Seraphina has spent three years building a quiet life in the lower district of the royal capital—running a tavern with four companions who feel like family, hiding the elven blood in her veins, and guarding a secret that would mean her execution if anyone discovered it.
She remembers a previous life. A life as a forty-year-old woman named Sarasa Seta.
In this world, those who carry memories of another life are called the "Inscribed"—and they are hunted by the Ring of Silence, a shadow organiza
Invitation Addressed to Sarasa Seta - The Backdoor Ghost — Wavering Resolve and Iris's One Remark
Waking was like being drawn up out of lukewarm water.
Seraphina's consciousness surfaced slowly from the depths of sleep. Morning light bled white against the backs of her eyelids. Her body was still heavy. Last night had seeped into the very marrow of her bones.
(So morning came again.)
The second floor of the tavern "Lamplight," on the edge of the lower district. The wooden building was wrapped in the stillness of dawn. From beyond the window, she could faintly hear the wagons being readied for the morning market.
Seraphina opened her eyes, slowly.
The grain of the ceiling. The familiar placement of the knots. That pattern she had stared at so many times in the dead of night.
(Nothing's changed.)
That's what she thought. But it was a lie. Something inside her had changed. Last night, it had certainly changed.
She looked at her right hand.
Marguerite's hand was there.
Thirty-one years old, a fallen noble with black hair tied back—she ran the tavern and kept the house, a woman of quiet maternal warmth. She had fallen asleep sitting at the edge of the bed, her upper body slumped against it. Her blue eyes were closed, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.
Her fingers were still holding Seraphina's hand.
All night long.
They hadn't come undone.
(The warmth of this hand is what keeps me tethered here.)
Seraphina moved her fingers. Just a little. She laid her own fingers over Marguerite's.
Warm.
Last night, she had wet the bed. The soul of a forty-year-old woman in the young body of an elf. That dissonance had finally robbed her body of control. It was shameful, pathetic—she had wanted to disappear.
But this hand hadn't let go.
Marguerite had asked nothing. Gilda had silently wiped the floor. Lazuli had lightened the air with a joke. Iris had told her, shortly, "I won't tell anyone."
The four women's wordless care had carved even deeper into Seraphina's heart.
(I can't keep hiding things from these people.)
Something knotted tight in her chest.
(I have to tell them.)
(Who I really am. The truth.)
(At least to these four.)
Seraphina gently squeezed Marguerite's hand back.
At that moment, Marguerite's eyelids fluttered.
"...Oh, you're awake."
Marguerite opened her eyes and smiled softly. Her voice was husky with sleep. But there was a warmth in it that betrayed not a trace of last night's exhaustion.
"...I'm sorry. All night, your hand..."
Her voice wouldn't come out properly. A hot lump was lodged in the back of her throat.
"It's fine. I wanted to."
Marguerite squeezed Seraphina's hand once more. Then she slowly loosened her fingers, one by one, as if reluctant to let go.
"I'll go make breakfast. You can sleep in a little today, all right?"
With that, Marguerite stood. She gave the hem of her black skirt a light brush and stepped away from the bed. Her back headed toward the door.
"Wait."
Her voice came out.
Marguerite's feet stopped.
(Should I say it now?)
Her heart pounded violently. Her fingertips trembled faintly.
(Now, here—that there's something I want to tell you.)
Seraphina drew a breath.
"Tonight...there's something I want to talk about."
The words came out as if squeezed from the back of her throat.
(I said it.)
(I haven't said what it is yet. But I told them there's something I want to talk about.)
Marguerite didn't turn around.
Her back said, quietly:
"I'll be waiting."
Just that one word.
Without turning, without confirming anything—just that.
(This person has been waiting for me all along.)
Something hot welled up in Seraphina's chest. Tears blurred the back of her eyes.
(My resolve has passed into someone else's hands for the first time.)
Marguerite left the room as she was. The sound of her footsteps descending the stairs slowly faded.
