#oscar webster

Violet Evergarden: Booklet 7

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Writers were like shadows.

Be it on rainy or sunny days, they would be in their tiny little rooms, writing words. That was all. Their job was extremely bland, and one might dare say that it was lonesome work.

Nobody ever imagined who was behind the stories that they were reading. If they did, they would definitely be disappointed. Because they would. No one wanted to find out that, beyond the stories they were reading, there was somebody coughing copiously while nevertheless holding the pen.

I didn’t want to let them find out, either. That was why I passed off as a shadow.

There were those of us who went out into the sunlight, but that didn’t suit me. Therefore, well, I was always very happy when I occasionally met, by sheer coincidence, people who liked my works. Basically, since I never went up on stage, I never received compliments. Therefore, this kind of thing had me overjoyed, like, “I see, so there was someone paying attention to my works. I used to feel like I was all alone in the world, but I actually managed to reach other people. Thank you. I like you for enjoying my works. Let’s do our bests in this weird world.”

Just like this, I went around hugging and shaking hands with them, and both of us would go back to our own lives.

“Mr. Oscar… can I be your daughter?”

However, some people weren’t like that.

This was a story about a prayer that felt like rain in a summer afternoon – the kind that was a little mild, yet you’d find yourself wishing for something to happen once the weather cleared.

I met the girl who had asked that impudent question when I visited an orphanage built through investments from two kingdoms, Drossel and Fluegel.

I my real name as my penname and published countless works as just “Oscar”. From plays to novels, I had released several stories into the world. Amongst them, a story that I had created by way of borrowing the help of a certain Auto-Memories Doll was popular with people from a wide range of age groups. There was a copy of this book in the orphanage, which apparently was so favored during playtime that the children had disputes over it. This made me happy.

Anyway, the invitation to read aloud was a very meaningful request for me and the details made me want to do it. The orphanage was able to offer basic schooling, but it seemed to be short-staffed, so few were the kids who could actually read and write. When I heard that a story-telling session had been planned out in order to have those children, who had found their way to that place due to all sorts of reasons, develop an interest for literature – however small it might be –so they would become able to choose their own futures, I felt that it was an incredibly brilliant thing. (Apparently, the one who had started this was Queen Charlotte Abelfreya Fluegel, who had married from Drossel into Fluegel. She was someone passionate about education.)

That was how I, albeit a bit embarrassed, visited the orphanage with my own book in hand and took part in the story-telling session, but…

“Mr. Oscar… can I be your daughter?”

In an afternoon where the sunlight was shining brightly, the orphanage’s the stained glass, which had been installed when its church was remodeled, filled the room with colorful light, teeming with a coziness that made you want to heave a sigh. However, contrary to the warmth of the room, I was feeling chills and the air of the place was frozen.

“Huum…” My cowardly self sought the help of the orphanage’s nuns. It was a request for “declining”.

“Angela, that’s a no-no. Don’t bother Mr! Oscar!”

“What’s a bother about it? I just asked a question.”

The nuns looked my way as if to say, “Sorry about that…”

I could only reply with an expression that read, “No need; I’m also kinda sorry too…”

By the looks of it, the girl in front of me had mistaken me for an adult who had come over with the intention of adopting an orphan.

It happened during goodbye time after the story-telling session had ended.

Other than the works that I was going to donate to the orphanage, I had bought and brought over several books. I had looked through all of them, as they were either things I had enjoyed in my childhood or series that were extremely popular at the moment.

I was truly glad to have brought them. There was nothing more adorable than the happy-looking faces of the children when receiving them. I thought it was a suitable closure for the end of a blissful time.

The children had listened quietly with their eyes shining, so one could tell that both sides were able to have a great time. Everyone had lined up in a row and taken the books one by one.

The last girl of the line was the child in question.

She had platinum-blond hair and red eyes. The melanin was much too thin in her. The various elements of her appearance might be genetic. She was a girl who had a slightly strange air to her. Perhaps seven to eight years old.

