The candlelight flickered lazily across the pages of a thick book, its amber glow painting long shadows along the mahogany walls of Beatrice's library. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the occasional soft rustle of a turned page.
Makoto sat slouched in one of the armchairs, a heavy volume resting in his lap. His face was pale, void of the energy that once characterized him. His ahoge drooped, as if in mourning. Though the book's pages fluttered beneath his fingers, his eyes didn't truly read them. They passed over the text, looking but not seeing, trapped in a haze far from this room, far from this moment.
Beatrice, perched on her usual cushion with her own tome spread before her, glanced at him now and then from behind her butterfly-laced eyes. She said nothing—after all, she'd told him he could stay as long as he kept quiet, and he had. But even a spirit like her could feel it: the boy wasn't whole.
Makoto didn't speak for what felt like hours.
Then finally, without looking up, his voice cracked the silence.
"Have you ever... watched someone die? I mean, not from old age. Just... snatched away. Like that."
Beatrice blinked, slowly lifting her eyes from her book.
"What a strange question to ask, I suppose."
"I was just curious," he replied quickly, maybe too quickly. "No reason in particular."
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "You're a bad liar."
Makoto offered no defense. Just kept staring at the same spot on the page like the answer might crawl off it and into his head.
She sighed, closing her book with a dull thump. "I'm a high spirit. I've lived a long time. Longer than you can probably comprehend, I suppose. People I knew... people I cared about. Of course they've died."
"Does it get easier?" he asked, his voice soft and hollow.
Beatrice looked at him for a long time. Then, she shook her head. "No. It doesn't get easier. But your heart dulls to it. Like a blade left out in the rain, I suppose. Rust sets in. The pain is still there, but you feel it less. Or maybe you stop knowing what it is you're even feeling."
Makoto looked up, his eyes heavy. "Do you regret that? Dulling yourself like that?"
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes. I do."
He chuckled, dry and bitter. "So maybe I should start dulling mine too, huh?"
"But," Beatrice said, cutting him off sharply, "I will also say this: regret isn't useless. People act like it is. But it isn't, I suppose. Regret means you cared. It means something mattered enough to hurt. And if it mattered once, you'll remember not to repeat that mistake again."
Makoto blinked. "That's... I don't know if I get it."
"You don't need to get it," she said, waving a hand. "You're not exactly the brightest guest I've had."
He let out a huff of air that might've been a laugh if it weren't so broken.
"But I do know this," Beatrice continued, quieter now. "Even I don't know you that well, Makoto... but the way you're acting now? This soggy, lifeless version of you? It doesn't suit you, I suppose. You're supposed to be a smiling idiot. An annoyingly cheerful one."
Makoto's gaze stayed fixed on her, lips slightly parted. She went on, as if remembering something painful and distant.
"I had people I couldn't save. People I watched disappear, and I hated myself for being too weak. But I couldn't go back, and that was the worst part. I couldn't turn back time and do it right."
Her fingers curled around her book.
"But you... You can, can't you?"
Makoto's breath caught.
"If I had even a sliver of a chance, I'd do anything to save them. No matter what."
The room went quiet again.
Then slowly—so slowly—Makoto's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his body trembling. His breath quickened. A heat pulsed in his skull.
Why? Why had he been ready to give up? Why had he let Petra die—let all of them die—and just curled up like some broken doll?
He stood suddenly, knocking the book to the floor. His heart pounded like war drums.
Beatrice turned, surprised, just in time for Makoto to throw himself at her and wrap his arms around her in a tight, sudden hug.
"Thank you... Thank you so much."
Beatrice froze. "Wha—!? Wh-What are you doing, I suppose!? Are you insane!?"
But she didn't pull away.
Makoto didn't let go.
"I was so ready to just... fade out. But you reminded me why I'm here."
Beatrice huffed, face slightly pink. "Idiot... get off of me."
He pulled back at last, smiling—genuinely—for the first time in what felt like ages.
"I have something I need to do," he said.
Then, with a flash of determination in his eyes, he sprinted out the room.
"Is he perhaps ill...?" Beatrice murmured, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves, her expression soft.
As Makoto bolted down the corridor, his thoughts were racing.
He didn't have a full plan. He didn't even know what loop this was anymore.
But what he *did* know was that he couldn't give up. Not now. Not when he'd seen what giving up looked like.
He turned a corner sharply—
—and ran straight into someone's chest.
Makoto stumbled back, about to apologize, when he looked up—
Roswaal.
His face was neutral. But there was a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Ah~! Makoto-kun~! Just the boy I was hoping to see," he said, voice like syrup. "Would you join me for a private conversation?"
He extended his gloved hand.
Makoto didn't move. Not yet.
The candlelight behind him flickered.
The air grew colder.
And the smile never left Roswaal's face.