Seraphina stared at her own clenched hands on the bed.
(I can't turn back now.)
She was afraid. But more than that, she was relieved.
(I'll tell them. Tonight, all four of them. Everything.)
Morning light poured through the window, brightening the room.
Past noon.
The lower district market was bustling.
Stalls crowded the cobblestone streets. Baskets piled high with vegetables, wooden crates lined with fish, tables spread with cloth. The merchants' vigorous calls shook the air. The savory smell of freshly baked bread, the sharp scent of spices, the mingled odor of sweat and dust—all of it blended into the peculiar heat of the marketplace.
Seraphina walked through the crowd with a shopping basket in one hand.
(What should I say tonight?)
Her head had been full of it since morning.
("I have memories of a past life"?)
("Actually, I was a forty-year-old woman"?)
("My name was Sarasa Seta, and I did accounting at a company in Japan"?)
None of them felt right. All of them felt right. The words wouldn't come together.
(I must have thought about this a hundred times already.)
Seraphina smiled wryly. She had simulated it over and over in her mind. Pictured the four faces, chosen her words. But now that the moment was near, everything went blank.
(Well, it'll work out. It's fine—I'm used to this.)
She recited her usual refrain in her head. But today, of all days, the words rang hollow.
"Miss, tomatoes are cheap today!"
The stall owner called out to her. Seraphina stopped and looked at the ripe red tomatoes.
"Oh, they look wonderful. Five, please."
"Thank you kindly! Here, I'll throw in one extra."
Seraphina paid the copper coins and put the tomatoes in her basket.
(What should I make for dinner tonight? Stew, or maybe—)
She thought about everyday things. But her mind snapped right back to the words of her confession.
(Going in circles.)
Seraphina let out a small sigh.
That was when it happened.
Across the crowd, she saw something white.
Her feet stopped.
(That's—)
At the edge of the market, beside a spice stall. A small figure was watching her.
A twelve-year-old girl with black hair cut short around her shoulders. A white dress.
Minato.
Seraphina's chest went cold. Her fingertips tingled faintly.
(She came again.)
When Minato's eyes met hers, she smiled brightly. An innocent, childlike smile.
Then she waved a small hand, back and forth.
(She's not following.)
Minato didn't move from where she stood. She just smiled and waved. As if to say, see you tomorrow.
Seraphina couldn't move.
(That child isn't my enemy.)
She told herself so.
(But she's trying to drag me back to the past.)
The contradiction clenched her stomach. Because there was no hostility, she couldn't run. Because she couldn't hate her, she couldn't refuse her.
(That child is here because she cares about me.)
That was the hardest part.
Minato stopped waving and turned around. The back of her white dress slowly disappeared into the crowd.
Seraphina just watched her go.
(Sorry, Minato.)
She murmured in her heart.
(I can't be what you want me to be.)
(I'm here. Beside these four.)
Seraphina gripped her basket again.
She pictured the four faces.
Gilda's rugged profile. Lazuli's flippant grin. Marguerite's quiet smile. Iris's sharp gaze.
(I'm going to tell these people.)
Her feet moved.
One step, then another.
The clamor of the market pushed at Seraphina's back.
Dusk.
After closing at the tavern "Lamplight."
The first-floor tavern was dead silent, as if the daytime bustle had been a lie. The counter had been wiped clean, and every chair was up on the tables. The setting sun through the windows cast long shadows on the floor.
Seraphina gathered the four before the counter.
Gilda stood by the wall as always. Short reddish-brown hair, sharp amber eyes, an old scar at the corner of his mouth. Rough-featured and stern, but his gaze was somehow gentle. He watched Seraphina without a word.
Lazuli sat on a counter stool, fiddling with a coin between her fingers. Her bluish-black hair hung carelessly long, and her lapis-lazuli blue eyes held their usual breezy light. The three piercings in her left ear glinted in the sunset.
