Murderous Lewellyn’s Candlelit Dinner - Chapter 1.8

The door plate was broken. The number 303 engraved on the door plate was divided into large and small pieces and rolled around the hallway floor.

It was obvious who did it. Shavonne bit his lower lip with his teeth. He had been relieved that the stalker hadn’t appeared while he was moving out (or after changing the front door), but what he didn’t know was that he would be stabbed in the back in this way. He couldn’t just wait to see what happens. Shavonne headed to the Ira Street Police Station.

“I have a wicked stalker.”

Shavonne declared. The Ira Street Police Station was small enough to be called a patrol division, but because people were (relatively) huddled together, there were three police officers who heard Shavonne. And one of them said,

“You’re not a woman, why would they be a stalker?”

The other one said,

“You can kick him out on your own. Why did you come all the way here…?”

The other one said,

“It’s pro~bably because you’re handsome.”

They ignored Shavonne. The police officer in charge of Shavonne’s case was silent as if he had not heard anything, so he said it again clearly.

“I have a wicked stalker.”

Shavonne was asked what kind of stalker they were. He presented the evidence as requested: the pieces of the broken door plate when Mr Bacon replaced the front door.  Shavonne replied that the stalker broke the door plate after secretly peeking through a hole in his front door. One of the three cops said,

“No? What’s there to peek at?”

The other said,

“I guess it’s just a neighbor that hates you. Why did you come all the way here…”

The other one said,

“You call them a stalker just because of that. If you see a neighbor who posts a note on your door every day, you’ll call them a pervert…”

They ignored Shavonne. The policeman in charge of Shavonne was only looking at the clock on the wall, asking time to pass quickly, but when Shavonne said, “Hey,” he came to his senses and gave a belated answer.

“You call them like that, but I don’t think you know who the stalker is, so it’s a little…”

“A little?”

Shavonne asked back in a nervous voice. The police officer in charge of Shavonne shrugged.

“It’s impossible to investigate. There’s no manpower or justification for this. What if Mr. Shavonne points out the stalker and reports them?”

“So you want me to find out who the stalker is?” Shavonne shouted, pointing at the request letter and pieces of the broken door plate. “Look, it’s real damage. It’s voyeurism and financial damage.”

“Well, it’s still not a criminal. You’ve changed the front door, and now that it’s broken, you can buy a new door plate.”

Hahaha. Right? Laughing, the policemen looked around and agreed.

The cops that were listening until then, nodded enthusiastically.

Stifled by the urge to spit at the police, Shavonne returned to his apartment in Ira. Mailboxes were at the entrance of the first floor of the apartment building in Ira, and when he unconsciously looked at them, a letter was stuck in the mailbox of Room 303. The recipient was Shavonne, and the sender was…

– What can you do?

– Write.

– What have you written?

– I have ghostwritten John Gray’s book, Adam Eyle’s book and so on.

– Uhm, good. We will contact you by mail after the meeting.

It was a Deck publisher.

They asked to meet. It was written that the editor would pick Shavonne up at his house and discuss the contract. The postscript at the end was the highlight.

“After eight years of ghostwriting, it’s about time you wrote your own material, Mr. writer Shavonne.”

Shavonne couldn’t take his eyes off the word Mr writer Shavonne. A ghostwriter was, of course, a writer, but in Bunch’s publishing market, he was treated as a sentence maker, not a writer. He had worked as a ghostwriter for eight years, but he had never heard the name ‘writer’. Except now.

When can I meet the editor? Shavonne quickly skimmed through the letter to confirm the editor’s visit date. Wednesday. It was tomorrow!

Shavonne turned the house upside down in a hurry. He found and took care of the books of John Gray, Adam Eyle and Jane Clover that he had ghostwritten. He was not ghostwriting anymore. He would write his own. His heart skipped a beat when he thought he could publish Shavonne’s writing under the name of Shavonne. Some pieces of the broken doorplate couldn’t calm down Shavonne’s heart.

