"Warmest are the comforts that refuse to die quickly."
- A Condemned Man
It turned out the officers I spoke with did not know anyone named Richard, but they assured me all survivors were being treated at select hospitals. Deciding my faith in the spirits was near impeccable, I took a cab back to the bureau. I would have preferred a carriage, but none were nearby—only police cars and ambulances.
On the ride, I realised a simple solution: if I established a shadow link to my room, I could have transported myself there instantly with darkness. I made a mental note to set it up at the first opportunity.
When I reached headquarters, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave. The building buzzed with frantic activity—employees and workers rushing about in urgent disorganisation. I took the elevator straight to the exorcist quarters and headed to my room, ignoring the unfamiliar receptionist. An apology would be offered later.
Inside, weariness deepened as if I had never slept in this body. A gentle wind brushed past me; my clothes phased through my form and folded themselves neatly onto a chair. The same wind guided me toward the bed while a small stream of water materialised, cleansing sweat and grime from my skin with cool, soothing precision.
The moment I collapsed onto the mattress, the lights dimmed. A soft lullaby filled the room—wordless, ancient, infinitely tender. I whispered a quiet thank you to the caring spirits before sleep claimed me.
I woke the next day feeling remarkably refreshed—more energetic than at any point since my birth in this world. I even found myself humming, a habit I had not indulged in for a very long time in either life.
After completing my morning routine, I decided to indulge in a little fun. I wanted to clean my room, but not with ordinary arcane. No—I chose a specific enchantment that would make the task feel like something from a fairy tale. As if sensing my desire, an array of cleaning implements appeared before me: brooms, brushes, rags, and dusters. I cast the spell; they sprang to life with cheerful purpose and set to work.
"Do try to be thorough," I remarked lightly.
Though crude, the enchanted tools still carried a cleaning spell. The winds joined in, blowing gently and carrying the fresh, grassy scent of a meadow through the room.
I moved to the kitchen to cook. Enchanting the pots, plates, and silverware to clean themselves, I surveyed the limited contents of the fridge. After choosing ingredients, I began cutting. The stove ignited on its own; flames danced literally, leaping in playful patterns. Four pots arranged themselves neatly over the flames while water flowed from the tap like a graceful dancer, filling each vessel.
Letting out a small chuckle, I continued my work, the hum never leaving my lips.
After two failures – and nearly four different hummed tunes – I finally completed the dish. The failures were graciously accepted by the spirits, who provided additional ingredients in return, to which I thanked them.
I regarded the meal with quiet satisfaction. While I possessed knowledge of countless recipes and techniques, I had exactly zero practical experience in cooking.
I pulled out a chair and sat. Other chairs slid into place; silhouettes slowly became visible—multiple spirits materialising around the table. Some glowed blood-red like living gemstones, others had delicate flakes of snow drifting around them, and still others appeared as beautiful women formed of living plants, all with veils covering their faces. Each had prepared a replica of my dish.
I was neither surprised nor bothered. I simply took my fork and began eating. The food was a touch too salty for my taste, but generally good—the beef and sausages paired well with the stew. The spirits had insisted on the sausages.
I lifted my glass of water and drank—only to taste beer. Surprised, I looked down; the glass now held foamy, golden beer, which slowly refilled itself.
I sighed at their prank and took a massive gulp, slamming the glass down before continuing to eat. Some spirits approved of the gesture and imitated me. The near-constant slamming of cups quickly grew annoying.
There was no music, no hymns, no humming—just the joyful noise of a feast. When I finished my plate, I took another gulp of beer and sighed with deep satisfaction. The meal had not truly filled me, but I felt content. As I stood, a spirit appeared behind me and gently pushed me back into the chair. My plate refilled with steaming food as if freshly served, and my glass—now a proper tankard—brimmed once more with beer.
I laughed softly at their insistence. A man finishes eating, and you immediately force him to begin again?
Challenge accepted.
I raised the tankard and drained it in one go, the act stirring memories of past feasts with old friends. I restarted my meal as the spirit patted my back with unmistakable happiness.
I knew it would get noisy. Yet I quite liked it this way. After all, it is far better to endure the noise of others…than the silence of one's own heart.