Crystal

That afternoon, when Harlequin wandered into the tavern as usual, you weren’t in your usual seat. He arched an eyebrow, about to pester the bartender with his usual flamboyant charm, when you stepped out from the small back door of the tavern’s backyard.

Your face was paler than usual, as if drained of all strength by a certain decision, but your eyes sparkled with a firm, gentle light he had never seen before. You clutched a small, folded note in your hand.

“Mr. Harlequin,” your voice was soft, yet surprisingly clear, as if afraid to disturb something fragile, “I heard… that in the valley on the outskirts tonight, we can witness a once-in-a-century meteor shower.”

You extended the invitation to him, your tone quiet but unshakably resolute.

Harlequin was clearly caught off guard by your bold move. He knew far better than you how dangerous the night chill could be for your fragile body.

You lifted your head, your gaze locking directly with his stunned eyes, and mustering all your courage, you handed him the note. On it, written in your delicate handwriting, was a time and a rough direction.

“I… I want to see it.” You paused, then added a sentence that was as light as a sigh yet as heavy as an oath, “...Will you… accompany me?”

This was the first time you had ever asked something of him. The first time it wasn’t for survival, not for paying debts, but simply for—“I want.”

Moreover, you chose to venture out into the dangerous night, entrusting your vulnerable self entirely to him.

He had anticipated countless ways to advance his “game,” but never this—a pure, yet perilous invitation, coming from her.

The dead of night. A valley. A meteor shower. And a sickly her, stepping out of her safe haven, her lifeline held firmly in his hands.

If anything went wrong, the consequences would be unthinkable. His mind instantly calculated all the risks and troubles; this was by far the worst accident in his “perfect game plan.”

Yet as he looked into your eyes, which blazed with that rare, almost desperate light, for the first time, he didn’t utter a single word of his usual “thoughtful concern.”

He still hid his true self well, still played the part of the witty, considerate clown, but you could sense that he was more nervous and… genuine than ever before. He still tossed out his usual flamboyant quips, yet he quickly prepared everything—a thick blanket, scalding hot tea, even a hand warmer. He had scouted the location in advance, choosing a sheltered low slope with an unobstructed view, where the bitter night wind would be blocked as much as possible.

The hillside was silent in the dead of night, the bonfire he had lit for you crackling softly, its dancing flames casting flickering shadows across his face. The meteor shower arrived right on schedule, brilliant silver streaks slashing across the deep night sky, a breathtakingly magnificent sight.

Wrapped in the thick blanket he had brought, you tilted your head back to watch this grand spectacle of cosmic demise, feeling the insignificance and transience of life against the vastness of the universe.

Harlequin, however, didn’t glance at the meteors even once. His gaze was fixed on you, unwavering.

At such close proximity, his inhumanly sharp senses were amplified a hundredfold. He could hear the unsteadiness of your breathing clearly, catch the faint scent of medicine on your skin mingled with a delicate, sweet fragrance that was uniquely yours, the scent of life itself. But most devastating of all, he could hear the beating of your heart.

Thump… thump…

So fast, so urgent, like a startled little bird, fluttering frantically against the fragile walls of your chest.

This was the first time he had truly “heard” you, so clearly. Inside this body he had always regarded as pitifully fragile, there beat a heart so fiery, so alive. The sound of that heartbeat stirred an inexplicable restlessness within him, a stark reminder of how fleeting the life of this human girl truly was—like those shooting stars streaking across the sky, gone in the blink of an eye. His “game” had only just begun to amuse him, yet his “prize” might vanish at any moment.

His gaze slid involuntarily to your pale, slender neck, where the skin was so thin the faint blue of your veins was visible, pulsing gently with each beat of your heart. There, beneath that delicate skin, flowed the warm blood that sustained her life, her bones, her flesh… In his eyes at that moment, it was no longer a boring, mortal vessel, but something that exuded an irresistible allure—yet he knew it was a fatal poison.

Just then, you turned your head, eager to share the awe of this moment with him, only to collide head-on with his gaze—complex, unfathomable, impossible to read. Gone was his usual playful mockery; instead, there was a deep, almost greedy intensity in his eyes, laced with a hint of something you couldn’t understand… a struggle.

