens of times. Save me? Darkness where? Hate. Dark. Resentment? Toward whom? Why? Toward us?

…An inexplicable sense of déjà vu washed over her.

But she couldn't place why. As Charlotte reached for another fallen paper, sudden laughter erupted.

"Ah, haha!"

She froze. Then again.

"Haha, hahahaha! Hahahahahahaha!"

[……]

The man laughed with his back turned, giggling endlessly.

Not laughter from amusement or joy—the sound of someone unhinged.

Despite knowing this was a dream, goosebumps rose on her arms.

Then—BANG!

Charlotte's shoulders jerked at the explosive sound.

Gold light flashed as every book on the shelves came cascading down in an avalanche.

"Crazy, it's crazy, this place. Crazy, ah, ahhhhh! AHHHHHHH! Father!"

The man spread both arms wide, tilting his upper body back at an angle.

"Crazy, crazy, ha, hahaha, hahaha…"

He laughed like sobbing, repeating only that word: crazy.

He seemed mad.

As Charlotte unconsciously stepped back, he muttered after laughing-crying for some time.

"…I have to get rid of it."

"No one can come."

"No one, no one, no one, no one… no one."

"No one can see it."

Head bowed low as he muttered, he finally spread both arms wide.

Golden magic flared violently. Every book rose into the air and began fluttering.

The paper Charlotte held, the papers on the desk—all flew toward the man as if sucked in.

Among the flying papers, certain words entered Charlotte's vision with strange clarity:

Resentment. Souls.

The moment she registered those words, the papers turned pitch black as if they'd been waiting.

Every book floating in the air did the same.

Books with blackened pages came pouring to the floor.

The man walked past Charlotte with heavy steps.

His face as he passed—black and obscured, barely visible.

Gold light flared again at the wall with windows.

Had time skipped? When Charlotte blinked, she saw a brilliant golden magic circle, massive and radiant.

Reaching to the ceiling. Familiar.

"…!"

Only then did Charlotte realize where she was—but in that instant, the scene changed.

Inside another room, the man stood on a chair, tying a rope to the ceiling.

"Sornicia…"

He prayed in a trembling voice.

Intuiting this was his death, Charlotte's face went white.

No matter how many times she experienced death in dreams, she never grew accustomed to it.

She tried to push the chair away, knowing this was a dream, knowing this was unchangeable past. She tried to grab his legs, pull him down, make him step off the chair.

[No.]

Charlotte murmured.

As if responding, the man spoke as well.

"Sornicia, I will pay for my sins, so please, please forgive those who remain."

The man she'd thought mad muttered in a voice about to break.

[No. No!]

She flailed her hands desperately.

But her hands passed through the chair, grasping at empty air. Her body too—they went right through him.

"I'm sorry."

A tear traced down the man's face.

He slipped the noose around his neck.

"I'm sorry…"

He muttered, and—

[No…]

—before Charlotte, collapsed and murmuring helplessly, he jumped from the chair.

NOOOOOOOO—!

She had the illusion of hearing a boy's scream echoing in her ears, one she felt she'd heard somewhere before.

Only then did Charlotte see the face of the man who'd finally hanged himself, see his coloring, see everything.

And realize he resembled Michael.

Charlotte opened her eyes.

Cold sweat soaked her entire body.

[…What, you saw it again?]

At Nero's voice from where he crouched beside her, she threw off the blanket and sat up, breathing hard.

"…Is this real?"

Her voice shook. She knew the answer. But still she wanted to ask. It was too horrific.

How many had died? And Michael—whenever it was, how had Michael discovered his father's death?

Charlotte couldn't stay lying or sitting down. Couldn't close her eyes again or that terrible scene would return—she tried to stand, and—

CRASH!

—her legs gave out. She collapsed.

Her leg struck the table hard, but she felt no pain.

Charlotte stared with shaking eyes at the window side of the master bedroom.

Her hands pressed to the floor trembled. Her whole body trembled.

"…Ah."

A hoarse sound escaped.

The aftermath hit harder than usual. No wonder.

The scene from her dream overlapped with what her eyes saw now.

The window where moonlight poured down beautifully. The table before it. The chair Michael's father would have stood on.

Where he'd taken his own life—this room.

She could almost see feet swaying in empty air.

Charlotte gasped for breath. Then she felt a presence right beside her.

Her shoulders jerked.

A white rabbit had come to her side. Staring at her with golden eyes.

Staring.

Déjà vu struck.

And faster than her mind could process, Charlotte intuited something.

"…It's you."

She muttered vacantly.

"It's you. You're making me dream these dreams."

Except for these past few days, this rabbit had always been beside her when she had nightmares. Coming close, staring at her like this.

The first nightmare. The second nightmare.

And now.

Nero had said this white rabbit wasn't an ordinary rabbit either.

No reason not to think this tiny thing was causing the dreams.

The rabbit hopped around the corner of the bed.

Charlotte staggered to her feet.

The white rabbit was slipping out of the room.

Did it want her to follow again today?

She followed the rabbit on legs that wouldn't support her weight.

But she couldn't go far.

The aftermath of what she'd seen was too great.

Her legs lost strength. She swayed and sank down in the corridor.

Lumps gathered in the darkness, then scattered when she lifted her head to glare at them.

When she couldn't follow, the rabbit hopped back to her.

[What are you doing, mistress?]

Nero approached too, but Charlotte met the eyes of the rabbit gazing up at her.

"You're showing me. Aren't you?"

Unlike the past several days' dreams, this one wouldn't settle easily.

Nausea seemed to rise to her throat as she asked, breathing hard.

[…You are mixed.]

Finally, the white rabbit spoke for the first time.

A mysterious voice—like a young boy's, yet also like an aged elder's—echoed in her head like Nero's.

But the voice's weight was far from light.

[Which side are you?]