The next day, it was 10 a.m. when the editor promised to visit the apartment in Ira, but Shavonne had been awake from 1 a.m. When the editor arrived, Shavonne was red-eyed from staying up all night, and the editor greeted him with a good smile as if it was fun.

“When I met you at the publishing house, you were a human being, but now you’re almost a vampire.”

“Yes. Somehow.”

“Haha. Were you too nervous?”

Rather than being nervous, it was right to say that he was excited to hear being called a writer. Shavonne dodged the answer only by prevaricating. The editor freely turned the topic around.

“Shall we go? If we talk here… yeah.” The editor glanced at the shabby appearance of the apartment building and shrugged. “I believe you know what I’m talking about.”

It was a sunny day. The sky was blue and high without a single cloud. It was rare for the weather to be as good as it is today in Bunch, which was famous for its fog and cold that never disappeared. It was a cafe in South Bunch Square where the editor and Shavonne agreed to discuss, and the yellow sun that ran through the window was warm.

It was a perfect day. It was a day that was likely to be a perfect day at least. It was not until two unfortunate events happened.

“What’s wrong? Do you have any complaints about our terms and conditions?”

The first one was that. The terms and conditions of the contract presented by Deck Publishing were fake. To put it nicely, it’s a sham, or to put it badly, a slave contract. Shavonne wasn’t a fool. He knew the world and knew the publisher’s affairs perfectly. When Shavonne made a serious face, the editor took out two cigarettes. It was one for Shavonne and the other for the editor. Shavonne shook his head when he reached one out to him.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Take this opportunity to start,” the editor laughed. “When a war breaks out, the price rises very high, so you can’t smoke even if you want to.”

Whether a war broke out or not, Shavonne didn’t want to owe anyone a cigarette. Moreover, Shavonne wasn’t budged if he was an editor of a publishing house that accepted sub-average contract terms. Only then did the editor withdraw his cigarette, saying, “You are unexpectedly stubborn. Maybe you don’t know this world very well… This is a contract that anyone with a Shavonne position would want.”

“…”

“Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you going to let escape the chance of being called a writer?”

“…”

“You’ve been unemployed for a while, haven’t you? What about this month’s rent, this month’s living expenses, and this month’s food expenses?”

“…”

“If you want to refuse, do it. It’s alright, Mr. Shavonne, but I have a lot of people who are dying to sign this contract. Why should I wait for Mr. Shavonne? I could look for someone else. But you know, I’m doing this because I feel bad for Mr. Shavonne. What if I say no, are you sure you’ll get a chance somewhere else, not our publisher?”

“That’s… “

Then…

“Huh, Mr. Shavonne?” He heard a familiar voice. It was the second unfortunate event. “I was  missing you, Shavonne, and now I see you here. What a coincidence, right?”

It was Lewellyn, who was so glad to see Shavonne. A coincidence involving someone who says, “It’s a strange coincidence, right?” Shavonnee was neither romantic nor sentimental enough to believe that he accidentally bumped into the same cafe on the same day. Shavonne frowned and questioned.

“Did you follow me?”

“If what Shavonne says is that I’m keeping tabs on you — in a dictionary sense — or secretly following you to spy on you, I disagree.”

Lewellyn replied with a grin.

The editor watching laughed at me. “Huh. Of course he wasn’t spying you. He followed you from the apartment as if he wanted you to see.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Shavonne shrugged his shoulders. Lewellyn still mumbled his response.

“Huh? What?”

“Hah.” Shavonne burst into laughter. He was childish. Lewellyn was acting as if the editor was invisible and he couldn’t hear him.

“I’m not invisible,” the editor said, but Lewellyn was still gazing at Shavonne. “What’s with the kid?” criticized the editor, but Lewellyn was still gazing at Shavonne. “Hey,” the editor called, but Lewellyn was still gazing at Shavonne. “…it’s over. I’m done.” As just an editor, he had no choice but to give up.

“Do you want to eat with me?”

Suddenly Lewellyn suggested. The smiling face remained as if nothing had happened.

“No.”

“Would you like some onions?”

“No.”

