On the other hand, at the very same time everything was unfolding in that alley, a completely different atmosphere enveloped a grand mansion that stood silent and elegant.
In one of its spacious rooms, there was only a single source of light—a desk lamp, casting a soft white glow that fell directly onto the wooden surface before it.
Margaret sat there.
Her body leaned back casually against the plush chair, as if she were waiting for nothing—or perhaps, waiting for too many things at once.
Her arms were folded across her chest, a guarded posture that contrasted with the comfortable way her feet rested on the desk's lower ledge.
There was no restlessness in her movements, only a calmness that felt deliberate, calculated, and far too perfect.
Her gaze sharpened, piercing the surface of the desk in front of her.
A bouquet of fresh red roses lay there, their petals so neat it was as if they had just been plucked.
Beside them, a black tote bag lay on its side with the velcro open, facing her directly, as if its contents had been—or were about to be—inspected.
Not far from that, a large box filled with stacks of sandwiches remained intact, neatly arranged and completely untouched.
"Actually... what is the meaning of all this?"
The murmur slipped softly from her lips, her tone faint and hesitant, as if she herself hadn't quite grasped what she wanted to say.
At the same time, a slight frown creased her forehead, further emphasizing the confusion swirling in her head.
"A bouquet of red roses… and a box full of sandwiches?"
"…Wait. Producer Cire said these were from a school friend, didn't they?"
"Did I mishear?"
"Or is it because I heard it so clearly… that I've started to doubt my own hearing?"
She let out a harsh sigh, a small effort to unravel the knots tightening in her head.
With a slow movement, her hand reached back, aimlessly ruffling the hair at the nape of her neck. It was as if, through that simple act, all the bewilderment and confusion weighing on her mind could just fall away.
However, in reality, the gesture was futile; her mind remained flooded with questions that swirled without direction.
The plush chair beneath her once again took the weight of her body as she slowly leaned back deeper, letting herself sink comfortably into the backrest. Her weary head tilted up, resting fully against the top of the chair, while her eyes stared at the ceiling, swallowed in the dim light of the room.
"A school friend… huh?"
"But… who? Who would go through the trouble of giving me things like this?"
"I'm not sure I have any friends other than Adelia and Rachel."
"At school, I always spend my break time in the library—and even then, in the loneliest corner."
"And…"
Her words trailed off, hanging heavily in the air.
Her gaze dropped back to the desk, staring at the box of sandwiches as if the object itself held a secret—one that was stubbornly refusing to be revealed.
"Sandwiches…?"
"Of all the foods in the world, why would they give me sandwiches?"
"Is there a hidden meaning behind it, or was it truly the only thing on their mind? I'm genuinely curious about the reason."
"And now… what am I supposed to do with all this bread?"
"Should I eat them, or just leave them be?"
"If I leave them, wouldn't that be disrespectful to the gift?"
"But on the other hand… I'm hesitant to eat something from a stranger, especially when it's the first time."
"So… what should I do with this bread?"
This time, she gripped her hair with both hands, ruffling it while letting out a low groan—a faint sound that wasn't just a sign of confusion or wonder, but of the deep dilemma seizing her mind.
She threw her back against the chair's rest, a slightly rough movement that forced the chair to slide backward, letting out a soft creak against the floor. There was a hidden frustration behind the act, yet no words escaped her.
After a few seconds of silence, she sighed again, the sound of her breath heavy in the quiet room.
Her eyes slowly returned to the box of sandwiches—a simple object that, for some reason, now seemed laden with meaning.
"The strange thing is..."
Margaret turned her gaze aimlessly, her eyes tracing the plain walls, the creaking floor, and the shadows of the lamp dancing in the corner of the room, as if hoping one of them would help her assemble the scattered pieces in her head.
Her mind moved slowly, fumbling through fragments of memories she had almost overlooked, trying to link pieces that felt significant yet remained blurred.
And when finally an image began to surface in her mind—a faint silhouette, recognizable enough despite its blurred edges—Margaret's lips could not hold back the murmur that escaped on its own.
"It seems I've missed something."
She then straightened her back against the chair.
The faint creak of the chair as she pulled it toward the desk sounded loud in the silent room, as if asserting her presence between the desk and the chair—placing her body right in the center of the small world she had created for herself.
She pulled the sandwich box toward her.
"During my time at Vanderless High, I only had two friends, didn't I?"
"Adelia and Rachel, right?"
