Roselia checked her reflection in the window, grateful that she had managed to squeeze a generous 20 Berang out of Klaus. A woman stood by the glass, elegant and graceful, her emerald-green eyes bright with intent. Her ivory dress, hemmed just below the knee, was cinched at the waist with a brown leather vest, showcasing a feminine silhouette that her usual dull suits had long kept hidden. Each step she took drew the wandering gazes of the local men. It was a dress that had cost her 150 Gran; the shopkeeper had surely pegged her as an outsider and marked up the price, but she had no time to argue.
Her hair was no longer the ebony locks she once bore. Instead, golden waves cascaded down to her waist, shimmering under the sunlight. It was a wig she had spent a fortune on, banking on the fact that the protagonist, Evelionne, possessed golden hair. The shopkeeper had boasted that the adhesive was infused with mana stone powder, ensuring it would never budge. It had been worth the steep price—it looked natural and complemented her green eyes beautifully. It wasn’t quite the weight and texture of her own hair, but she figured it was enough to strike the right chords and tug at Abelo’s emotions.
The only real difference between her and the protagonist was their gender. She had observed Abelo’s haggard appearance, the decay of his home and garden, and, most crucially, the way his young daughter was left to fend for herself in such a desolate environment. She suspected that Abelo’s wife had met a tragic end. If his longing for her was deep enough, he would likely be soft-hearted toward a woman who mirrored that lost presence. With that in mind, Roselia had curated her attire—or rather, her disguise—to match the style the protagonist had worn in the original timeline. Catching her reflection one last time, she let her green eyes sparkle beneath the golden hair and stepped forward with renewed confidence.
She returned to Abelo’s house and knocked, her expression resolute.
“Who is it…?”
Abelo opened the door, his face twisted in annoyance. Expecting that same persistent man from earlier, he froze, completely taken aback by the stranger standing on his threshold.
“Wh-who are you…?”
“I’m the younger sister of Antonio, who was here earlier.”
“Ah… I see. And why are you…”
“I would like to purchase that painting from you.”
Roselia delivered the line as if she had been rehearsing it for hours. Abelo went silent, his jaw tightening. He stared at the floor, frozen, before slowly parting his lips.
“I told your brother, that painting is…”
“Mommy!”
A young girl playing with a rag doll inside the house came skidding out. When she suddenly threw her arms around Roselia’s skirt, both adult occupants were stunned.
“Erlin! This lady isn’t Mommy! I apologize. She’s still quite young…”
“No, it’s quite alright.”
Roselia bent at the waist, meeting the child’s eyes with a gentle smile.
“Do I look like your mommy?”
The girl, Erlin, stared intently at Roselia, her eyes wide.
“Uh… no? My mommy’s eyes were sky blue…”
Seeing the sudden, melancholy slump of the child’s shoulders, a wave of unnecessary guilt washed over Roselia.
“Oh dear, do you not like the big sister’s eyes?”
“It’s not that… but you’re not my mommy… *sniff*…”
Roselia panicked as tears welled up in the child’s eyes. As she fumbled for words, Abelo scooped Erlin into his arms, looking deeply troubled.
“I’m sorry. My wife… it hasn’t been long since she passed away…”
“What is ‘passed away,’ Daddy?”
Even with tears and snot streaming down her face, the girl remained curious about the fate of her mother. Abelo wore an expression of raw, silent agony.
“It means Mommy went far away.”
“Then when is Mommy coming back? Can’t Mommy not pass away?”
Abelo and Roselia exchanged a helpless look, neither able to find the voice to answer.
“If Erlin waits nicely, will Mommy come back?”
When Abelo remained silent, the girl’s tears spilled over in earnest. The sight seemed to shatter Abelo’s remaining composure; he pulled Erlin to his chest and finally wept himself.
Before long, Roselia found herself sitting across from a dejected Abelo at a battered dining table. Erlin, seemingly having forgotten her distress, sat on the floor with her rag doll. Looking at the child with a pang of pity, Abelo wiped his eyes with a bitter smile.
“I’ve shown you a disgraceful sight.”
“Not at all. Anyone would struggle in your position.”
At her genuine, soft-spoken comfort, Abelo bowed his head, looking ashamed. Just then, Erlin jumped up, remembering something, and ran over to Roselia with a small object in her hand.
