Chapter 1
I Hope You Die in Spring
2023.08.01
Sometimes the body remembers more vividly than reason.
The memories one wishes to forget remain like scars—perhaps that is why.
If the memories of the past are scars, then the ones freshly engraved should be called bleeding wounds.
The fingertips of the woman lying on the bed flinched. Each time the lips of the man above her touched and parted from her, her body seemed to ignite with burning blossoms of heat. Her nails, twitching as if in convulsions, left long marks on the man’s arm and hand, but he paid no attention—consumed only with disheveling her appearance.
His lips touched her cheek, the nape of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, and even down to her chest, which rose and fell with ragged breaths. A sigh escaped her lips as their act deepened.
Everywhere he touched burned.
The skin he kissed, the wrists he held, and even the gaze that devoured her with feverish obsession—all of it inflamed her.
He unraveled her so thoroughly, yet he looked down at her as if none of this had anything to do with him.
But she knew. She could see it clearly in those icy blue eyes staring down at her—the undeniable thirst.
Her swollen lips, gasping for breath, her heaving chest, her flushed skin—all of it stoked the man’s desire boiling from deep within. Were it not for the reins of restraint, he would already have forced her legs apart, exploring her most intimate places, pressing his lips upon skin no one had ever touched. He would not be satisfied with childish marks of kisses, but would engulf her whole, caressing her until she drowned in shuddering ecstasy.
The only reason he endured such consuming desire was simple.
“Your Majesty. Do I still look like her to you?”
“……”
The man’s brows, clouded by lust, furrowed slightly.
“You must know. She’s dead. And the only one in your hands now is me.”
Only I remain by your side.
Only I can quench your thirst.
At the woman’s serpentine whisper, the man’s tightly shut lips parted.
“…Say the name.”
“Peter.”
She could feel his restraint thinning. And she loved this moment most of all.
That instant when a man who seemed unshakable could be pulled into her skirts by nothing more than a name.
That instant when madness and desire, so carefully suppressed, surged over him like a tidal wave.
“Peter.”
She whispered again, caressing his flushed cheek with a touch that resembled a snake’s temptation. His eyes wavered, and just as she opened her lips again—
“…Enough.”
The man harshly brushed her hand away. His face remained composed, but she knew well that he was at the edge of his endurance.
His low, growling voice scraped out from his throat.
“Do not overstep. Remember why you are here. Remember the reason you exist.”
“Of course I know. I am Your Majesty’s doll.”
A doll meant to replace his dead lover.
A trinket thrown to him to quiet his madness.
She existed only to whisper sweet lies into his ears.
And so, once again, she whispered honeyed words at his side.
But his reply was cold.
“I will never truly want you.”
Even while desiring her, he loathed that very fact.
Amid that contradiction, the woman—Lowell—kissed him and smiled inwardly.
No. You will love me.
And I will leave you the moment you love me most.
Remember well, Peter.
I will be your brightest madness.
Your sleepless midnight sun.
When standing at the edge of life, certain things always come to mind.
Some call it a “life’s lantern.” That lingering regret at the brink of death, people named it so.
Lowell’s lantern was a boy.
A boy with a face more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen.
The boy who loved her more than anyone, and whom she also loved—her childhood friend, Peter.
Whenever she prepared herself for death, the same voice echoed in her mind.
[I hope you die in spring.]
A voice clear as the wind sweeping through a wheat field.
A memory that always replayed when she closed her eyes.
[That way, I can lay many flowers on your grave.]
The boy in her memories always bore the same face.
Blue eyes nailed deep into her soul.
A face without smiles, like a voice without tone.
And when their eyes met, lips that only faintly tugged upward in a forced smile.
Lowell would quietly smile back at such a boy and reply:
[I wish I could die in winter.]
[Why?]
[Snowflakes are flowers too.]
Even if Peter did not come, her grave would be covered in a field of white blossoms.
Considering they were only fifteen at the time, the conversation was absurd.
Children of fifteen discussing death.
But to Lowell and Peter, it was not strange.
Because Lowell was terminally ill.
Lowell Hessen, the youngest daughter of the prestigious Hessen family—lords of Belf, a land renowned in the Empire for its mild climate.
She had been frail since birth.
Minor illnesses were constant, and every change of season brought days bedridden.
But until then, it had only seemed like she was a bit weaker than other children.
Then came the winter she turned ten.
After a relentless fever, everything changed.
That illness was her first memory of death.
Delirious mutterings from the fever, pain shooting through her entire body—she still remembered it vividly. Even when she scraped her legs bloody tumbling down a slope, she had not shed a tear. But then, she had sobbed and sobbed, terrified by the pain wracking her body.
She had walked the tightrope between life and death several times before finally pulling through.
But the real problem lay elsewhere.
[The young lady will not live beyond five years.]
The fever had damaged her vital organs beyond repair.
The Hesses had denied it, insisting the physician was a quack.
But soon the truth became undeniable. Lowell could no longer live like before.
Even the gentlest breeze brought fever. Even the smallest exertion drained her, leaving her nodding off constantly.
Neither the family’s wealth nor the knowledge she had studied to become accomplished could help her. No medicine could mend organs already destroyed.
Her parents scoured the land for physicians and remedies, but the answers were always the same.
[We are sorry, but nothing can be done. To be frank… it would not be strange if she collapsed tomorrow and never woke again.]
All they could hope for was that she might open her eyes again the next day.
And accept that, someday, she might not.
In the end, her family accepted her fate.
From then on, Lowell lived apart from them.
Though they shared the same estate, she only saw her parents and siblings when they occasionally visited her.
[Your brothers are entering private school now, you see. They are so busy they cannot always come visit.]
Her parents filled her room with expensive gifts, but Lowell knew the truth.
They avoided her not because of her siblings—but because it was too painful to watch a daughter they would one day lose.
Still, Lowell was not lonely.
Because she was not truly alone.
There was another boy, like her, who was ill.
A noble child from the capital, Peter, sent to the Hessen estate for convalescence.
Lowell did not know his full circumstances, but she felt a kinship with him.
For a child to be sent to recover alone, without family—there could only be one reason.
He was abandoned too.
Sick like her.
Shunned like her.
So it was not strange that the two became fast friends.
But as seasons passed, a gap grew between them.
Lowell wasted away with time, while Peter steadily grew stronger.
By their fourth year, Peter was well enough to return home.
Unlike Lowell, who had grown gaunt and pale, her sickness carved into her every feature.
And it was then, just before leaving, that they had that conversation.
[…Still, Lowell, I hope you die in spring.]
At Peter’s words, Lowell tilted her head in confusion.
When their eyes met, Peter held her hand, his fingers gripping her wrist as if binding her.
[I’ll return before spring comes.]
[…By then, I’ll be dead.]
[I’ll find a way to save you.]
Her eyes widened at his words. But then her face returned to its calm expression.
She was too weary to hope from such promises.
Besides, how could a boy like Peter find what even her parents had failed to?
She sighed.
[My parents sought out countless doctors. But all of them said no one could save me. You know that.]
[There is a way, Lowell.]
Peter’s voice was firm.
[I cannot explain it yet… but there is a way.]
A way to extend her life.