"There was no one else, was there? Those I truly knew and was close to… it was only the two of them, wasn't it?"
Her murmurs sounded like a self-strengthening mantra, a desperate effort to reaffirm the reality she had lived for so long.
Yet, even so, a tremor of doubt crept in—faint, yet undeniably real, like a hairline crack on a sheet of clear glass.
"I never opened up to them about myself, either. And they... they never asked."
"It's just that, back at the crosswalk earlier… for the first time, they asked me directly."
She closed her eyes.
Memories began to spin backward, retracing the days at her new school, one after another, like a slow-moving film reel.
She remembered her silent footsteps toward the library, the book aisles she had memorized down to every shelf, every stack.
There were quiet corners she always chose when the school's bustle became too heavy—places where she could sit alone, letting her thoughts drift undisturbed by the laughter or cheerful conversations around her.
Everything seemed normal, flat, without a stain of oddity, without a single sign that anything had escaped her observation.
Then, there were Adelia and Rachel, the only two friends she knew and had.
Her eyes snapped open again, falling upon the stack of sandwiches.
"So, it's clear then… these flowers and sandwiches aren't from a school friend, are they?"
"If they truly were a school friend, how could they possibly know I was at the Agency this afternoon, when I've never told a soul about myself?"
"Isn't it obvious that they're not from school?"
"Then… who? Who gave me these flowers and these sandwiches? And why… why did they give them to me?"
The questions raced through her mind one after another, colliding like waves impatient to reach the shore. They demanded answers, demanded certainty, demanded an explanation that felt as though it had to exist right here, right now.
Yet, strangely, the harder she searched for an answer, the emptier the echo that returned from her memory.
Every possibility she constructed in her head was like a faint shadow that dissolved upon touch, and every memory she unearthed only left behind a terrifying, hollow void.
She leaned her back against the chair once more, her gaze drifting elsewhere. Meanwhile, her fingers moved unconsciously, tapping rhythmically against the box of sandwiches in front of her.
"Could it be… because they read the rumors spreading on social media today?"
"But… who would be reckless enough to believe those rumors instantly—even if, in truth, those rumors aren't entirely false?"
"And who would have the nerve to do something like this… sending a gift to the Agency?"
"If it were a fan leaving a gift for their idol, that would be normal… but I'm not even an idol, let alone a celebrity… and a school friend?"
"Even now, Adelia and Rachel are probably worried sick because I haven't replied to their messages or picked up their calls… and the rest? I have no other school friends besides them… so… who?"
The tapping of her fingers on the sandwich box slowly came to a halt.
She lifted the box slightly, not too high—just enough to bring it level with her line of sight. Her eyes remained fixed on it for a long time, far too long for someone just looking at a food container.
There was a faraway look in her gaze, as if she were hoping to discover something hidden beneath that clear lid.
"Producer Cire was in such a rush when giving it to me… leaving immediately because of a last-minute meeting at that hour."
"How foolish of me… I didn't even get a chance to ask what the person looked like."
She let out a soft sigh, then placed the sandwich box back onto the desk while folding both arms across her chest.
"I don't know why… but these sandwiches remind me of that white puppy again."
"I wonder how he's doing?"
"Is he really okay?"
"What could he be doing right now?"
"Has his wound healed? Has he eaten well tonight?"
The corner of her eye caught a glimpse of a photo frame standing silently in the corner of her desk.
It had almost escaped her notice, partly swallowed by the shadows of nearby objects, and partly obscured by the glare of the desk lamp falling at an angle.
Her hand reached out, pulling the frame closer until it stood right in front of her.
With a slow, almost cautious movement, she brushed the surface of the glass.
A thin layer of dust lifted beneath her fingertips, leaving a clean trail that made the image behind it clearer.
There, framed within, was a fragment of time that felt so distant, yet simultaneously so close.
A photo of herself at seven years old—a small face with a wide, honest smile, eyes sparkling without a single burden, staring straight into the camera as if the world were an entirely safe place.
Cradled in her arms was a small black cat, huddled peacefully; its fur a sharp contrast against her tiny, fair hands. The cat looked comfortable, even a little spoiled, as if entrusting its entire being to her embrace.
"Chiko… where are you, really?"
"Why did you go and leave me…?"
"Do you not like me anymore? Or is it… that I simply don't deserve to be with you for as long as I wanted?"
Her murmur escaped in a faint whisper as the tip of her thumb brushed against the image of the small black cat in the photo.