If she just stood there, it felt like just that spot could be turned into a painting… This bizarreness was familiar to me.

——The air around her is a little bit similar to Violet Evergarden’s.

I shivered. If Violet were a younger girl, she would probably be like that.

There was an Auto-Memories Doll that I was really fond of. It was Violet, who worked at the CH Postal Company, which had its main office in Leidenschaftlich, a far-away southern country.

Our relationship was that I had hired her just once, but this was registered in my memory as a wonderful time. She was the woman who had reached out to me when I was standing at the crossroad of my life – a mage who had showed me a marvelous sight. The girl who had given me a precious gift.

Having an orphan girl who somewhat resembled her showing up before my eyes frankly made my heart waver.

——But I can’t say, “Well, let’s make that happen.”

I was an adult full of problems.

“Erm, it might be amazing if that could happen…” I cleared my throat, choosing my words as carefully as possible. “But I’m sorry; it’s impossible. I already have a family.”

How was that? I had made an effort to try not to hurt her as much as possible.

Perhaps because of that, the nuns nodded deeply as if to say, “Superb response” and soothed her, “You shouldn’t ask for something so selfish.”

Is that so? Then…”

But the girl was strong.

“…if you get permission from your family, can I be your daughter?”

Rather than strong, she was innocent to a cruel extent. Cruel out of innocence.

There was a lack of pretense in her longing, exactly because she didn’t have it. This was enveloping her words – no, the entirety of her.

“Angela!”

The nuns embraced her from behind and attempted to leave, but I stopped them.

Her questions weren’t weird at all. Not rude, either.

——I’m the one at fault for giving her a reply so vague that she had this kind of thought.

Therefore, I answered her with the truth this time, “That’s also impossible. My family has already passed away.”

This topic was well-known amongst the people who knew me, so the nuns should be aware of it.

I had a wife and daughter in the past. Both were deceased.

First I lost my wife, and then my daughter expired. Both had died due to sickness, living strenuously until the end. They were so wonderful that it was almost a waste for them to be myfamily.

It was because they were so great that I suffered from their loss for a long time, living a helpless life as I was unable to recover. For a while, I was the writer who was treated as a hermit by society. My heart was plagued by a disease, to the point that I pleaded to God over and over, “I beg you. I want to die, so please kill me.”

The book that I had read out to the children was what I had these feelings into. It was the story that I created with the help of Violet Evergarden.

“Your family is gone?”

Doing the best I could in order not to let my face twitch, I told her the truth, “Yep, they are. They passed quite some time ago from an illness.” The tone of my voice might have gotten lower. I didn’t want to frighten her, but it happened naturally.

“I see… I also don’t have a family. We’re the same, huh.”

I had a hard time keeping my hands from shaking.

“Then, why can’t I be your daughter?”

Pain ran through my chest and I found myself stroking it with a wrinkly hand, even though there was nothing I could do about it. “My family is gone, but I have one.”

How sad it was to put this into words. While holding it in so that a film of tears wouldn’t form on my eyes, I felt embarrassed at myself. However, as an adult, I wanted to give a proper explanation to this girl, whose circumstances were so unfortunate.

“They’ll always be with me, so I don’t need a new family.”

——I want to be able to do something for you, but I can’t. Because I’ve got my hands full fighting off my own loneliness. So I don’t have any room to save someone.

So that I wouldn’t upset her and so that she wouldn’t think I was saying this because I disliked her, I knelt down and spoke, “You know, a family isn’t something you can replace. It’s different from watering a flower. It’s because it’s that person, and it hasto be them… that’s what family is.”

“But what I want is to be your family, Mr. Oscar.”

“That’s not possible… Miss…”

“‘Ms. Angela’.”

“That’s not possible, Ms. Angela.”

“How come?”

“Just because; I’m sorry.”

She didn’t seem convinced.

