Episode 5 『 Lullaby 』
49. Alarm
[Clock alarm]
She woke to the sound of an alarm. The moment she rose, she moved instinctively to the next room. A child lay in a bed, one small hand connected to an IV line. She pulled a syringe and vial from the drawer and administered the injection with practiced ease. After a moment, the child's pulse returned to normal. She sat quietly beside the bed, stroking the child's hair. Then, when she was ready, she slipped out of the house without a sound.
Her name was Christina. She made her living selling handcrafted accessories near a small shopping street. On her display stand sat an assortment of carefully made pieces, and passersby would stop to look — eyes bright with curiosity — before setting something down and moving on. Countless people passed her each day. Not one of them knew her story.
Christina spent her days watching the world go by from behind her display stand. Girls in short skirts with unpracticed makeup. Young men striding past in long coats. Couples walking arm in arm, whispering to each other. Watching them, she found herself wondering, idly, whether she had ever had a time like that — but the memory, if it existed at all, was too faint to reach.
Her husband had died, and not many years later, her child fell ill with an incurable disease. The hospital told her the child needed a special injection every five hours. The medication was staggeringly expensive. Christina needed to work, but there were almost no jobs that would accommodate someone who had to return home every five hours without fail. In the end, she made do — crafting accessories near her home, selling what she could, getting by.
Christina was still young. Without the child, she might have lived like others her age — falling in love, taking care of herself, enjoying the small vanities of youth. But those thoughts felt like a luxury she could no longer afford. There was no room even to tend to her own face. She treated herself like a machine with no feelings, as though that were the only way to push her bloom years past quickly — to get through them by force, before they could hurt her.
"That's a dahlia."
A few weeks earlier, a customer had paused at her display, looking at a red hairpin.
"The dahlia carries many meanings. Passion. Instability. Capriciousness. And sorrow."
Christina looked up. He was tall, with a pale face, and wore a magician's top hat — an odd choice by any measure. He was smiling at her with an expression of pure, unguarded openness. There was something strange about it. Something that caught her attention.
"A complicated heart," he said, "looks a great deal like the heart of a beautiful woman."
He smiled and handed her the money. Christina thought he was an unusual person. She assumed at first that he was just a passing customer. But the man — who introduced himself as Leo — kept coming back, appearing every now and then with some small joke that made her laugh. In the flatness of her days, Leo became someone to talk to.
He said he was a magician. And sometimes he would show her a trick. Each time, Christina found herself genuinely surprised, clapping with a delight she hadn't felt in a long time. Without quite noticing when it had started, she began to look forward to the days he came. The time she spent with Leo became a small happiness — something she hadn't known she was missing.
One day, Leo walked with Christina through Washington Park and told her how he felt. He pressed into her hand the red dahlia hairpin he had bought on that very first day.
For the first time, she felt it clearly — happiness. She let herself imagine a life with Leo. Building a home together. Having a child. Shopping on weekends, traveling, laughing. The image was vivid and near.
But.
[Clock alarm]
Just as she was about to answer him, the alarm on her wrist sounded. In an instant, the world she had briefly forgotten came rushing back. She had to go home.
Christina placed the red dahlia hairpin back into Leo's hand. Then she turned away, slowly. Whatever Leo called after her, she didn't hear it. Tears ran hot down the corners of her eyes.