That tiny touch, somehow, unlocked something she had kept bolted away for so long.
Her chest tightened, and before she could stop it, her vision suddenly blurred.
A warm pool of tears gathered beneath her eyes, ready to spill.
"Do you not miss me, Chiko…?"
"Are you angry with me? But… for what reason?"
"Why have you been angry with me for all these years and never returned?"
"Did you forget how to find me? Did you forget the way home… back into my arms?"
That single tear finally could no longer hold on.
The pool that had been hanging fragilely at the edge of her eye found its own way, sliding down in total silence.
The droplet fell right onto the glass surface of the photo frame, wetting the image of the small black cat that she was still stroking gently with the tip of her finger.
"You know…?"
"I met a puppy today. He's just like you."
"And do you know what's even more shocking? He was hurt. Even though the wound was small, it was clearly painful… wasn't it?"
"Just like back then, when your back was injured from being kicked by those idols—the ones who bullied you so carelessly, calling you ugly and useless."
Her fingers gripped the edges of the frame with increasing pressure, until the veins stood out clearly beneath her skin and her knuckles turned white.
There was a throb in her temple, pulsing in sync with a memory that suddenly surged forward—uninvited, yet impossible to cast away.
"But unfortunately… he is just like you."
"He vanished—while I, in my foolishness, chose to deal with the two humans who had oppressed him instead of helping him first."
"I've searched for him everywhere, but I couldn't find him."
"And it's… just like you. You vanished into thin air, and even now, I'm still unable to find you."
Another tear fell.
As if her final defense had simply crumbled, the tears followed one after another, without warning, without permission. Within seconds, the pool at the edge of her eyes overflowed, streaming down along the lines of her cheeks.
"Wouldn't it be… if the two of you finally met, you could become friends?"
"I would be so happy if I could take care of you both together. The three of us… we could live together, forever."
"Wouldn't that be wonderful, Chiko…?"
"If that actually happened, I would name him Choki… so it would be Chiko and Choki. Cute, isn't it?"
A bitter laugh escaped her lips—brief and nearly broken before it could even fully form.
It wasn't a laugh born of joy, but a sharp, hollow sound that surface when one realizes just how fragile the hopes they've harbored truly are. She knew, from the very beginning, that such things would never happen. Not anymore. Not for someone like her.
She raised her hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks, one by one, then placed the photo frame back in its original spot.
"Too much has happened today… so much that I didn't even realize… I was actually crying."
Margaret rose slowly from her chair.
"I should go to the kitchen… and cook some instant noodles. Maybe that will help a little."
But just as she was about to turn away from the desk, Margaret's left elbow brushed against the side of her tote bag.
The fabric bag lost its balance and slid down, hitting the floor with a soft thud—faint, yet enough to make her stop in her tracks instantly.
She let out a soft sigh and reached for the bag, but this time her movements were slightly rough, a far cry from her previous caution.
As the bag swayed, a slip of white paper slid out freely, falling to rest on the floor.
Unconsciously, one of her eyebrows arched—a sign of curiosity mingled with a slight shock.
"Eh? What's this?"
She leaned down carefully before finally picking up the white paper.
"Since when has this paper been inside my tote bag?"
"Why didn't I notice it?"
She stared at the white paper for a moment before cautiously unfolding it.
Her eyes scanned the plain surface, expecting to find something ordinary, but in the next second, her breath hitched.
The writing on the paper made her eyes widen.
It wasn't because the words were strange or difficult to understand, but because of how they were written: not with ordinary ink, but in a dark red—dried blood.
To Margaret, My Favorite Person,
How is your leg? Has it gotten better?
You must get enough rest, and promise yourself not to think about anything else besides your recovery, okay?
Ah, right…
I'm sorry for not being able to keep my promise. I've tried my best, but it turns out keeping a promise is much harder than I thought. Next time, I will try even harder to keep it.
Please don't be angry, okay?
But… if you are angry, that's fine too. In fact, I love seeing you angry, because it makes me want to hug you and stroke your head.
One more thing…
I'm okay, Margaret. So don't worry, I've returned home and eaten well.
And… I hope you like my gift.
Just like you said, when we meet again, you have to make me many sandwiches, okay? I'll give you even more in return.
I love you, Margaret.
—C
At that very moment, her fingers lost all their strength.
The paper and the tote bag slipped from her grasp simultaneously, hitting the floor with a soft sound that felt deafening in the stillness.