Chapter 3: My Encounter with the Mysterious Visitor “Mr. Bear”
As the western sun slants low and the library is bathed in orange light.
There is the soft sound of fabric rustling from the sofa across from me.
“…Mm, uh…”
The intruder, who had been sleeping like a log, slowly stirs.
I lift my gaze from the book I was reading, Changes in Agricultural Irrigation Systems in the Western Nations, Volume Two, and look at him.
He raises his heavy eyelids and stares vaguely at the ceiling.
His eyes are unfocused.
“…Heaven?”
“No.
The northern outskirts of the royal palace.”
I correct him flatly.
He startles, his shoulders jerking, and suddenly sits bolt upright.
“!
Y-you are…”
“I am the manager here.
Are you awake now?”
I pour tea from the pot into a fresh cup.
I had reheated it while he was sleeping.
The temperature is lukewarm.
Hot drinks are hard on the body right after waking up.
“Please.
Staying hydrated is important.”
“Ah, ah… sorry.”
Without much caution, he accepts the cup I offer.
With trembling hands, he brings it to his lips.
One sip.
Another.
The tension in his expression slowly melts away.
“…I’ve come back to life…”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“How long… was I asleep?”
“About three hours.”
“Three hours!?”
He turns pale and tries to stand up.
A textbook overworked-employee reaction.
That guilt of ‘I fell asleep,’ overwriting the comfort of rest.
I understand it painfully well.
“It’s still before quitting time, five o’clock.”
When I point to the old clock on the wall, he freezes.
“…I see.
There’s still time before the evening gathering…”
He exhales deeply, then looks at me again.
And then, he looks around the room.
“This was… the Second Library, wasn’t it.
When did it get so clean?”
“Starting today.
I cleaned it.”
“You did all of this alone?
This garbage house?”
“It is not garbage.
It is a mountain of historical materials.
At the moment, still a mountain.”
When I correct him, his eyes widen slightly, then he lets out a weak laugh.
He has refined features, but when he smiles, the dark circles under his eyes stand out, making him look oddly pitiable.
“…Thank you.
It’s been a long time since I slept without dreaming.”
“Think nothing of it.
The sofa happened to be free.”
He sets the cup on the table and stands, looking a little reluctant.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and opens his mouth as if to say something—then, in the end, says nothing and bows his head.
“Sorry for intruding.
…May I come again?”
“As long as you remain quiet.”
“I promise.”
He leaves the room as if fleeing, yet his steps are slightly steadier than when he arrived.
I take the abandoned cup and cast a 《Clean》 spell on it.
I never asked his name.
I do not know his status.
But the weight of exhaustion he carries is something I understand without words.
Those were the eyes of someone who had reached their limit.
“…Good work today, Mr. Bear.”
I give him a nickname on my own, inspired by the impressive bags under his eyes.
The next day.
Just as I finish organizing the shelves, sorting from the “Ma” section to the “Wa” section, and am about to take a break.
The door opens quietly, without a knock.
“…”
It is him from yesterday.
Mr. Bear.
His complexion is poor again today.
He looks slightly better than yesterday, perhaps thanks to those three hours of sleep.
When our eyes meet, he gives a small, silent bow.
Then he walks to the same sofa as yesterday and sits down without a sound.
“…”
“…”
There is no conversation.
He does not demand anything.
He simply relaxes and stares at the ceiling.
Anyone working in the palace should be coming here to research something, yet it seems this place has been certified as a “shelter” for him.
I decide not to worry about it and go about my own time.
I pour tea from the pot.
Two cups.
I place one on the low table in front of him.
Then, as an extra, I set out a small plate of “nut cookies” Mina had given me that morning.
“…Is this alright?”
He asks in a hoarse voice.
“Without sugar, the brain rots.”
“…Words of wisdom.”
He picks up a cookie and bites into it.
The crisp sound echoes through the quiet.
Perhaps the sweetness reaches him, because he closes his eyes and tilts his face upward.
“…Delicious.”
“They’re leftovers from a lower-town bakery.”
“No, they’re better than any confection in the palace.
…I can feel my will to live coming back.”
How exaggerated.
But I understand the feeling.
When you are exhausted, what you need is not a delicate sugar-crafted cake, but a solid lump of wheat and sugar that hits you head-on.
I nibble on my own cookie and open my book.
He, too, pulls out several documents from his pocket and begins reading.
But his pen moves slowly.
From time to time, he sets the papers on his knee and stares vaguely out the window.
The sound of the wind rattling the glass.
The sound of pages turning.
Occasionally, the sound of him biting into a cookie.
It is astonishingly quiet.
When I lived in noble society, I was taught that “silence is awkward.”
That one must always provide topics, liven the atmosphere, and entertain the other party.
Tea gatherings with Prince Kyle were the ultimate example.
“Hey, say something interesting.”
“…Then, regarding the recent harvest yields of the territory—”
“Boring!
Isn’t there anything more glamorous to talk about?”
Just remembering it makes my stomach hurt.
But this space has no “obligations.”
He asks nothing of me.
I ask nothing of him.
We are simply healing our respective fatigue in the same space.
An ease that exists only because we are strangers who do not even know each other’s names.
‘…This isn’t bad.’
I take a sip of my now-cool tea.
Feeling a gaze, I look up.
He is watching me.
When our eyes meet, he gives a faint smile.
Not the pasted-on smile of social courtesy, but a relaxed, natural expression.
“…It’s quiet here.”
“It is the royal palace graveyard.”
“A graveyard, huh.
…Certainly ideal for sleeping like the dead.”
At his self-deprecating joke, the corners of my mouth lift just a little.
“It would be troublesome if you died.
Corpse disposal is outside my job description.”
“Haha.
…I’ll do my best.”
He pops the last cookie into his mouth and gathers his documents.
It seems he has recovered a little.
“Thank you.
Until tomorrow, then.”
“Only until quitting time.”
“Yeah.
…Sorry for the intrusion.”
He stands and heads for the door.
His back looks just a little straighter than when he arrived.
The door closes.
Silence returns once more.
I stare at the empty cookie plate.
Maybe I should bring a few more tomorrow.
At this rate, he will surely come again.
And so, a single “quiet roommate” was added to my “new life where no one interferes.”
And I still have not realized it yet.
That the documents he sometimes spread out were top-secret papers tied to the survival of the nation.
Nor that I had unconsciously corrected a memo he dropped, using a red pen.