“Would you like some lemon juice?”

“No.”

Lewellyn thought something over and opened his mouth.

“Then…”

Shavonne raised his hand to stop Lewellyn before could say it.

“Even if it’s caviar and not onions, or Bosch red wine instead of lemon juice, no.”

“Why?”

“I’m with someone right now.”

“Someone?”

Lewellyn tilted his head.

“Yes. The one you pretend you can’t see, the one you pretend you can’t hear.”

Shavonne pointed to the editor. Only then did Lewellyn check on the editor,

“Oh, you were there. You lack presence so I didn’t know.”

And he asked for a handshake with a big smile. However, the editor’s face had already wrinkled… well, there’s no need to say it.

Q- How much time did Lewellyn need to get the editor to cry and run out of the cafe on his own?

A- 5 minutes.

Q- What weapon did Lewellyn use to get the editor to cry and run out of the cafe on his own?

A- tongue.

“He’s a freak, but you’re also out of your mind if you want to associate with a madmad like him.”

The editor said that when Shavonne came to get him after he ran out of the cafe. The editor shook off Shavonne’s hand holding onto his arm and left without looking back. At the same time, Shavonne got to know the fact that he didn’t need to worry about whether to accept the unreasonable contract conditions demanded by the editor anymore because Deck Publishing will no longer want Shavonne.

“He’s gone.”

Lewellyn, who came to his side before he knew it, looked across the road where the editor had disappeared. Shavonne was impressed. How brazen a person can be, the limits Shavonne thought were being broken day by day by Lewellyn.

Lewellyn lowered his hand, turned to face Shavonne and asked.

“Was him your new boyfriend?”

Boyfriend?

Lewellyn kept going without giving Shavonne a chance to explain.

“He’ll cheat on you.”

And,

“He’s going to infect you with a STD.”

And,

“For sure.”

He was making such a spectacle.

Shavonne stared at Lewellyn with his arms folded. It was a sunny day after a long time. Under the sun, South Bunch Square was shining brightly, and the brightest of them was Lewellyn. Shavonne didn’t know if he was a murderer, a seven-year-old villain, or a psycho, but he still had an incomparably cool look on the outside.

‘Too much.‘ Looking up at Lewellyn’s face, who looked more handsome than usual, Shavonne thought. ‘It’s too much.’

“Mr. Lewellyn.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you date an ape like him? Do you have low standards? Why? Is it for charity?”

“Mr. Lewellyn.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my mistake. I should have exposed my face to you more… If you had seen my face for another week, you would never have dated that ape.”

“Mr. Lewellyn.”

Shavonne spoke firmly without giving Lewellyn a chance to speak.

“Why are you so mean to the one I was with?”

“Apes are natural enemies of mankind.”

“Don’t play around.”

Lewellyn closed his mouth and pretended to zip it up. Shavonne didn’t have the nerve to talk as he didn’t have enough skill for talking. Shavonne sighed and touched his forehead.

“Don’t do that again. You can interrupt a love business, but don’t interfere with a ‘real’ business. Never.”

Shavonne revealed that the person Lewellyn called “ape” wasn’t his boyfriend but an editor of Deck Publishing. It was fortunate that had offered a slavery contract, if he had been a normal editor… It was horrible just imagining it.

Lewellyn pretended to unzip his mouth. A face as usual, a voice as usual, but different words.

“But I wish Mr. Shavonne was a beggar.”

“Ha. Why? You think I’ll leave Ira Street if I earn money?”

Lewellyn confirmed that Shavonne didn’t sign the contract. Shavonne looked at Lewellyn with tired eyes. Did Lewellyn know? That Shavonne wanted to leave Ira Street.

If he had money, he wouldn’t have to live in Ira Street, he wouldn’t need to have a murderer as a neighbor, and he wouldn’t have to have a vessel full of blood around his neck and fight the janitor. He wouldn’t have to be a loner. If he had money, he wouldn’t have to live like this for once.

Right, if only I had money.

“You’re selfish.”

Shavonne’s eyes were cold.