It took you a moment to realize that he had been staring at you all this time. Under his unwavering gaze, your cheeks instantly flushed a bright, burning red. Your heart raced wildly, and you stumbled over your words, desperate to say something, anything, to break the suffocating tension in the air.

“Th-the… meteors… they’re so beautiful…” your voice was barely a whisper.

But in that next instant, you suddenly realized—this might be your only chance. The atmosphere was perfect, the starry sky stretching above you like a grand stage curtain. You took a deep breath of the cold night air, steeling your resolve, and whispered his name:

“Harlequin……”

Your voice was soft, yet it possessed a magical power, capturing his full attention in an instant. His eyes sharpened, focused intently on you, waiting for you to continue.

However, that deep breath of frigid air, combined with the unprecedented excitement and nervousness coursing through your veins, proved to be the final straw that broke the camel’s back—triggering the asthma attack you had been so careful to avoid.

A violent fit of coughing erupted without warning, more severe than any you had ever experienced before. You doubled over sharply, your lungs feeling as if they were being squeezed tightly in an invisible fist. Every inhalation became a desperate, gasping struggle, each exhalation a ragged, wheezing rattle. The cold night air sliced at your windpipe like a blade; even the warmth of the bonfire and the thick blanket offered no relief from this sudden, suffocating agony.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down your face, blurring your vision. You felt your consciousness slipping away, your body growing weak and limp from lack of oxygen, threatening to collapse.

The romance and courage of just a moment ago vanished without a trace, as if the heavens were punishing you—punishing your useless body, punishing you for daring to reach for a love that was forbidden to you.

All expression froze on Harlequin’s face in an instant. He moved almost instinctively, rushing to your side and gathering your trembling, cold body into his arms.

He patted your back awkwardly, trying to help you catch your breath, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, betrayed by a panic he had never felt before. As he looked down at your face, which had drained of all color in the blink of an eye, you saw clearly—for the first time—panic reflected in his eyes.

The bonfire continued to crackle and burn, the meteors still streaked across the night sky.

Harlequin’s panic lasted only a fleeting moment. Centuries of life had granted him a calm far beyond that of ordinary humans, especially in the face of crisis. He had long known that her condition was far more serious than a simple case of consumption. During the time he had spent with her, using his inhuman powers of observation and centuries of cross-continental knowledge, he had quietly diagnosed it as asthma. He had even anticipated the possibility of a severe attack like this, poring over human medical texts in preparation.

At that moment, those hands—hands that were usually used to perform silly tricks or hide his non-human nature, with their sharp nails and broad knuckles—handled you with a gentleness and firmness that belied his outward appearance, lifting your limp, trembling body and letting you lean entirely against his solid chest.

He always wore gloves, but now he removed them, his palms cool yet steady as they covered your mouth and nose slowly, with an undeniable sense of reassurance.

“Breathe……” his deep voice guided you in a steady, rhythmic tone, using gentle pressure from his palms to force your erratic breathing to slow down, “Follow me…… slow…… ly……”

He was forcing your chaotic breathing to sync with his rhythm, replacing the panic of your body with his own calm control.

You whimpered in agony, hot tears spilling forth and falling onto the back of his hand. A tidal wave of overwhelming grievance and despair crashed over you. Why now? Why did it have to happen right now? At the moment when you were closest to happiness, this useless body had cruelly reminded you of the harsh reality of your limitations once again.

The whispered gossip behind your back, the whispers that you wouldn’t live long; the looks of pity or disgust directed your way… All the suppressed injustice and pain erupted at this moment. For the first time, your soul had dared to hope for something more in this body that had always held you back—only to be brutally crushed by the terror of suffocation.

Until…… your muddled senses finally picked up that familiar voice again. No longer laced with cynical teasing, it carried a magical, irresistible power to soothe and calm you, guiding you, supporting you.

Your vision struggled to refocus, locking onto his face, so close to yours. The firelight danced along his sharp jawline, and you saw clearly the unprecedented focus in his eyes, and a hint of worry that was almost imperceptible. You felt the warmth of his embrace, the solid strength of his body through the fabric of his clothes, and could even faintly feel the steady beat of his heart against your own—a stark contrast to the frantic pounding of yours.

