4 July,1958
A small gathering stood beneath a muted sky.
They wore black, not out of unity, but obligation. The graveyard was quiet in the way places become when even sound feels inappropriate. Wind moved slowly through the trees, careful not to disturb the moment, as though the world itself had learned restraint.
This was Heinrich Smith's funeral.
There were few people.
On one side of the grave stood several neighbors—faces familiar but distant, expressions solemn yet shallow, grief measured by courtesy rather than memory. A priest stood among them, hands folded, voice steady, repeating words that had been spoken countless times before for countless others.
On the opposite side stood three figures who did not belong to any category the priest could name.
Marry.
Diable.
And Teufel.
Teufel was twelve now. Diable and Marry were twenty-one.
They stood close together, though none of them touched.
Marry looked as though she were holding herself together by force alone. Her eyes were red, her hands clenched tightly in front of her, her breathing uneven. It felt as though one wrong word, one misplaced sound, would cause everything she was suppressing to spill out at once. She did not cry—but only because she was fighting it with everything she had.
Diable stood beside her, motionless.
He was grieving—but not visibly. His face was calm, too calm, as if emotion had been locked away rather than processed. Anyone watching from a distance might have thought him composed, even cold. But inside him, something was turning restlessly.
Because Heinrich's death did not make sense.
Mr. Heinrich… took his own life?
The thought refused to settle.
Diable knew Heinrich's past. He knew the weight the man carried. But he also knew what Heinrich had become in recent years—quiet, stable, almost peaceful. He had rebuilt something small but real. There had been no signs. No descent. No collapse.
There was no reason.
And then another thought emerged—slow, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
Even Teufel was visiting him.
Diable's breathing slowed.
His eyes shifted almost involuntarily.
Teufel stood at the edge of the grave, his posture slightly bowed, his gaze lowered. He looked… subdued. His hands were still. His expression unreadable. From the outside, he appeared appropriately mournful—perhaps even genuinely affected.
But Diable felt something tighten inside his chest.
Wait…
Teufel?
The name echoed in his mind with unfamiliar weight.
For a moment, Diable said nothing. He only watched.
Teufel did not look around. He did not fidget. He did not seek comfort. He stood as if he were part of the ceremony itself—an object placed there deliberately, quietly fulfilling a role.
Diable forced himself to think rationally.
No. That's impossible.
He had raised Teufel. Guided him. Corrected him. Taught him empathy, restraint, kindness. For two years, there had been nothing—no warning signs, no incidents, nothing suspicious. Teufel had been… normal.
I made him kind, Diable told himself.
I taught him how to be human.
This was just his mind searching for patterns where none existed. Grief distorts perception. Trauma invents connections. He knew that.
Still, the thought would not leave.
Diable looked at Marry.
She was trembling now, her face turned toward the grave, her grief unguarded and sincere. Seeing her like that grounded him. Whatever doubts stirred inside him, this was not the time. Accusations—especially imagined ones—had consequences.
Not now, he decided.
Stay calm.
Meanwhile, Teufel's thoughts were simple.
They did not spiral.
They did not justify.
They did not question.
Only a single word repeated quietly, without emotion or emphasis.
Sorry.
The priest's voice continued. The earth waited.
5 July,1958
The next day arrived without ceremony.
Diable sat alone in the living room, motionless in a wooden chair, the television murmuring aimlessly in front of him. Images flickered across the screen—news, advertisements, voices that pretended the world still followed rules—but none of it reached him. The sound existed only to fill the silence.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
They returned again and again to Heinrich.
To Teufel.
To himself.
If Teufel really did that…
The thought stopped midway, refusing to complete itself.
Then it isn't his fault.
Diable leaned back slightly, his gaze unfocused.
It's mine.
He had taken responsibility for Teufel long ago—fed him, guided him, corrected him. If something had gone wrong, it could not be blamed on a child. It meant he had failed. No matter how he rearranged the events in his mind, the conclusion remained unchanged.
I failed to make him kind.
His chest felt heavy, but his eyes remained dry. Not because he was holding tears back—there were simply none left to shed. Grief had already exhausted that part of him years ago.
I'm the bad one, he thought distantly.
I should have died back then.
The sound of the doorbell shattered the stillness.
Diable flinched.
The sharp chime struck him harder than he expected, pulling him abruptly out of his thoughts. He rose from the chair and moved toward the door. From upstairs, faint footsteps followed—Teufel descending quietly, as if he had already known someone was coming.
Diable opened the door.
It was Marry.
She offered a small, polite smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Before Diable could speak, Teufel stepped into the hallway.
"Oh, Marry," Teufel said calmly, already reaching for his coat. "Sorry, but I'm going out for a little walk."
"No worries," Marry replied without hesitation. "Take care."
"Yeah," Diable added, after a brief pause. "Take care."
Teufel nodded once and stepped outside.