If I were a less complicated and more kind-hearted person, I might have been able to dodge the question successfully. But the impossible was impossible. I didn’t want a new family. Even if a rose of loneliness bloomed in the depths of my chest and its petals suffocated me, I didn’t want one.

——Because that’d be nothing but betrayal towards those two.

Angela and I stared at each other with troubled faces.

“But, y’know, Mr. Oscar. I do think you need me.”

“You’re insistent, huh.”

“Then, can I at least write you letters?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’ll need some when you’re lonely.”

——Aren’tyou the lonely one?

Getting swept up by a moment’s feelings was a foolish action for an adult, but was there an adult anywhere who would reject an orphan child after being told, “I want to write you letters”? There might be, but that was inhumane.

With a troubled face, I consented only to the letter exchange.

Since then, letters from Angela arrived to me several times a month.

She delivered so many letters that it made me wonder if she intended to have a telegram interchange instead. She was apparently told by the nuns to decrease the amount as it could be a bother to me, but showed no signs of obeying them.

The contents of her writings were silly. Her life in the orphanage, what she had eaten in a day, the hand-me-down dresses she had received. She wrote about such things.

The letters always came in envelopes with beautiful landscape artworks, so it was easy to tell they were from Angela. They were probably the ones used in the orphanage.

Mr. Oscar, your new book arrived at the orphanage. I was the first to read it. I can understand it even without someone to read it for me. Your words open up my heart as if I’ve experienced them myself. Mr. Oscar, as I thought, you do need me.

Ms. Angela, thank you for reading the new book. I’m happy that you seem to have liked it. You express yourself in a wonderful way. You might be fit to be a writer. You should try to write a story someday. Well, see you next time.

My replies were curt as well, but she continued writing to me persistently.

Mr. Oscar, there’s a passage that I like in your new book. The part where it says that loneliness blooms in your chest, turns into a flower and makes you unable to breathe – I like it very, very much. I totally get it. I wonder why it is that when we’re lonely, our hearts grow painful and heavy and we feel suffocated.

Ms. Angela, you’ve been reading it over and over again, huh. Thank you. As to why we feel suffocated, let’s see. I suppose that’s probably because the heart is located in our chests. It might not be, though.

Although we were far apart in age, we could become something like friends in our letters.

Mr. Oscar, did you see the pressed flower that I put in the previous letter? The nice scent is already gone, but I picked up the prettiest one that I found. I chose it because I thought it suited you. Did you like it?

Ms. Angela, you have an extremely fine taste. You picked a violet, right? It’s my favorite flower. I only started liking this flower when I was already an adult, but don’t you think it’s a pure and earnest yet distinguished one?

Mr. Oscar, if you were to compare me to a flower, what kind of flower do you think I’d be? The kids here at the orphanage are scared of me, so they don’t talk to me much. Both my skin and hair are paper-white. Also, I like drawing, and they say it’s scary that I keep drawing all the time and don’t listen if someone talks to me. But people are like that when they’re engrossed in something, right? Aren’t you too, Mr. Oscar?

Ms. Angela, when I’m engrossed in something, I even forget to eat. Many of my friends have left me because of this. You and I a bit alike, huh. If I were to compare you to a flower… let me see. A lotus flower, I guess? Have you ever seen one? They’re really beautiful when they float on the water.

Be it when I was traveling or at home, it became a habit for me to open her letters and write a reply.

Mr. Oscar, I looked up the lotus flower.There was a flower illustrated reference guide in the book that you gave me a sneak-peek of. It’s a beautiful flower. Thank you. I think you’re a sunflower, Mr. Oscar. It’s lanky, tall and I feel like it could look at me forever. Am I wrong?

Ms. Angela, I’m not that nice. But, well, you’re a valuable reader and my pen pal, so I’m okay with doing this kind of thing for a little bit. But make sure not to expect too much. By the way, I’m going to donate the book you wanted to read through the CH Postal Company. Please read it.

I was a lonely one myself, thus I incidentally found myself concerned about this child who sent me letters so often.