He held you securely, letting you rest entirely in his arms, and you could feel the inhumanly steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. Then, those hands—hands you had always found a little strange, always hidden beneath silly gloves—were now so close to you.

In that instant, you, the perceptive girl, realized a terrifying truth.

His hands were large, with sharp, slightly curved nails—the hands of a predator.

Yet as your gaze lingered on them, those hands that could easily tear a prey apart moved with an astonishing, almost reverent gentleness, covering your gasping mouth and nose slowly, firmly.

His palms carried the faint chill of the night, yet they miraculously gave your burning, ragged breaths something to anchor onto.

“Listen to me,” his voice rang in your ear, deep, steady, imbued with an unshakable authority that cut through the wheezing agony of your breathing, “It’s not your lungs. You’re breathing too fast. Follow me. Slow down.”

“Shhh… it’s alright, relax… follow me…” his voice softened, stripping away all traces of his flamboyant performance, leaving only a strange, reassuring steadiness, like a wordless lullaby to comfort you, “Yes… slower… inhale… good, slower still… exhale…”

His movements were professional and calm, as if he had practiced them a thousand times. His sharp nails carefully avoided your delicate skin, using only the pads of his fingers and the edges of his palms to apply a steady, gentle pressure, creating a small space that forced your breathing to match the slow, deep rhythm he had set.

You watched.

The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating his tightly pressed lips and those green eyes—eyes that had shed all pretense, now filled with nothing but complete, unwavering focus. There was no lust, no calculation in them, only a pure, unyielding determination to pull you back from the brink of death.

It was in this moment that a clear, devastating realization hit you:

You were utterly, hopelessly in love with him.

You couldn’t live without him. Not because your body needed his help to survive, but because your soul had already fallen completely, irrevocably, into the carefully woven web of his gentle care—even the parts of it he had revealed unintentionally. There was no turning back now, even if the heavens had offered you a chance to regret it.

On this cold night, shrouded in the shadow of death, held in the arms of a non-human being, your life was being saved by hands that could just as easily end it—this paradoxical experience, intertwined with the steady beat of his heart and the rhythm of his guiding voice, wove together something strangely profound.

Finally, under his guidance, your breathing gradually transformed from the chaotic, desperate wheezing into slow, deep breaths. Though still trembling with pain, at least air began to flow into your lungs effectively once more.

The intense feeling of suffocation slowly faded, and your consciousness returned. You leaned limply against him, soaked in cold sweat, your body still shaking slightly.

Only then did Harlequin’s tense body seem to relax a little, but his hand remained over your mouth and nose, not moving away immediately, as if to confirm that you were truly stable now.

You didn’t know how much time passed—it felt like an eternity—before the suffocating tightness in your chest finally began to ease completely.

He finally relaxed, his highly focused attention dispersing at last.

However, as his gaze refocused, it was suddenly captured by the sight before him, hitting him with an impact far stronger and more profound than the asthma attack had moments ago.

The girl in his arms had cheeks flushed an unnatural crimson, a breathtaking contrast against the paleness of his palms. His hand, which he had just lifted away slightly, still held the damp, intimate traces of her tears and the moisture from her labored breathing.

Her slightly curled hair was damp with sweat, sticking in messy strands to her forehead and cheeks, making her look fragile and disheveled. Her lips, usually pale and bloodless, now glowed with a breathtaking, moist crimson from the lack of oxygen and the faint friction of his palms, slightly parted as she panted weakly.

But the most devastating sight of all was her eyes—those eyes he loved to gaze into, always filled with such calm and melancholy—now fixed on him, brimming with tears that continued to stream silently down her face, tracing paths through the flush on her cheeks, falling to her chin, and finally dripping onto his clothes, as if seeping into a heart that had never truly beaten before.

Gone was the usual distance in her gaze, replaced by complete trust, the fragility of someone who had just escaped death, and a fierce, desperate emotion that threatened to burn him alive.

Harlequin froze completely.

All his carefully crafted jokes and pretenses seemed pale and ridiculous in this moment.

