Well, it's been a year since I started writing this… And you know, I'd envisioned that I'd be done by now. But as it turns out, I'm not even halfway done.

lost somewhere, in the clutter

There was frost on the windows this morning, gathering around the edges like cobwebs. Pretty cobwebs, to be sure, glittering in any level of light, but still resembling the wretched things, until they melted with the rising of a weak autumn sun, that hovered falteringly in the sky before going to hide behind clouds growing progressively dark gray towards the center.

Ikuko has a head cold and has not stirred from her bedroom except to bathe for three days; she has Harumi, who was at least once heard to mutter "This is not what I was paid for" bring her up food. Soup, soup, always soup. She can barely stomach anything solid, or at least Toya can hear her say. He tried to visit her, but she wouldn't even let him pass through the door.

"No, no, Toya, you can't come in here! You'd just get sick too, and then what would we do? I'll come out when I feel well again, and not a moment sooner!"

Thus, Toya is left to entertain himself.

He doesn't feel like working on their mystery novel; it doesn't feel right to try and write anything without Ikuko (who will only accept the company of her books and her cat today, and won't even think of countenancing a pen) present, given that she's been the main fount of skill. After all, Toya just provides his occasional moments of insight and inspiration. She's the one who does the bulk of the work, she's the skilled, experienced, polished writer. Even if they are basing this novel off of the first of the two manuscripts found floating in a wine bottle years ago, it's still been an exhausting amount of work. She could probably do it by herself, but he doesn't think he's capable of the same.

Still, Toya can find no solace in the books of Ikuko's library today. Given how many new books she acquires with each passing month—there are ever-growing piles of books on the floor now that there are no shelves to accommodate them; Ikuko keeps saying she's going to buy more bookshelves, but never says when—it's not like Toya's even come close to reading them all, but he just isn't in the mood for reading today.

The weather is also not the sort that encourages going outside—chilly, overcast, always threatening rain. In truth, though, even if the weather was perfect, Toya still wouldn't want to go outside. He hasn't really wanted to stray from the roof and walls of this house since he became reacquainted with the first memory of his past life. He feels as though if he steps outside the safety of this house, gravity will betray him and he will be left to cling to the skin of the earth, waiting for the moment when his grip fails him and he goes hurtling out into oblivion.

Wandering the house by himself on days like this, alone, is an eerie exercise. Toya walks the halls, the sound of his footsteps growing unnaturally loud. Any sort of rapping on the window, be it by wind or branch makes him jump. He looks at the shadows and expects some eldritch creature to melt away from them, drawing its form from the darkness. He barely notices where his feet are carrying him until he finds himself standing outside the door to Ikuko's study.

Inside, strewn all over the table in the middle of the room are papers, photographs, books, newspapers, journals, any and all information pertaining to the Ushiromiya family and the incident that took place on Rokkenjima in 1986, so much that the table groans wearily beneath their weight. Here Toya has spent most of his time for the past few months, and here he sits down again, starting to rifle through the myriad tidbits of information for something interesting to read.

He comes up first with that stack of financial documents that he has no idea how Ikuko got her hands on in the first place, and almost immediately puts them out of sight. Ikuko might consider everything of interest, but Toya finds the financial documents all but criminally boring. There must be something more interesting here, that I've never seen.

1988 journal, seen it.

The first manuscript, seen it.

Interviews from 1989, 1990 and 1991, seen it.

School records, seen it.

Photo—

Toya pauses as he comes up with a large photograph, staring at it, feeling the muscles in his face slacken.

They've been writing a story about a witch slaughtering a family, based very loosely on the first of the two manuscripts found in a wine bottle. They've been writing a story about a witch, but Toya has never actually seen a photo of the witch. He's never known what she's supposed to look like with his own eyes.

This is a photograph of the portrait of the woman called Beatrice, whom Kinzo had claimed had given him his gold and he and others called 'The Golden Witch.' It hang in the entrance hall of the Ushiromiya mansion, Toya thinks. Some—no, many—claim that if this was a real woman, she was likely Kinzo's mistress. Toya doesn't if that's true; maybe she was. But he thinks that if the woman isn't present to confirm or deny the rumors, the rumormongers shouldn't be spouting them. Why are people always so quick to assume that a woman who had some sort of partnership with a man was his mistress? Is that really the best they can do, to assume that she had so much influence over him thanks to the allure of her body?

He's never seen the photograph of her portrait before, and the first thing Toya is struck by is just how breathtakingly beautiful the woman is. His breath catches in his throat to look at her golden beauty. She has golden hair and blue eyes, and fair, clear skin, but it's not even that, not really, that stands out to him as beautiful. It's the faint hint of mischief in that smile, in those deep red, seemingly prim lips, the way those lips curl slightly in one direction. Her eyes glint knowingly. Whoever she was, she looks like a woman who had many secrets, and enjoyed having them.

Toya thinks that, even though he's always abhorred meeting strangers, he would have liked to know this woman. She looks like someone it would have been fun to know, someone who never would have been boring or dull.

And he wonders, suddenly unnerved, why he was so immediately drawn to this picture, and the woman in it, and lays it down, face-down on the table, refusing to look at it again.