Mr. Oscar, buyers came for me today. However, when they heard that I had been returned by other buyers three times, they gave up on me. The Sisters are such meanies. They shouldn’t have told them about that. The orphanage would have gained profits if I’d gone with them.

Ms. Angela, you shouldn’t refer to your future parents as “buyers”. I don’t think the Sisters are meanies. If you behave like a good kid, I’m sure good parents will come to you.

Mr. Oscar, you’re a kindhearted person, aren’t you? I do believe that I need someone like you, but if that’s not the case, does it mean that someone else somewhere needs me? I’ll be counting the days on my fingers until I meet this person.

Ms. Angela, I said that you were a valuable reader to me, didn’t I? And a superb pen pal. In no way are you not necessary. I’ll make some time to show up over there again, but until then, do properly study and listen to what the Sisters say.

Mr. Oscar, is that true? I’ll count the days for that on my fingers, then. I wonder how many it will take. Will it not fall on my day to clean up the garden? I’ll give you a drawing. What kind of drawing do you prefer? My drawings are well-known for being good.

Mr. Oscar, what colors do you like?

Ms. Angela, I like the colors of autumn leaves.

Mr. Oscar, what kind of foods do you like?

Ms. Angela, I like anything that is homemade.

Mr. Oscar, what kind of bad things would you like to do if God allowed it?

Ms. Angela, let me see. Something like painting graffiti on the walls of a high-ranking critic’s mansion.

Mr. Oscar, which of the four seasons do you like most?

Ms. Angela, I like fall. It’s a maddening season.

Mr. Oscar, do you have a type for women? I like dark-haired people.

Ms. Angela, what a pity, I’m not dark-haired. Let’s see; maybe healthy people are my thing.

Mr. Oscar, how do you divert from your sadness when you’re feeling blue?

Ms. Angela, I just stay put and wait for it to pass. Sad, isn’t it?

Mr. Oscar, when you’re happy, do you have anyone to talk to about it? I don’t.

Ms. Angela, you should make friends. If you don’t succeed, you can talk to me about these things.

Mr. Oscar, will you reply to my letters even after I become an adult?

Ms. Angela, you might lose interest in me once you grow up.

Mr. Oscar, I’ll keep sending you letters even after I grow up; it’s a promise.

To be honest, by the time we had exchanged about ten-odd letters, I was ignorant. As to what I was ignorant towards, it was at the charisma of the girl named Angela.

She was extremely intelligent, studied literature and had an understanding of poetic expression, but in the end, she was still a child, so if she were the daughter of an acquaintance, I might have told them, “She has some sort of talent, so if you’re ever inconvenienced in the future, please leave her under my care.”

We were nothing more than pen pals with no connection whatsoever to each other so far, but I even began thinking that leaving such a wonderful little girl alone would be a worldwide loss (I was also a doting pen pal in general). If, for instance, I entrusted her with someone else and only had to provide her with financial support or something – this much I felt that I could do, even if we didn’t live together. I had no idea if we could become a family, but keeping such a clever child in an orphanage felt like a waste to me. I believed that she certainly had some sort of literary talent…

I began thinking of Angela all the time, be it while I was working, eating or bathing.

She wrote that she had been returned by her adoptive parents three times, which made me wonder what on earth could have happened. Had they not liked her slight arrogance? But kids were like that, so this must’ve been within the range of what to expect.

Why did she have to be hurt three times over? Was there something in her that didn’t match what they wanted? Perhaps her skin and hair color?

Sadly enough, many were the people who discriminated others for these kinds of things, despite them fellow human beings… but she wasn’t some pet animal. She was a person. This kind of perspective wasn’t something necessary for raising a child.

I liked her poetic thinking, but… supposing she had none of that. Even if without it… she was a wonderful little girl. She was truly a kindhearted and smart kid.