It was as if, for the first time, he truly saw her—without any barriers, without any filters.

Not as an amusing toy, not as a game piece that needed to be maintained, but as a real, fragile human girl, caught in the throes of both physical and emotional turmoil in his arms, because of him.

An unprecedented surge of complex, turbulent emotion swept over him like a silent tsunami, engulfing him completely.

Harlequin watched her silent tears fall, like a string of broken pearls, endless and unstoppable. Those tears held so many things—fear of surviving such a close call, grievance at the betrayal of her own body, embarrassment at the shattering of her romantic hopes, perhaps even fear of the unknown… He couldn’t be sure, but the sheer force of those tears was a silent, desperate plea for help.

He knew that no words could comfort her now. What she needed was not explanations, but the most primal sense of safety.

He tried speaking, his voice soft and tentative, a tone he didn’t even realize he was capable of using, repeating the words he had once used as a mere opening line to his game—yet now, they carried an entirely different meaning:

“…It’s alright now…” his voice was hoarse, imbued with a strange, soothing power, “I’m here.”

These words were like a key, unlocking the final barrier of her defenses with a single, precise turn.

The last thread of your composure, the one you had clung to so desperately to maintain a shred of dignity, snapped completely.

You couldn’t help yourself—you used every last ounce of your strength to bury your face deep in his chest, your hands clutching tightly at the fabric of his clothes behind you, like a drowning person clinging to their only lifeline. At first, you let out only soft, muffled sobs, the whimpers of a wounded little animal that tugged at the very core of his being.

You tried to control yourself, gasping for air desperately, not wanting to appear any more disheveled than you already were, your throat emitting choked, broken gasps.

Harlequin felt the violent trembling of your body in his arms and the desperate effort you were making to stifle your cries. He understood instantly—she was afraid to make a sound, afraid to be a burden, afraid of being rejected.

An unprecedented wave of fierce protectiveness and indescribable tenderness washed over him. For the first time, he set aside all his cynicism and scheming, revealing a side of himself that no one had ever seen before.

He said nothing more, simply using those hands—hands that could perform countless tricks, yet could also tear a prey apart with ease—to stroke your thin, heaving back gently, repeatedly, with infinite patience.

His movements were slow and steady, silently conveying a simple message:

I understand.

You are safe.

You can let go. It’s okay.

This silent comfort was like a beam of warm light, piercing through all your fear and uncertainty.

You froze for a brief moment in his arms, as if truly receiving this clear, unspoken signal. Then, the dam that had held back your emotions for so long finally burst completely.

You stopped holding back at last, clinging tightly to him in return, and cried openly in his arms. Your tears poured forth, carrying with them all the accumulated grievances of a lifetime, your anger at the unfairness of your fate, your frustration at your own fragility, and… your complete trust in his unexpected kindness, a release of all the emotions you had bottled up for so long.

Two souls, both wearing heavy masks, both feeling alienated from the world, for the first time, without a single word exchanged, tuned into each other’s frequency perfectly, reaching a profound, silent understanding.

He gave her exactly what she needed in this moment—unconditional acceptance and a sense of safety.

And she, in turn, entrusted him with the most vulnerable, most authentic part of herself, holding nothing back.

He held her quietly, feeling the trembling of her body in his arms and the warmth of her tears soaking through his clothes, a heat that seemed to seep all the way into the depths of his heart—a heart that had been cold for centuries upon centuries.

In this moment, there was no monster, no sickly girl.

There were only two lonely souls, who had finally found a safe harbor in each other.

……

You didn’t know how long you cried, until all your grievances and fears seemed to have been washed away by your tears, and your sobs gradually subsided into occasional, uncontrollable hiccups. You still buried your face in his chest, breathing in his unique scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the gentle, unceasing strokes of his hand on your back.

After this intense release, an unprecedented sense of peace and a strange newfound courage quietly took root within you.

Slowly, a little embarrassed, you lifted your head from his chest.

In the glow of the bonfire, your eyes were red and swollen from crying, your cheeks streaked with tears, your nose also a bright shade of pink—you looked utterly disheveled. Yet your gaze was clear, as if it had been thoroughly washed clean by your tears, reflecting his own complex, focused expression back at him.

