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Epilogue

The next day. A cold, winter morning.

New York, Brooklyn, 14 Cranberry Street, in a street-facing room in the modest four-story apartment building. Low ceilings, old floral wallpaper.

A pot of soup bubbled away in the kitchen.

Kazuya sat at the worn-out and small dining table with his back straight, as if being held by a stick.

On the opposite end sat Victorique, perched on a chair that resembled an African queen’s throne. Her silver hair spilled onto the floor like a band of light in the night sky. Today, she wore a loosely fitted purple dress with a flapper-style design and a gold crown mini hat. Soft ruffles adorned the sleeves and collar, shimmering in shades of purple. They sat at a noticeable distance from each other. The silence stretched on.

Sipping his coffee, Kazuya attentively scanned the newspaper. “Hey, Victorique,” he said, lifting his gaze and pointing to an article. “Newspapers, including