If I said this to myself from before I met this child, he’d flat-out brush me off with a “don’t spout nonsense”, but as of now, my little pen-pal was the only person in the world who cared for me at all times. She was truly a gentle girl. No doubt about that.

I halted abruptly right there, as within me surged the feeling that, if this was the case, perhaps I should invite my pen-pal into my house as soon as possible. Yes, I did think it was impossible for us to be a family if I had to see her as my own daughter, but at the moment, the two of us were friends. If so, wasn’t it normal for friends to help each other? That was what friends were about, after all. I didn’t need a reason to beat around the bush.

Regardless, a while after I had made this decision, her letters stopped coming altogether and one of the orphanage’s nuns told me that she had been adopted by someone.

I stood stunned at the entrance of the orphanage, holding tons of gifts. “Is that so? What a pity. We won’t get to see each other anymore.”

——She said she’d keep sending me letters forever, and yet…

“Oh, it’s just that her letters stopped coming, so I got worried.”

——Did you go to a place where you can be happy for good?

“It’s okay. Please give this to the orphan kids.”

——Is it a place where the people care more about you than I do?

“Did she say anything about me?”

——Can the people over there can understand that your kindness and greatness was built from your loneliness?

“Is that so…?”

——People who are ready to protect you if anything happens?

“I see…”

——Angela, will the people of that place cherish you?

On that summer day, the sun was shining brightly and it was scorching hot. There was a sound of something burning inside my head.

I had a severe headache on my way back from the orphanage. However, there was actually nothing missing in my body, so the intense pain passed after I took a short rest.

There were days when I couldn’t drink or eat anything, just stared at the mailbox looking for the mail that never came, but I became able to eat again with time.

And so—And so, changes began to happen little by little.

The number of times that I picked up children’s books at bookstores gradually decreased. I started looking away whenever I saw a lotus flower. I stopped buying cute letter stationery. I began to get more frustrated whenever I saw parents walking around with their children. The days went by as I secluded myself in my home, not seeing anyone. I decided to put her many letters in a tin can and lock them up in a cupboard.

Although letters from Angela – who was such a brilliant little girl in my eyes – wouldn’t come anymore, time passed without me being able to even protest to God about it, and eventually, this became a daily routine. Time was truly a merciless thing.

When I lost my wife and daughter, I knew. Nothing as precious would ever appear again in my life. So when she was gone, I lost something big once more. But in Angela’s case, my mistake was not realizing that until it was too late. Just because I was late to realize it didn’t mean that the scars would be superficial.

My everyday was harsh exactly because I would watch the world spin without a care.

If I was sad, the world should be sad too, right? If I was crying, the world should feel for me. I wanted to say that and grieve, but while I had my head wrapped on this, all that would happen was that the world would leave me behind and nothing would fill me up. Therefore, I had no choice but put myself to motion and keep going with my everyday life as if to bury something away.

And so, I gradually got better.

For whatever reason, my process of creation cleared up whenever I experienced something sad. It might be that writers became more clear-headed the more we got hurt and the sadder we were. The lonelier we felt, the brighter we would be.

The second time I had the opportunity to do storytelling at the orphanage happened about a year after the letters from Angela had stopped coming. I felt reluctant about it but decided to comply, as my conscience was making racket about how happy Angela would probably be if I did something for the orphanage’s children.

Some of the kids were still here since the previous year. Some weren’t here a year ago. During the period in which I was slowly tasting loss, the world indeed was spinning without a care and the orphanage had undergone a small change.

The storytelling didn’t go the way it had last time. My book received criticism from the children, as it was more logic-driven than before. Since emotional changes would end up affecting my creations, I explained honestly, “I was feeling down because something kinda sad happened to me. I wrote this book in that meantime.”

The children kindly said, “Can’t be helped, then.”

It was a work highly evaluated worldwide, but it seemed unpopular among children. I was hurt on the inside about the fact that the kids were happier with the last children’s book I gave them – one that was a hit lately – rather than my own. But that was a trivial matter.

