I loaded the Mysticism panel.

It snowed on the 27th, but not thickly, just enough to cover the coal stains and hoofprints on the street.

At King's Cross Station, Richard carried his father's suitcase and walked at the front.

The mother linked arms with Isabella, and the two sisters whispered something to each other.

Rogers walked at the very back, taking the same steps as when he arrived.

Evelyn walked in the middle, her backpack still the same bulging one she had brought with her.

She has been very quiet today; she hasn't uttered a single word since boarding the carriage at the mansion.

A cold wind from the platform seeped into her collar, and Margaret pulled her scarf up higher.

Isabella tucked the ends of her sister's scarf in.

"Bring a fleece-lined one next time you come."

"No need," Margaret patted her sister's hand. "I'm used to wearing the old things."

The queue at the ticket gate stretched outside the iron railings.

Gerrard had his butler book three second-class seats in advance.

This was the result of Richard's insistence; his grandfather originally wanted to book first class.

Richard handed the suitcase to his father.

Rogers took it and patted his son on the shoulder.

"That's enough. You have things to do back home, right?"

"Um."

"Don't work too hard. Our family doesn't need you to support us."

"understood."

Rogers turned and walked into the ticket gate, disappearing into the crowd.

The mother released her sister's arm and placed her hands on her son's hands.

The palms were warm, and the fingertips were a little rough.

She didn't say anything about being careful in Yorkshire; she had already given all the necessary instructions on Christmas Eve.

"Please tell your grandfather for me."

"What did you say?"

"Just say..." Margaret paused, her voice softening. "Just say you've been doing well these past few days."

"it is good."

Evelyn stood behind her mother, her hands in her coat pockets.

She wouldn't look at her brother, her cheeks puffed out, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Evelyn!" her mother called from ahead.

"understood."

She pulled a gingerbread rabbit out of her pocket.

The hat was askew, and a small corner of the left rabbit ear was missing, probably crushed when it was packed into the backpack.

"for you."

She handed the gingerbread rabbit to Richard.

"This one is the ugliest, I saved it especially for you."

Richard looked down at the soldier rabbit in his palm, its hat askew and its ears missing.

The icing had melted a little and stuck to his fingertips.

"It's okay, whether it's ugly or not, it'll all end up in my stomach anyway."

"Don't eat it all at once," Evelyn said in a muffled voice. "Take a look at it first before you eat."

Why?

"Because it's a limited edition." She rolled her eyes.

"The ugly ones are the limited editions; anyone can make the beautiful ones."

The whistle sounded, two long and one short, and the line at the ticket gate surged forward.

Evelyn followed her mother inside, and after a few steps she turned around and mouthed something to Richard.

He didn't see it clearly, but guessed it probably meant "Remember to eat".

The train pulled away from the platform, the sound of the carriages rolling over the switches receding into the distance.

Richard stood on the platform for a while, with only a few gray pigeons pecking at bread crumbs in the cracks in the ground.

My aunt walked up from behind, her scarf wrapped so that only half of her face was visible.

"Let's go." She gestured with her chin towards the door. "The carriage is waiting outside."

By the time we got back to Chelsea Road, the daylight was already beginning to fall on the bare branches of the plane trees.

Isabella did not enter the mansion.

"I have to go back to school; I still have a stack of final exam papers to grade."

She wrapped her scarf tighter, nodded to the coachman, and turned away before leaving.

Be careful on your trip to Yorkshire.

The mansion fell silent, and Baldwin and Vincent boarded their return train in the early hours of the 26th.

Richard went up to the second floor. The door to the study was ajar, and Gerald was standing by the window.

"close the door."

Richard closed the door.

Gerrard turned around.

Baldwin sent me a telegram this morning.

"A ceasefire was declared on Christmas Day."

………………

Flanders, southern section of the Ypres salient.

December 24th, 10 PM.

By this generation, the Ashford family had come to understand the importance of preserving their strength.

Baldwin's hunter squad was usually stationed three miles behind the trenches, and he was assigned the job of patrolling for the Hermits.

The most senior member of the patrol team was Logan, a Welshman.

The two chilblains on my cheekbone have been there since November and haven't healed. They scab over and then crack, then scab over again.

He's on night duty tonight, and his head is resting on his backpack.

The helmet is under my buttocks; sitting on that thing is more comfortable than wearing it.

Logan is used to the sound of gunfire; four months is enough time for you to get used to anything.

But just after ten o'clock, the shelling stopped.

Logan sprang from his backpack; the silence was more terrifying than the sound of artillery fire.