He didn’t laugh at you, didn’t crack any jokes to break the fragile silence between you. He simply looked at you quietly, those eyes that always hid so much now filled with a deep, gentle warmth you had never seen before, and… a sense of waiting.

You sniffled, your voice thick with the residue of tears, soft yet surprisingly clear:

“Harlequin……”

He arched an eyebrow slightly, a silent signal that he was listening.

You said nothing more. Instead, summoning all the courage you had left—courage that was both tattered and newly born—you pushed yourself up slightly, tilted your face upward, and leaned in slowly, with a tentative, almost reverent tenderness.

Then, an extremely soft kiss, tinged with the saltiness of your tears and the warmth of your skin, brushed gently against the corner of his lips.

A fleeting touch, gone in the blink of an eye.

This was all you wanted to say.

Like a feather brushing against skin, like a dewdrop falling from a leaf.

It was as brief as an illusion, yet it carried a sweet, powerful impact that shook his entire world to its core.

Just like the potted mint he had given her once, it was not showy, not intense, but fresh and resilient, carrying a soothing coolness and vitality that had quietly taken root in the barren soil of his heart.

You lowered your head quickly, your cheeks flushing hot again from the tears you had just shed, too shy to meet his gaze.

The kiss had been so light it was almost imperceptible, yet it weighed heavily on him, like a boulder cast into the depths of his senses and soul.

He felt the fleeting, soft, moist touch on the corner of his lips, looking down at the girl before him—this girl who had just weathered an emotional storm, fragile yet brave beyond belief……

An unprecedented, overwhelming surge of unfamiliar emotion crashed over him like a wild beast breaking free from its chains, surging violently within his chest.

All the rules of the game he had so carefully crafted, all the calm and cynicism he had prided himself on, were shattered completely in this moment by this simple, innocent kiss—a kiss that felt like both a reward and a thank you.

He finally admitted it.

He had lost.

Lost completely, and even willingly.

After a long, long while, he heard his own voice—hoarse beyond recognition—whispering softly, as if afraid to shatter something precious:

“……Is this… your thank you gift?”

For the first time, there was no pretense in his voice, only confusion and a hint of uncertainty.

Beneath the starry sky, beside the bonfire, the roles of hunter and prey were silently, completely reversed in this moment.

When Harlequin walked you back to the tavern, he slowed his pace to a crawl, matching his steps perfectly to the rhythm of your breathing. He no longer kept a polite distance from you as he had on the way there; instead, he let you lean gently against him, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, shielding you from the night wind that might stir up along the way with his body. They walked in silence, a new, delicate, intimate quiet enveloping them both.

He accompanied you back to the familiar, unassuming little door in the back alley of the tavern. The back alley was silent and empty in the dead of night, lit only by the dim glow of an old streetlamp, which stretched their shadows long across the ground, intertwining them together. The air was thick with a subtle, lingering emotion and intimacy.

That fleeting kiss from earlier was like a piece of candy dropped into the lake of their hearts, melting into ripples of sweet, fluttering unease.

“Let’s stop here.” You said softly, your voice still hoarse from crying, your fingers twisting the hem of your clothes unconsciously. Harlequin came to a halt, but he didn’t let go of you immediately.

He stood before you, his back to the streetlamp, his tall figure casting you completely in his shadow. Those eyes, which seemed even darker and more profound in the dim light, fixed on you unwaveringly, swirling with a maelstrom of intense emotions you couldn’t begin to understand.

He looked at you, and you looked back at him. The shock of that gentle kiss still seemed to hum in the air between you.

Finally, it was he who broke the silence, a smile tugging at his lips—a smile stripped of all flamboyance, leaving only a pure, tender warmth laced with a hint of helplessness and affection. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead gently against yours, the tips of your noses almost touching.

“Well then……” he drawled, his warm breath brushing against your cheeks, “Good night?”

You knew it was time to say goodbye, yet your feet felt as if they were nailed to the ground, refusing to move. The fiery new emotion that had just sprouted in your heart urged you forward. You lifted your head again, and this time, the kiss was not a fleeting brush of lips.