I asked the nuns something that I hadn’t been able to ask for a long time, no matter what.

“Where did Ms. Angela go?”

The truth was that I had always wanted to ask this. But if I did, it might have turned out as an unjust suspicion towards Angela’s future. No matter how superb a family she had, I felt that would end up being jealous and wouldn’t be able to wish blessings upon her happiness. Therefore, on that day when my head got sunburned, I left without asking about it.

“The way that Angela was adopted… was a bit complicated…”

The nuns’ words had my face darkening a little. More than anything, Angela had a talent for arts and seemingly became famous for it, since an artwork made by her that was put on display at a bazaar held in the orphanage had sold well. A wealthy household that owned a gallery had heard about this and offered to adopt her under the pretext of raising an artist-hopeful.

When I heard that it was more like they were hiring her as their employee rather than welcoming her as family, what I felt was… if I were to express it in one word, it would probably be “despair”.

The well-off household had adopted Angela half-forcefully, so the nuns had also been worried and paid a visit to the address that they had been informed, but apparently, they were told by an apron-clad, paint-covered Angela, “Father will scold me, so go home” and it had ended there.

“Hasn’t she written any letters to you or something like that? They haven’t been coming to me, but…”

“About that, according to the rumors, it seems the head of that rich family was a young man with a promising future, so he was was raised in seclusion in their estate… We suspect he must be forbidding her of any means of contact with the outside… Angela was terribly scared of angering him, so he might be giving her physical punishment. We told her that she could come back here if she was suffering… but when they took her in, that man talked very loudly about the financial support, so maybe she can’t bring herself to care about it… Angela was an oddball and stood out from the rest, but…”

——I can hear my head burning.

“…she was a very gentle child, so…”

——My head’s burning… It’s burning and it hurts.

In other words, that wonderful little girl had offered herself and gone to that apprenticeship. This might be the same reason as to why she could no longer send replies to me, her pen-pal, and why she couldn’t come back to the nuns.

“…we want to do something for her – that’s what we think, but Angela has already left… so we can’t… do anything…”

——That’s so irresponsible.It’s your fault that a girl might be suffering right now.

I shelved myself, anger towards all sorts of things surging inside me.

However, I didn’t vent out any of it. Even if I had those thoughts, I shouldn’t throw them at the nuns who were doing their utmost working in this place. They were doing strenuous effort despite the difficulties with funding.

“Could you tell me where she lives?”

If I were to do anything, that would be…

“Angela is my friend. I’d like to see her one more time.”

…what a slightly older friend should do.

As soon as I was given her address, I headed to the mansion where Angela was trapped. Fortunately, said mansion sat within the grounds of the gallery that the influential family owned.

The gallery was open to anybody who was willing to buy a painting, and while thinking this was a dirty thing to do, I gave the name of the work and artist, which attracted the attention of the gallery clerk. There was a need to make him believe that I had money, since I looked like nothing more than just a tired, middle-aged man that you could find anywhere.

“This work is from a series made by an artist who is related to us.” The clerk came to talk to me with an attitude that was clearly different from when I had entered the establishment.

I was estimating an opportunity to cut to the chase about Angela.

For starters, I had come here after receiving the nuns’ instructions, but was she really being kept in this gallery? She should be about eight years old. What kind of talent were they expecting from someone like her…?

While I was thinking, my eyes wandered off to one particular artwork. This work had its frame decorated with letter envelopes depicting beautiful sceneries.

When I stopped in front of the frame, the clerk’s face brightened with an “aah”. “‘Why are there envelopes on this?’ is what you thought, right? But please take a look at the art on the envelopes. These are not printings; the artist painted them on the envelopes herself in minute detail. Of course, there is also the landscape portrayed on the canvas. Still, I think this decoration looks extremely charming as well. If this one piqued your interest, I can show you other works by this artist. They were made by a young person who is being funded by the owner…”

I wasn’t listening to most of what the clerk said. Because I could hear the sound of my head burning and began having a terrible headache. After all, I had already received countless of those envelopes. Every single time, I thought about how pretty they were. But I didn’t think they had been painted on blank envelopes by an orphan girl. She had sent them without ever telling me anything. What’s more, the title of the work was written reverently on a golden plate, causing tears to blurry my field of vision.