The door closed softly behind him.
Marry entered and sat beside Diable, the familiar weight of her presence filling the room. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then her expression shifted, brightening suddenly, as if remembering something important.
"So," she said, trying to sound cheerful, "what are the plans for tomorrow?"
Diable turned toward her, confused.
"W–what?" he asked. "What plans?"
Her smile faltered.
"Oh, come on," she said, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "Tomorrow is Teufel's birthday."
Diable froze.
Then his eyes widened.
"Oh," he said quietly. "Right. Yeah… I remember now."
Marry relaxed, relieved that the moment hadn't been forgotten entirely.
"So let's plan something," she said. "We should celebrate. Just something small."
Diable nodded slowly, though his mind was already drifting again—this time toward the boy who had just left the house.
Teufel walked through the park alone.
The air was calm, the paths lined with trees that barely moved in the gentle breeze. Children's laughter echoed faintly in the distance, but Teufel did not look toward it. He stopped near the center of the park and turned his head slightly, scanning his surroundings.
Left.
Right.
As if searching for something.
Then he saw her.
A woman sat alone on a bench, her posture relaxed, her attention focused on nothing in particular. When Teufel's gaze met hers, he raised his hand in a small, polite wave.
She smiled—and waved back.
6 July,1958
Teufel woke early.
The house was silent.
He came downstairs slowly, expecting movement, voices—something. But the living room was empty. No footsteps. No sound from the kitchen. The stillness felt unfamiliar, almost wrong.
"Master?" he called out.
No answer.
"Marry?"
Nothing.
A faint unease settled in his chest. He stepped into the kitchen. Empty. The sink was dry. The table untouched. He poured himself a glass of water, drank slowly, feeling the coolness ease his dry throat, then returned to the main hall.
Still no one.
The hall connected everything—the kitchen, the stairs, the bedrooms, and one final room at the end of the corridor.
He hadn't checked that one.
Teufel walked toward it.
The door creaked softly as he opened it. Darkness greeted him. The room was completely unlit, the air still.
He reached for the switch.
The light snapped on.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TEUFEL!"
The room burst into color and sound.
Marry and Diable stood in front of him, smiling. The walls were decorated with balloons, simple but carefully arranged. A table had been set with snacks, and between them they held a small cake, its candles already lit.
For a moment, Teufel did not move.
Then his expression changed.
The transformation was immediate and unmistakable—a wide smile spreading across his face, unguarded and genuine. It was the kind of smile that seemed to forget everything else.
"Thank you," he said softly.
He stepped forward and hugged them both.
Diable felt his shoulders loosen for the first time in days.
There's no way, he thought, relief washing over him, no way this kind of child could have done something like that.
The morning passed simply.
They talked. They laughed. They ate together. The cake was cut and shared, crumbs left behind on the plates like proof that something ordinary had happened in a world that rarely allowed it.
Then came the gifts.
Marry went first.
She knelt slightly so they were at the same height, her expression warm and earnest. Before Teufel could react, she leaned forward and pressed a quick, gentle kiss against his cheek—nothing dramatic, nothing lingering.
"Happy birthday," she whispered.
Teufel froze.
Then his face flushed deeply, color rising instantly as if he had been caught completely unprepared. His eyes widened, and for a brief second he looked almost overwhelmed—like someone who had been shown something beautiful without warning.
Diable stared.
He hadn't expected that. It showed on his face immediately. Surprise, then something sharper—jealousy he didn't bother hiding.
Marry stood back up, smiling.
"But," she said lightly, "you're not getting away with just that."
She reached behind her, took out a small box, and placed it in Teufel's hands.
He opened it carefully.
Inside were gloves—black, finely made, elegant in a way that felt deliberate. Teufel looked up at her.
"Thank you," he said again.
Marry looked genuinely happy, as if giving the gift had mattered more than receiving his gratitude.
Then all eyes turned to Diable.
It took him a second to realize.
"Oh," he said quietly.
Panic followed.
He hadn't prepared anything. No gift. No idea. And he certainly couldn't match what Marry had just done. Teufel noticed immediately. He always did.
Diable searched desperately for something—anything—that would be enough.
Then, suddenly, he spoke.
"I'll do one thing for you," he said. "Anything you ask. No matter what it is."
The words landed heavier than he intended.
Teufel's expression shifted.
Not into excitement—but into something else. Something sharp. Focused. As if he had just been handed a key he hadn't expected to receive so easily.
Without hesitation, he answered.
"Then tell me about your past, Master," he said calmly. "Everything. I want to know everything about you."
Diable stiffened.
The room seemed smaller.
He had not expected that. Not this. It felt like a trap snapping shut—but it was one he had built himself. He swallowed.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes," Teufel replied without pause. "Absolutely."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Diable exhaled.
"Okay," he said. "I'll tell you everything about me."
Teufel smiled again.
Chapter Ends
To be Continued