You kissed him actively, pressing your lips firmly against his.

He responded to your bravery instantly, his thumb caressing your jawline lightly, sending a shiver down your spine, as he tilted his head down to meet you, his warm breath fanning your face, laced with a hint of dangerous amusement. His other hand tightened around your waist, pulling you back into his arms, deeper this time, before kissing you deeply in return.

This was nothing like the shy, tentative touch you had offered moments ago—it was a real kiss, his presence enveloping you completely, carrying the warmth of the fire, the coolness of the night, and his unique scent—a heady mix of dust and something faintly dangerous.

His kiss was skilled enough to make you dizzy, easily parting your lips to deepen the kiss, exploring, tangling with yours, laced with an almost greedy possessiveness, yet every suck and caress was infused with a gentle, careful tenderness, as if he were savoring a rare and precious treasure.

Then, the kiss grew no longer gentle, becoming deep and passionate, filled with the intense emotions he had suppressed all night—emotions he hadn’t even been aware of himself—and a fierce possessiveness. His sharp teeth grazed your soft lips occasionally, sending a delicious shiver of pleasure through you.

In this dim, narrow back alley, filled with the scents of wine barrels and dust, you clung tightly to each other, kissing each other hungrily, as if trying to merge your very souls together, to imprint each other’s essence into your lives forever.

His sudden, passionate response left you weak and trembling, your mind going completely blank, able only to surrender to him passively, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his clothes tightly. In that electrifying moment, you finally understood. Understood what you had seen so many times before in the corners of the tavern—couples huddled together, whispering softly, or stealing secret kisses when they thought no one was looking.

You had once found them incomprehensible, even a little foolish. How could they lose their composure so completely in front of others? But now you understood. When emotions swell within you to a certain point, you truly do forget about propriety, forget about the eyes of others, and only want to confirm the other person’s existence with the most direct, primal way possible, to feel the overwhelming, bursting affection that threatens to consume you.

It wasn’t madness.

It was… love.

An undeniable, burning, scorching love.

The kiss was long and breathless, and he finally pulled away from you reluctantly, slowly, only when you let out a soft whimper from lack of oxygen.

Both of your breaths were ragged and hot, mingling in the cold night air to form wispy clouds of white mist.

His forehead remained pressed against yours, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, those deep green eyes gazing into yours from an impossibly close distance, swirling with unquenched desire and an almost reverent adoration.

“...It seems,” his voice was hoarse, laced with a smile that was full of satisfaction, “the reward I’ve received… is far more generous than I ever imagined.”

“Good night, Harlequin.” You replied softly, your voice trembling slightly with shyness.

He looked at you deeply, as if trying to engrave your current appearance into his very soul, before finally releasing you at last and stepping back, his figure melting into the deeper shadows of the alley, vanishing without a trace.

You stood rooted to the spot for a long time, your long-lost rationality finally returning to you in the cold night breeze. When you finally realized what had transpired between you and him, you felt so embarrassed you could have died on the spot, fleeing back to your room as if chased by ghosts.

The door clicked shut softly behind you.

You leaned back against the wooden door, listening to your heart pounding wildly in your chest like a drum, feeling the lingering warmth on your lips—a warmth that seemed to carry both the fresh, cool scent of mint and the fiery heat of the bonfire.

Outside, Harlequin stood in the darkness for a while longer, his fingers brushing gently against the corner of his lips, where the soft, warm touch of your kiss still lingered. He glanced up at the small window on the second floor of the tavern, before finally turning away, humming that strange, whimsical tune of his as he melted into the night.

Only this time, there was something inexplicably… lighthearted about the melody.

After that night of the meteor shower, the very air of the tavern seemed to have changed. Harlequin was no longer just that cynical clown who dropped by occasionally with amusing stories to tell; he had become a permanent fixture by the side of the sickly girl behind the counter.

Every afternoon, when the sunlight slanted through the windows, he would appear promptly. The tavern keeper would only shake his head, muttering something about “keeping it appropriate,” before leaving them be. The regular patrons, meanwhile, would exchange knowing looks and silently reserve the quietest, most sheltered corner table for the two of them.