The title was “Because I Like You”.

Surely, this must have taken one hell of a long time to make. Even so, Angela always put the letters in beautiful envelopes. The orphanage was supposed to save as much as possible for their expenses, so those must have been plain envelopes. She must have thought that they were lacking, so she was showed me her talent through them.

But I didn’t notice that. After all, I was too engrossed in our letter exchange.

“I’d like to purchase an artwork… but would it be possible to call a higher-up for that?”

When I said this, the clerk beamed.

“I have many connections and can offer assistance in all sorts of matters. If possible, I’d like to have an open talk with this place’s owner. For now, I’ll buy this work as proof of my good faith. I’d also like to meet the artist.” I smiled back at him. But the nature of my feelings was different from that of the clerk in front of me. “To tell you the truth, the artist is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking for her for a long time now.”

This might turn into a long-term fight. However, I thought, I would definitely go through with it.

The headache eventually went away.

Clad in an old cloak, a middle-aged man stood in front of a school in a certain town.

He was a normal, average man. Had unkempt hair and wore eyeglasses. There was no particularly outstanding trait in him.

With a sleepy-looking face, the man took his glasses out to rub his eyes several times. He was truly just an ordinary man.

After a while, a bell rang from within the school and children bustled out all of a sudden. Boys and girls dressed in matching uniforms passed the middle-aged man from the sides and left the school behind, looking like they were having fun while chatting with each other.

Eventually, a girl came outside alone.

She had pure-white skin and hair, as well as red eyes. Upon spotting the man, this girl, whose appearance could be described as fantasy-like even, ran straight towards him like a bullet, hugging him as soon as she reached his feet.

“Welcome back, Ms. Angela.”

“I have arrived, Mr. Oscar.”

The man so-called Oscar picked up the girl whose name meant “angel”. The two embraced each other as if to make sure that there was no space whatsoever separating them. As if finishing recharging their batteries, they nodded to one another once they had enough and the girl was let down on the ground.

“Are we going like this, Mr. Oscar?” Angela offered her hand.

Oscar squeezed it unconditionally.

There was nothing special in those actions. One could tell that they had done this countless times already.

“Yeah, we can go by foot, or do you want to grab a carriage?”

“I’ll walk!”

“Then, you must be hungry. You’ve got some sort of request, don’t you?”

“I do, but it’s not that, Mr. Oscar.”

“Hm?”

“Mr. Oscar, you’re a lonely guy, right?”

“Well, kind of.”

“I thought it’d do you good to go on a walk with me and eat something on the way.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Besides, you’re usually always sitting, so it’s best if you walk. I’m worried about your back.”

“Having a young kid worry about my back sure is awkward.”

Oscar swallowed back the words “How come you know me so well?”. He knew that whatever he said to her would be turned over into his own defeat.

The two of them differed completely in looks, but were in total “harmony” when they were together.

“Mr. Oscar, look, a pretty pigeon.”

“Indeed, it’s got prettier feathers than the other pigeons.”

From the perspective of an onlooker, they seemed like parent and child.

The destination they headed to was a small rentable theater, which was holding some kind of exhibition. It seemed to be used for various purposes such as plays and lectures. Apparently, it was now hosting a painting exhibition.

After the reception, the two took their time to walk and look around.

“I like this color. Don’t you think it’s wonderful?”

“It’s nice. I like it too.”

From young artists with promising futures to award-winning famous ones. The wide range of the exhibits was extremely entertaining for the two art lovers.

Ultimately, they reached a series of works arranged together in one room. That was apparently the only place where the works of a certain creator were gathered. It was probably a small exhibition for an artist who had received some sort of prestigious award a while ago.