It was a straw hat, woven from reeds. Erlin held it out, smiling shyly.
“Isn’t this pretty!”
“Yes, it is. Is it yours, Erlin?”
“No, it’s my mommy’s! Look! That’s my mommy! Isn’t she pretty?”
Erlin pointed toward the wall. A painting leaned against it; it depicted a golden-haired woman in a straw hat, sitting in a rose garden and laughing with a child who looked exactly like Erlin.
Only then did the pieces click into place. Abelo had sold the painting to the protagonist in the original story because he had projected his wife onto the golden-haired woman. To this father and daughter, that canvas was the only thing keeping her memory tethered to this world.
Roselia’s heart grew inexplicably heavy.
“That painting is my final work. I destroyed all the others, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch this one.”
“……”
*What are you doing, pitying him? You came here to buy that painting!*
While Roselia grappled with her conscience, Abelo, who had been staring at the painting with a distant, haunted gaze, suddenly spoke in a firm voice.
“You said you wanted to buy it, did you not?”
“Pardon? Yes… that is true, but…”
“I will sell it.”
“What?”
Roselia was the one flustered now by the sudden shift.
“B-but… no matter what, that painting is important to you and Erlin…”
“I have been selfish. I was so blinded by the shadow of my wife that I stopped thinking of Erlin’s future.”
Abelo looked at his daughter. Erlin was currently wearing her mother’s old hat, admiring herself in a cracked, distorted mirror. She was oblivious to her own poverty, radiant in her innocence. Perhaps that sight had been the final straw for his conscience.
“I will sell the painting for Erlin’s sake. That is what her mother would have wanted.”
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”
“I need to pull myself together for my daughter. As long as I remained trapped in this house, I would have never moved past that painting. In a way, I should thank you.”
Seeing his sorrowful, bittersweet smile, Roselia nodded, trying to maintain her composure.
“Would 15 Berang be acceptable?”
“That is enough. It is more than I deserve. My work isn’t even worth 50 Gran.”
“No, Abelo. Your work hasn’t seen the light of day yet, but it is truly excellent.”
She wasn’t lying. In the original story, once Abelo gained recognition through the Crown Princess, he achieved incredible fame. By securing this painting, she was setting the gears of fate in motion. She intended to sell it to the Imperial Family at a premium, ensuring the artist’s name was prominently attached to the work. Once the Crown Princess saw it, she would surely provide the patronage he needed.
Roselia smiled brightly, retrieved 15 Berang from her pocket, and handed them to him. Puzzled by her knowing expression, Abelo accepted the coins as if they were gold.
Roselia left the house, clutching the carefully wrapped canvas.
“Big sister, come play again!”
With Erlin’s bright farewell echoing in her ears, Roselia walked away with a lighter heart, feeling as if she had successfully completed a difficult trial.
She had exactly 1 Berang left. 100 Gran—the exact fare for the magic carriage heading to the Duchy estate. There were usually enough carriages traveling between the capital and the Duchy that she wouldn’t have to wait long.
Spotting one approaching in the distance, she ran toward the road, flagging it down. She planned to change out of her disguise once she was safely inside. Focused entirely on the carriage, she didn’t notice the man stepping out from the shadows of an alleyway until she collided with him.
“Ah! I’m so sorry! I was in such a hurry…”
Gasping for air, she looked up, and the breath vanished from her lungs. She froze.
The tall man in the dark gray suit was brushing off his lapel, his brow furrowed in irritation. The face was so terrifyingly familiar that Roselia went numb, her grip on reality slipping.
“It is fine.”
Even his blunt, icy tone was too familiar. Then, a voice called out from behind him.
“Your Grace! The site for the school is this way!”
It was Alejandro. The man standing in front of her was…
*Klaus De Baltezar… Why here? Why now, when I’m dressed like this!!*
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her mouth went dry, and she clutched the painting to her chest, terrified that he might see through her disguise.
“Lady?”
Klaus, perhaps finding it odd that the person he had bumped into was staring at him in paralyzed silence, lowered his head to get a better look at her face.
Reflexively, Roselia used the painting frame to shield her features. Klaus, nearly bumping into the corner of the frame, recoiled with a sharp frown.