He would take your hand naturally as he walked through the crowd, his large palm enveloping your cold, delicate fingers completely.

When he leaned down to speak to you, he would habitually draw close, his breath brushing against the tips of your hair.

He would whisper all sorts of strange, endearing nicknames to you, in a voice so soft only the two of you could hear: “My little mint,” “my quiet canary,” “the little thief who stole my heart”……

Everyone in the tavern saw these little gestures. They had long since grown accustomed to the sight, even smiling knowingly whenever Harlequin stepped in to shield you from an overly pushy customer.

Pierrot did come by a few times after that. Whenever his tall figure appeared in the doorway, a hush would fall over the tavern for a brief moment. But he would only look at you from a distance, quietly, and when he saw that you seemed happier than before, your complexion even looking a little healthier, a complex emotion would flicker across his clear golden eyes—disappointment, yes, but more than that, a sense of relief and quiet blessing. He respected her choice, never stepping forward to disturb you again, only occasionally leaving a basket of fresh fruit silently by the tavern door before turning and walking away.

Harlequin watched all of this in silence, and for once, he didn’t wear that mocking, triumphant smile on his face. Instead, he would sometimes fall into thought, a pensive look in his eyes.

As time went on.

His “courtship” tactics became surprisingly concrete, and even a little clumsy.

Since she couldn’t come to his world, he would break his world into tiny pieces and bring them to her, one by one.

The most special gift of all was a set of small hand-carved wooden dolls he had made himself.

They were the same kind of dolls he used in his puppet shows at the circus—intricately crafted, each one full of life. There was a tiny him, wearing his signature green clown suit, grinning mischievously; a clumsy, awkward Pierrot in his bright red costume; and even a chubby, adorable little rabbit.

“This way, even when I can’t be here, they can keep you company.” He said it casually, as if they were just a trivial little trinket he had thrown together on a whim, but the exquisite detail of the dolls betrayed the care and effort he had put into making them.

On the days when you were feeling a little stronger, he would use those two little dolls to put on impromptu, silent mini-plays just for you—usually silly skits about how the “green clown” would cleverly outwit the “red clown,” which never failed to draw a soft laugh from your lips.

During that time, your face was always lit up with a soft, gentle glow. Your coughing fits still came, and even grew more severe at times, but they no longer felt quite so hopeless. You would even wink at him secretly from behind the counter when he was performing his little puppet shows for you, sharing a secret joke that only the two of you understood.

Harlequin was utterly, completely captivated by her. He cherished this unique connection between them, treasuring your complete trust and gentle affection. The original purpose behind his visits had long since blurred into nothingness, replaced by an almost instinctive longing to be by your side. He loved seeing the look of delight in your eyes when you received his little gifts, loved watching the soft profile of your face as you leaned against him, reading quietly, and even grew to cherish the sense of responsibility that came with taking care of you, of protecting you.

Those days were like stolen honey, every minute and every second of them brimming with a sweet, warm happiness. Harlequin savored this pure, uncalculating joy, and you, in turn, bloomed in the warmth of being loved so completely, unreservedly, radiating the most beautiful light of your life.

You both embraced every warm moment with all your hearts, as if this winter would never end, as if you could spend an eternity in these simple, precious days together.

But the seasons changed quietly, and the first hints of spring began to creep into the air.

Yet her strength continued to fade, like a candle slowly burning down to its wick. No matter how carefully Harlequin tried to shield her from the cold, to keep her warm, her decline was inevitable. The periods of time when she was fully awake grew shorter and shorter; she would often drift off to sleep mid-conversation, leaning gently against him in the warm afternoon sunlight.

Harlequin stopped planning any more “activities” for them. He simply stayed by her side, quietly. He could feel that an ending was drawing near, but for the first time in his long life, he chose not to confront it, not to analyze it, simply cherishing each moment as if it were an eternity.

That day, the sunlight was beautiful, flooding the entire corner of the tavern with its warm, golden glow.

She seemed a little more alert than usual, even managing to drink half a cup of the warm honey water he had brought her. They chatted for a while about trivial things—the new puppy that had wandered into the tavern, the potted mint on the windowsill, which was thriving and lush with green leaves.