Marguerite stood before the hearth. Black hair tied back, her calm blue eyes quietly fixed on Seraphina. A teapot was in her hands.
Iris stood by the tavern's front door. Long hair of near-black indigo, narrow violet eyes. The small gold ring in her left ear swayed faintly. She had her arms crossed, her back against the door.
Seraphina looked at each of the four faces in turn.
(These are the ones.)
(The people I should tell.)
Her throat was bone dry. She could hear her own heart hammering against her ribs.
(Say it. Now, here.)
Seraphina began, her voice trembling.
"Tonight, I want you to listen."
Her voice was hoarse. Small, feeble.
But it reached all four of them, clearly.
Gilda moved without a word.
He took a candlestick from behind the counter. Struck flint, lit it. One, then another. Warm light spread through the tavern.
(He's adding more light for me.)
Seraphina's chest grew warm.
"Oh, what's this—getting all formal on us. Come on, sit down. This isn't something you say standing up, is it?"
Lazuli dropped her joking tone and offered her a seat at the counter. There was no usual clowning in her voice—only a quiet seriousness.
Marguerite poured tea.
She set the steaming cup gently before Seraphina.
"It's hot, so be careful."
Her voice was the same soft one as always.
Iris didn't move from the door.
But her violet eyes were fixed straight on Seraphina.
(These people aren't blocking my escape.)
Seraphina realized.
(They're standing here to catch me.)
Gilda gave light. Lazuli gave a place. Marguerite gave warmth. Iris gave watchful care.
The four of them, in their stances, wrapped around Seraphina's heart.
(Ah. Here, I can speak.)
Resolve filled her chest.
(With these people, I can tell them everything.)
Seraphina cupped the teacup in both hands.
Warm.
That warmth steadied her trembling fingers, just a little.
Midnight.
In her room on the second floor, Seraphina sat alone, turning the words of her confession over and over.
("I have memories of a past life.")
("My name was Sarasa Seta, and I died at forty.")
("This is my story from before I met all of you.")
She repeated it again and again in her mind. But none of it fit.
(Was words always this hard?)
Seraphina looked out the window. The moon was hidden behind thin clouds, glowing faintly. The rooftops of the lower district lay quietly asleep under the pale blue moonlight.
(Tomorrow—no, I decided to tell them tonight.)
At dusk, in that room, resolve had certainly filled her. But alone, she grew afraid again.
(What happens once I tell them?)
(Will they despise me? Be disgusted? Or—)
(Will they just smile, and nothing changes?)
She didn't know.
And because she didn't know, she was afraid.
That was when it happened.
Tap, tap.
A small sound.
(That sound—)
Seraphina strained her ears.
Tap, tap, tap.
(The back door.)
Someone was knocking at the tavern's back door.
(Who would come at this hour?)
Her heart began to race.
(No—don't tell me.)
Seraphina went downstairs. The first-floor tavern was pitch black. Moonlight slanted thin through the window, drawing a white line on the floor.
She headed for the back door.
Tap, tap.
The sound continued.
Seraphina touched the bolt with trembling fingers.
(Don't open it.)
Someone screamed inside her head.
(But if I don't, the sound won't stop.)
Seraphina drew the bolt.
She opened the door, slowly.
Under the moonlight.
Minato stood there.
Black hair. White dress. Huge black eyes.
"Senpai, you're still in a place like this?"
Minato was smiling.
An innocent, childlike smile.
But her words pierced Seraphina's chest, cold.
("A place like this.")
(To this child, that's what this place is.)
Minato took a step toward Seraphina.
"Senpai, I've been thinking and thinking. About how to make you wake up."
A small hand reached out.
"Those people are just tying you down. They're ghosts from your past life. Your real place isn't here. It's beside me. In that office, at that time. The p
Novelia is an AI-powered platform to read original light novels and fan fiction, create your own in just a few taps, and chat with the characters. New, illustrated episodes arrive daily — free to start.