“It’s impossible.”
“But there must be some way.”
I searched for an answer, but my mind remained a blank slate. To show him that I’m making an effort—what does that actually look like? It’s such an abstract, difficult phrase.
Does it mean I have to prove I’m eating, sleeping, and tending to my daily needs properly? No, if he doesn’t perceive it as effort, then it doesn’t count. It felt like a cruel play on words. I had to show him something he could truly grasp.
“There isn’t. Not unless I could see.”
“If you could see… Ah!”
I clapped my hands. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? The solution was simple—or rather, he had already handed it to me.
“Then that will work.”
“What?”
Vincent looked at me, his expression clearly asking what kind of nonsense I was spouting. I met his gaze and smiled.
“I can’t. It’s impossible.”
“You can. Here, give me your hand.”
I reached out, hoping to bridge the distance, but he remained frozen. I urged him again, a soft *please* hanging in the air. Finally, he reached out with a hesitant, trembling hand. The moment his fingertips grazed my palm, he recoiled.
After a few tense attempts, his hand finally came to rest in mine. I gripped it tightly, terrified he might pull away again.
“It’s okay. I’m holding on tight.”
The “appearance of effort” that Ethan Christopher spoke of. I didn’t know the specifics, but I decided to keep it simple. I’d taken a hint from his bet in the study: *“If the maid can get Vincent to step even one foot out of his room, I will grant you one wish.”*
That was the sight he wanted to see. So, I would provide it. I would show him walking out of the room on his own, unassisted—just as he had before the darkness took his sight.
Of course, it wouldn’t be easy.
That was why I was coaxing and sweet-talking him now.
I took a step back. He didn’t move a muscle. I retreated again, but he only leaned his upper body forward, unwilling to lift his feet. I stepped back a third time. He lowered his eyes, hesitated, and finally moved off the bed.
*Thud.* The sound of his feet hitting the floor felt like a victory.
“Slowly. Try taking it one step at a time, like a baby learning to walk.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
Even as he scoffed, his face was grim with the effort of a single step.
Vincent moved with agonizing stiffness. I followed, retreating carefully, clearing obstacles from his path.
“Yes. You’re doing great.”
“It’s not like I injured my legs.”
“Even so.”
After stumbling through a few hesitant paces, his strides began to lengthen. I glanced back, guiding him toward the door. Soon, he reached the threshold.
“See? It’s not hard, is it?”
“Don’t treat me like a child.”
So stubborn. I knew perfectly well that he was terrified.
He was gripping my hand so hard my skin felt numb, but I understood the immense courage it took for him to walk out like this. His room was massive; the distance from the bed to the door was vast for someone living in darkness. To me, it was a short stroll, but for him, it must have felt like an eternity.
“You did well.”
“Are you going to be satisfied with just this and go back?”
“I suppose so.”
I wasn’t certain, but I offered the answer he expected. Vincent turned around, looking immensely displeased, then stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, his head tilted as if he’d lost his sense of direction.
“You can go this way.”
Even with my hand guiding him, he remained paralyzed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You were doing fine earlier.”
“That was because you were holding me. Look, without you, I can’t even walk.”
The confidence had drained from his face, leaving him looking like a lost, small child. Despite his imposing frame, he seemed terribly fragile.
His condition was far more unstable than I had dared to imagine.
“Master. I agree with Ethan Christopher to an extent. You can’t live like this forever. I was hired knowing your condition, but can you be sure the other servants won’t find out? What about those who already know?”
Words travel faster than thought. If a servant happened to enter the annex, or if someone let a secret slip, the truth would be out in an instant. Then, the vultures would come to pick his reputation apart.
“One day, the truth will come out. Will you still hide in your room then?”
“…I get it. Stop nagging.”
“If you understand, that’s enough.”
“You talk too much for a mere maid.”
He groaned, sweeping a hand over his face. I took his hand and led him back to the bed, then guided him to the door once more.
By the third time, Vincent found a rhythm. Emboldened, I decided to change the stakes.
“From now on, I’m going to let go of your hand halfway.”
“What?”
“Don’t panic. Even if I let go, just keep walking.”
I turned his stiff body toward the door and led him forward. His steps were heavier this time.
“I can’t do it.”
“You can. Now, shall I let go?”
“Wait. Not yet.”
He shook his head, desperate. I stepped back, checking the distance. Halfway there.
“Is this okay now?”
“Not yet.”
When he had walked a little further, I asked again.
“How about now?”
“Not yet.”
He would be at the door any second.
“I’m letting go now.”
“Wait a moment—”
As my grip loosened, he grabbed for me, but I ruthlessly pulled away and stepped back.
He froze. His eyes, swimming with anxiety, darted blindly. He fumbled, realized he was alone, and his face hardened with sudden, sharp tension.
He lost his way, stumbling in the silence. I took two loud steps backward.
“This way, Master.”
“Where? Where are you?”
“Here. Follow the sound.”
He turned toward my voice, but he wouldn’t commit.
“You can just walk straight, Master.”
“I can’t.”
“You haven’t even tried.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Your legs are fine.”
I held out my hands, waiting. The silence dragged on, thick with his hesitation. He kept moistening his dry lips, paralyzed by the fear of the open space. I held my ground, knowing he had to find the courage to bridge this gap himself.
“Don’t worry. If you fall, I will catch you.”
I braced my legs, ready to spring forward at a moment’s notice.
Vincent didn’t speak. My impatience flared as the seconds ticked by, fearing he might give up entirely. But then, he moved.
One step. Then another. He began to inch toward me. I continued to make loud, rhythmic sounds with my feet, luring him in.
“Yes, you’re doing well.”
I retreated further, stepping outside the doorway. He tracked my movements, gauging the distance by the sound of my footsteps.
I stretched my arms out, leaning forward until my upper body felt ready to snap. My entire world narrowed down to him.
He reached the threshold.
Only one step remained.
“The door is right in front of you.”
He reached out. His large frame surged forward, and I leaned in to meet him. But his foot caught on an obstacle he hadn’t cleared, and he slipped.
His body tilted dangerously. I lunged, but he suddenly snapped his head up. His clear, emerald eyes stared straight ahead—or at least, they seemed to lock directly onto mine.
*Don’t move.*
The intensity of his look froze me in place.
He caught his balance, stumbling forward one more time. His hand found the air, searching. I reached out, and as his body brushed past the doorway, I pulled him into a desperate embrace.
“Master!”
The moment he hit my arms, his knees gave out. I barely managed to cushion his collapse, sliding down with him until we hit the floor with a dull *thud*. I bumped my nose against his shoulder, a sharp pain radiating through my hips, but I didn’t care.
The heat of his body was all that mattered.
“Haa, haa.”
His ragged breathing rushed against my ear. His sweat dampened my neck, and his hands gripped my back with bruising intensity. The tremors in his limbs, the raw tension—it all bled into me. He had done it. He had walked out of that room on his own.
A wave of emotion crested in my chest. I sniffled, pressing my face into his hair, patting his back with shaking hands.
“You did well. You did so well.”
I whispered the words like a prayer. Vincent Bellunita remained motionless, his face buried in my shoulder, fighting to regain his breath. His golden hair tickled my cheek, but I didn’t move. I simply held him, honoring the battle he had just won.
We sat there on the floor for a long, quiet time.