Then, she said she was feeling a little tired, and wanted to take a nap.

Harlequin adjusted his posture as he always did, letting her lean against him more comfortably.

Her breathing was soft, steady, like the flutter of a feather.

He held the little green clown doll in his hand, waving it gently before her eyes, humming the silly, whimsical tune from his puppet show in a voice so soft only she could hear it.

The corners of her lips seemed to curve upward in a faint smile, then slowly, completely, she relaxed into his arms.

The doll slipped from his hand, falling silently onto the thick carpet at his feet.

The humming stopped abruptly.

Harlequin’s voice died in his throat. He froze completely, turning as still as a statue himself.

The noise and chatter of the tavern seemed to fade away, separated from them by an invisible wall. The sunlight was still warm, the body in his arms still held a faint trace of warmth, but that soft, steady breathing—the breathing he had grown so accustomed to listening for, the gentle beating of her heart—had vanished.

Completely. Forever.

He didn’t move. He didn’t cry. He simply held her in that position for a long, long time, his head bowed, gazing down at her peaceful profile, bathed in sunlight, as if she were merely asleep.

After what felt like an eternity.

He finally moved, his movements slow and careful beyond measure, tightening his arms around her gently, pressing his cheek softly against her forehead, which had already grown cold—just as he had done so many times before, a gesture as tender as comforting a crying child.

He could hear the distant bustle of the market outside the window, the clinking of cups and mugs from the tavern downstairs, the faint rustling of sunlight moving across the floor, mixed with the distant laughter of children playing in the street.

But he could no longer hear the soft, steady breathing that had anchored his entire world.

Yet none of it mattered to him anymore.

This cold winter had ended completely, on this quiet, sun-drenched afternoon.

He sat there for a very long time, turning as still as another statue, his hand tightly clutching her now-cold fingers, as if they were the only rope connecting him to her world—a rope that, if he let go, would cause her to drift away from him forever. His eyes fixed on the lush green mint growing on her windowsill, the plant he had given her on a whim so long ago, which she had cared for so well, just as he had hoped she would.

The cynical, playful light in the monster’s eyes had been extinguished completely, replaced by a deep, bottomless, quiet emptiness. A vast, unfamiliar void that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. An emptiness that was heavier than all the boredom he had endured over his centuries of existence combined.

He stood up quietly, tucking the blanket around her gently, as if afraid to disturb her peaceful slumber. He took care of all the arrangements for her funeral with meticulous attention to detail, handling everything with the same quiet dignity that she had lived her life with—neat, unobtrusive, respectful.

He took the thriving potted mint with him, along with the sketchbook filled with countless drawings of him—drawings she had made, capturing him in all his moods—and all the little gifts he had given her over the months.

It was as if he had never been there at all.

Everything was over.

He returned to the circus. It was his eternal identity, his false “home,” a place where he could hide behind his mask once again.

He painted his face with greasepaint once more, put on his clown costume, and stepped under the spotlight, smiling brighter than he had ever smiled before, telling jokes more rapidly than ever, his performance flawless. He played the part of “happiness” perfectly, charming and entertaining the audience with every fiber of his being.

But only he knew that something within him had changed forever. The invisible wall between him and humanity had grown even thicker, more impenetrable than it had ever been before.

He no longer showed any extra emotion toward Pierrot or anyone else. It was as if all his joy, all his sorrow, all his love and all his pain had been sealed away forever, along with the warm sunlight of that afternoon, in that small, quiet room that no one else would ever know about.

In his pocket, he still carried the tiny wooden doll of himself, dressed in the green clown suit.

In the sunniest corner of his tent, the potted mint continued to grow quietly, lush and green, as if frozen in time, forever trapped in a winter that had once existed, and then passed away.

This is the end of the story.

The young monster who had once fed on human hearts, on that quiet afternoon bathed in warm sunlight, had accidentally fallen into the very trap he had so carefully woven for another. In that deep, calm lake that had accepted him completely, he had surrendered to his defeat willingly.

And it had all begun, on that other afternoon, with a single, cunning, seemingly casual sentence he had spoken: