Chapter 2: Prologue (Part 2)

Bertille herself had felt most clearly that her symptoms had been steadily worsening.

That was precisely why, just before she vomited a large amount of blood and lost consciousness, she had prepared herself for death.

Yet that was apparently only three days ago, and for her illness to have been nearly healed—such a thing should have been impossible.

Even if she had received treatment while unconscious, judging from what he said, it seemed he was referring to a time before she lost consciousness, which made it an obvious contradiction.

The doctor, who had been observing Bertille as she struggled to hide her confusion, changed the atmosphere to something more serious.

He lowered his gaze as if in thought, then looked back at her.

“Young lady, could it be—”

“Hey, isn’t it done yet?”

Interrupting the doctor’s voice was her youngest older brother, who sounded impatient.

In response to the urging voice from beyond the door, the maid hurried over to it.

“It seems the examination is finished, so I will allow you to enter.”

“No, wait—”

Unaware of the doctor trying to stop her, the maid opened the door and let the brothers in.

The doctor let out a sigh.

The youngest brother, who entered first, strode straight to the bedside and looked down at Bertille with a stern expression.

“You’re fine, right?”

At first glance, it sounded almost confrontational, but concern was evident in his tone and gaze.

Being worried about by her youngest brother was still strange, so Bertille said nothing.

A deep crease formed between his brows.

“Your complexion looks bad, and something—”

As he reached his hand toward her while saying that, Bertille instinctively slapped it away.

The youngest brother’s eyes widened, and so did those of the other brothers and their father.

“Don’t touch me.”

When Bertille fixed them with a sharp glare, confusion appeared on their faces.

Even though she had been acting like this for nearly a month now, why were they so surprised and bewildered?

In this household, Bertille was treated as less than a servant.

She had lived quietly, without resistance, trying not to provoke them as much as possible.

She had hoped that someday she would be loved.

But once she realized her impending death, a life spent merely accommodating people who did not respect her suddenly felt utterly foolish, and she began to rebel.

What now filled Bertille were negative emotions—suspicion, irritation, and contempt.

She was simply returning the feelings they had always directed at her.

“Bertille?”

“What is this? What is wrong with you all? You hate me, don’t you? You resent me, don’t you? Then why pretend to be concerned now? What are you trying to do at this point?”

“…!”

The youngest brother’s expression wavered, mixed with shock and something like hurt.

Then, his trembling lips slowly moved.

“Did your memories… come back?”

“Memories? What are you—ugh!”

Another headache struck, and Bertille frowned, gripping the sheets tightly.

Inside her head, unfamiliar scenes began to flash one after another.

Moments of going out with her brothers, enjoying meals together, receiving presents—none of which should have ever happened.

(What are these memories?)

Bertille immediately understood that they were memories.

Memories within herself.

“Young lady.”

As she endured the pain and tried to think, the doctor called out to her.

“Do you know who I am?”

“…You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“My apologies, that was a poor way to ask. Is today the first time you have met me?”

The youngest brother frowned at the doctor’s question.

“Hey, what kind of ridiculous question is that—”

“I believe it is.”

Ignoring him, Bertille answered the doctor, and everyone gasped in shock.

Their gazes pierced into her, as if they were saying that couldn’t possibly be true.

“…!”

“Bertille!”

As the headache worsened and she held her head, the voices of her youngest brother, second brother, and father overlapped.

But Bertille’s mind was already overwhelmed with the intense pain and the unfamiliar memories.

And then, suddenly, she understood her situation.

Strangely, she did not panic.

Of course, she was confused, but she remained unexpectedly calm.

“…What is today’s date?”

“It is the 23rd day of the 7th month, year 546 of the Royal Calendar.”

When she asked as her headache began to subside, it was the doctor who answered.

(So it’s been about half a year since then.)

About half a year had passed since the day she had accepted as her final moment in her memory.

Though fragmented, memories of these past six months began to return one after another.

These impossible memories were memories engraved into the body.

They were not experiences of Bertille herself.

That event—when she had vomited a large amount of blood and prepared for death—had not happened three days ago, but half a year ago.

And perhaps because she had nearly died—though it was still unbelievable and only speculation—the exact cause unknown, astonishingly, for those six months, it seemed that another person’s soul had resided in this body.

And that soul had belonged to someone from another world.

They were memories that remained.

Yet they were someone else’s memories.

Memories of another person living as Bertille while her consciousness had been absent.

However, it seemed that the otherworldly person had not inherited Bertille’s memories and had passed it off as amnesia.

And that ‘Bertille with amnesia’—

“Could it be… that instead of remembering the past, you’ve lost the memories of these past six months?”

With a pained expression that seemed to beg for denial, her youngest brother asked her.

Though the doctor had not yet made a definitive confirmation, both the youngest brother and the others seemed to have realized that possibility.

Perhaps the doctor had explained beforehand that such a thing could happen.

“I am gradually remembering. In just half a year, this house has changed quite a lot, hasn’t it?”

The youngest brother opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end, he closed it without a word.

He bit his lip tightly.

Her father, who stepped beside him, showed clear regret.

“I’m sorry for everything until now. I neglected you all this time—”

“I don’t need your apology.”

Bertille coldly rejected her father’s apology.

Because it was all too late.

Far too late.

Even the mild word ‘neglected’ only made it more unpleasant.

“Please leave. All of you.”

“Bertille, let’s talk—”

“Didn’t you hear me say leave? There’s nothing to talk about.”

With a voice filled with more anger than even she expected, Bertille firmly refused them.

Her father and the others faltered.

Amid that, the doctor spoke to her.

“Young lady.”

“For now, there are no concerns other than the headache, correct? We can talk later.”

“…Understood.”

Sensing her strong desire to be left alone, the doctor urged them, and everyone left the room.

Bertille, who did not spare even a glance for her family as they kept looking back at her, tightened her grip on the sheets.

“This is the worst.”

That single sentence slipped from her lips.