Oscar and Angela looked at each other’s faces and laughed.

The room’s interior was decorated with many artworks, such as paintings and frames adorned with beautiful envelopes. One that remarkably caught the eye was an abstract painting on an enormous canvas, likely twice as tall as an adult man. When the duo came upon this artwork, they stood before it and stared in silence.

The title of the artwork was “Us”.

Gazing at it was a special moment for the two of them. A lot had happened until they arrived at this point.

Oscar lowered his eyebrows, looking as if he were about to cry. “It’s marvelous.”

The town was full of people, thus there were many people entering and exiting this exhibition as well. All sorts of things had happened in the life of Oscar, who seemed like nothing but a commonplace man, no matter how one looked at him. A person could never see another person’s life story just by looking at them. There was nothing extraordinary about the world and living was painful more often than not. Therefore, special moments like this one would gently illuminate a person’s path, even if just for an instant.

“If you hadn’t saved me, Mr. Oscar, I wouldn’t have the chance to paint this,” Angela whispered intermittently, which further stimulated the Oscar’s tear glands. He attempted to let go of her hand to wipe his tears, but Angela did not allow it. As she opened her arms and gestured with a “come on”, Oscar picked her up. “You’re such a crybaby, Mr. Oscar. I rarely cry at all.” Although Angela was the child out of the two of them, yet she wiped Oscar’s tears with  the sleeve of her uniform, almost in the same way one would do with an infant. “Hey, can we discuss about us for a bit?”

——This kid doesn’t resemble my daughter in the slightest.

“When we first met, you looked pretty lonely.”

——But the weight I feel when I carry this girl is just like hers.

“The way you talked also felt lonely in some way, but you were nice. You looked like a particularly wonderful person to me. I don’t get attached to grown-ups so easily, but… Mr. Oscar, I thought I could get along really well with you.”

——My affection for her just grows.

“We’re both… on the artistic side, right?”

“Yes, that was really it.”

——This might be a sin.

Oscar feared this more than anything. Therefore, he was scared of accepting her fully by changing her title into something other than “friend” or “pen-pal”. After all, many things had happened until this point.

The time he spent with his newest friend was sublime, almost as if they were a family. Nevertheless, perhaps this was…

——…a crime?

Might it not be anything other than betrayal against his late wife and daughter? He had claimed no intentions on having a new family, and yet he found several reasons so that the two of them would be together. If he told his wife and child about it, would they not feel bad? He could not bring himself to think that they were unable to hear him since they were gone. They could be right beside him. Maybe he would meet them after he died. If so, then this was nothing but betrayal, but he could not stop himself. He could no longer let go of the weight of this life.

——Because…

“Mr. Oscar. Make sure to count on me when you feel lonely. I owe you for the many things you’ve done for me. No, even aside from those things… I like you…”

Unable to keep looking at Angela’s face, Oscar rested his head on her shoulder and let out a sob.

Almost like a mother, Angela whispered softly, “I want us to stay close together. ‘Cause this world is too lonely.”

——Because you’ve become someone important to me.

While being patted on the head by the girl of angelic name, Oscar evened his breathing. He wanted to put the things he had been avoiding until now into words.

This could be betrayal. He might face disapproval for it one day. However, he could no longer live alone. He wound up meeting someone whom he wanted by his side. The time to put a name to this relationship and to her was approaching.

“Ms. Angela…”

Perhaps fate had been granted to them when they first met.

“Can I… be your family?”

Angela’s face lit up.

“You’re… someone…”

And then tears trickled down. Just a little more until Oscar earned himself an angel of his own.

“You’re someone very precious to me… so please, could you spare me a reason to stay by your side?”

This was a story about a prayer that felt like rain in a summer afternoon – the kind that was a little mild, yet one would find themselves wishing for something to happen once the weather cleared.

Oscar’s Little Angel

“I wish for this pain to disappear. Close your eyes just for now, because I want to erase our loneliness.”