Conquer the other worlds with abandon, they've fallen in love with me!

In the next room, candles were lit, casting a dim, yellowish light.

From Bell's perspective, only a small part of the foot of the bed can be seen.

The blanket was pushed to one side, and the sheets were crumpled into a ball.

It's a kind of wrinkle left after being repeatedly kneaded, deep and shallow, like the ripples on the surface of a lake when the wind blows, or like some unsettled thoughts.

The sheets were light gray, with a warm brown hue in the candlelight. The wrinkles cast shadows, while the raised areas were lightened by the candlelight.

There was a particularly deep crease that stretched diagonally from the foot of the bed out of sight, like a dried-up riverbed, or the trail left by someone who left in a hurry.

Bell didn't know why he was still watching.

She should have turned away. She should have walked away. She should have gone back to her own side, closed the door, blew out the candles, and shut out those things she shouldn't have seen into another world.

But her feet seemed rooted to the spot, nailed behind the half-open door, her eyes seemingly drawn by some force, stubbornly and repeatedly looking at that limited scene cut by candlelight.

The air smelled of burning candles. Not the cheap paraffin kind, but beeswax, mixed with a hint of vanilla, warm and subtle. Belle smelled it; she could even tell how it differed from a few hours ago—back then, the candlelight had just been lit, the scent fresh and bold, while now it had burned for a long time, the fragrance subdued, becoming soft and lingering, like a lazy sigh.

A piece of clothing was draped on a wooden frame at the foot of the bed.

It was a dark coat, the collar slightly turned up, revealing a glimpse of the subtle pattern of the lining. Belle recognized the coat. She had seen it hanging on a coat hook in the hallway, draped casually over a chair, and worn by someone striding past her window in the rain. She had even touched the cuff of that coat—in a moment she didn't want to recall, her fingertips had gripped that small piece of fabric until her knuckles turned white.

But now the coat sits quietly curled up on the wooden shelf at the foot of the bed, like a weary bird folding its wings. It is no longer an extension of someone, but merely an item that has been taken off and has temporarily lost its owner.

Bell's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

She heard some sounds.

Very soft. Intermittent. Sometimes it was a whisper, the syllables so indistinct that the content was unclear, only the unique deepness and languor of the voice could be discerned. Sometimes it was a rustling sound, like fabric rubbing against fabric, or skin touching skin. And once, she heard laughter—a very short laugh, as if suddenly interrupted by something, the sound fading into some softer sound.

Bell closed his eyes.

Those sounds were like fine needles, pricking her heart one by one. It didn't hurt, it really didn't hurt, but an indescribable ache rose from her chest, surged to her throat, and was swallowed back down. She had no right to feel pain. She didn't even have the right to stand here.

There was nothing between her and someone in that room.

But she still stood there. The candlelight filtering through the crack in the door fell on her face, casting a dim and contrasting light on her expression, dividing it into two distinct halves.

Her fingers rested on the door frame, the tips slightly white—proof of her effort—effortfully resisting the urge to push the door open, to resist turning and running away, to simply stand there and accept the reality.

The wrinkles on the sheets were even deeper.

Bell saw a foot peek out from the edge of his line of sight—bare, slender, with a faint red mark at the ankle, as if it had been bound by something. The foot stretched lazily, the toes spreading out and then curling back, like a cat stretching in the sun.