He crouched on the trench's fire platform, fastened his helmet again, and poked half his head up into the trench.

I saw a range of about three hundred yards.

Mud, craters, muddy clay, and collapsed wire mesh stakes.

The moonlight was as pale as diluted milk, and clouds pressed down overhead.

There was no sound at all; even the mice had stopped squeaking.

Logan's microcirculation jolted.

It's very light, unlike the feeling you get near weak points when on patrol missions.

That one is caused by external pressure squeezing in, while this one is being pushed up from underground.

He activated his spiritual vision and remembered the swamp he had seen in his hometown of Wells when he was a child.

In spring, as the frozen soil thaws, marsh gas rises from the mudflats, and bubbles gurgle and bubble on the surface of the water.

The bubble burst, and the stench escaped.

The ground in the no-man's-land is doing the same thing, except that instead of methane gas, it's surging up.

Dozens of the dead's spirits rose up simultaneously on the ground of the entire no-man's-land.

Then there were hundreds, and the number kept increasing.

Just then, someone started singing from the trench opposite.

It is in Germanic language: stille nacht, heilige nacht... (Silent Night, Holy Night...)

First, a couple of voices were choked and broken by the wind.

Then more and more voices joined in, and the trench became a continuous chorus.

Three bends away in the trench to Logan's right, a soldier with a Yorkshire accent started the conversation.

His voice was terribly hoarse, and he sang off-key, reminiscent of Flanders, but it was the same song.

A dozen or so people started singing along.

The two trenches each spoke their own language, their melodies twisted in mid-air, yet somehow they merged.

Logan squatted on the fire platform and listened, but didn't sing.

His lips were chapped, and his chilblains ached again when the wind blew on them.

Several hands reached out from the opposite trench, holding up a small fir tree less than two feet tall, with tin can lids and empty bullet casings hanging from the branches as decorations.

Someone climbed out first from the other side, holding a pack of tobacco in both hands.

People have climbed out here too.

As dawn broke, the no-man's-land was filled with living people, shaking hands and exchanging tobacco and rations.

Someone took out a crumpled family photo from their pocket and showed it to the person opposite them, and the person opposite them took one out as well.

Someone was kicking a ball around the edge of a crater. The ball was made of torn socks and old bandages, so it wasn't round at all and went way off course when kicked.

Logan watched these living people wandering around in the no-man's-land, his spiritual vision never turning off.

The living are shaking hands, while the dead stand at their feet.

They passed through those spirits without even shivering.

The morning sunlight peeked through the clouds, but it was very weak.

Logan climbed out of the trench; he had to go check it out.

The mud was frozen solid, so it wasn't too slippery to walk on.

He bypassed two bomb craters and stood on a flat piece of land in the middle of the no-man's-land, slightly to his side.

The vision was much fuller than what I saw in the trench.

Countless wisps of grayish-white mist stood densely packed on this patch of churned mud.

By the afternoon, the number of living people had increased, and so had the number of dead people.

The etheric field was completely disrupted, and the concentration of ether in the air was almost as high as the shallows behind the veil.

Around 3 p.m., a chaplain from the army came over from the trench.

He held the Bible and stood on a small patch of flat ground between two craters.

There was a circle of living people listening, and a circle of dead people listening.

The pastor turned to Psalm 23.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

His voice was soft, carried on the wind in a faint, fragmented manner.

"He made me lie down in green pastures, and led me beside still waters."

Green grass, a peaceful waterside.

Logan looked down at the churned mud at his feet; it was too far from the grass and the still water.

The pastor continued reciting, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."

His lips trembled slightly.

"And fear not harm, for you are with me."

When those words were spoken, the entire no-man's-land fell silent.

The sounds of people talking, the dull thud of a ball being kicked into a mud pit, the slapping of feet on slushy clay... all stopped.

Logan tensed up, and the dense mass of dead bodies all turned their heads at the same time.

The pastor's right hand was trembling, and the Bible was sliding down.

"Your staff...your rod...both comfort me."

"You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup overflows."

The dead watched him read it all.

"I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

The pastor's legs went weak the moment he closed the Bible, and he knelt down on one knee in the mud.

The soldiers nearby thought he had slipped and fell, so they quickly came over to help him up.

The next day, before dawn, the cannons roared again.

Gerald finished recounting this battlefield account.

"The entire front, stretching from the North Sea coast to the southern mountains, spanning hundreds of miles, came to a halt on Christmas Day."

"The soldiers stopped on their own without the general's order."

Richard thought of the last gathering, and how Prometheus's prophecy had come true.