“I am” said Lewellyn, who answered without batting an eyelid. “I’ve always been selfish.”

There was no contact from Deck Publishing Company. Even if there was, Shavonne wouldn’t have signed the contract because he was concerned about the unreasonable terms of the contract, but it was true that the aftertaste was bitter anyway.

“I’m screwed.”

It was time to admit it. Shavonne was unemployed.

Once in the morning, once in lunch and twice in the evening, Shavonne sighed. He didn’t care who saw him or not. Sneezing, love, and unemployment were something that couldn’t be hidden. Lewellyn looked closely at Shavonne’s side face and came up with an offer a few days later.

“Would you edit a personal letter?”

It was an unwelcome suggestion. A personal letter would contain personal information. He didn’t want to read someone’s private life. Moreover, a personal letter would contain the sincerity of the writer, and he didn’t want to fill it with crossed lines, annotations, and corrections.

Shavonne refused. But it was useless because Lewellyn confessed, “I’m sorry, I’ve already put the advertisement in Mr. Shavonne’s name before I proposed it.”.

It was a clear case of name theft. Shavonne deserved to be angry, but he couldn’t. He also seemed to have no idea what Lewellyn did wrong. Far from being wrong, he was glistening like a child expecting praise.

Instead of being angry, Shavonne convinced Lewellyn by saying, “There is no way there would be a client asking to edit a personal letter, and how much profit would it make?”.

The problem was this. The next day, a request to edit arrived in the mailbox.

Before opening the edition request sent by Mr. Newell (as it was written Newell y. l. l), Shavonne thought. This is not a joke, is it?

After reading the first paragraph of Mr. Newell’s explanatory note, Shavonne though. “My God, there are people who are willing to edit love letters.”

After reading half a letter from Mr. Newell, Shavonne thought. I should write a rejection letter. What should I say? I’m sorry, that was a kid’s prank? I’d call Lewellyn a kid, but his mental age is the same as one, so it’s not so wrong.”

And after reading the payment criteria of the edition request sent by Mr. Newell, Shavonne thought. It’s 30 ronas per letter. I should do it. I must do it!

Shavonne replied that he would do it. The next day, he got a reply from Mr. Newell, and when Shavonne found it, the envelope had been sealed off as if someone had secretly opened it.

It’s my letter. Did someone think it was their letter? Shavonne tilted his head.

As soon as he reached for the letter in the envelope, Shavonne felt something was wrong.

There was a piece of the broken door plate of Room 303.

He watched Shavonne from a distance. Shavonne wondered when he pulled out the sealed envelope from the mailbox. Shavonne hardened his face when he took out a piece of the doorplate of Room 303, which he had never expected.

How interesting.

A cold thought flew by.

***

It would have been nice if that had stopped.

But as Shavonne always lived with bad luck, nothing ‘good’ would happened.

『… Dear S. It’s a deep and dark night. The world is quiet. I can’t hear anything. All I hear is the sound of paper crashing every time I move my pen, and the sound of the fireplace in my bedroom. It’s snowing silently over the window. Will you be watching it too? Those gray eyes that feel like a dream… The weather forecast says it won’t snow tomorrow, but the Daily Bunch is a fucking stupid newspaper…』

Shavonne read Mr. Newell’s first love letter and even went so far as to edit it (and told him not to use the word “stupid” in a love letter) on the same day.

Shavonne received the following letter.

『Did you sleep well? 』

It was his stalker. After checking the sentence, Shavonne couldn’t hide his bewildered look. Did you sleep well? Did, you, sleep, well and even the ? were all cut and pasted from newspapers, so the handwriting couldn’t be recognized.

The sender said ‘friend’, but when Shavonne went through the heavy snow and found the address of the sender, he found only an abandoned vacant lot.

『… Dear S, now it’s midnight. A dense, suffocating night is covering the world so dark that you can’t even see an inch ahead. The only thing that can illuminate this darkness is you, dear S. (You know, of course, it’s a metaphor. It’s not you that can illuminate the darkness, only a light bulb can do so. You’ll be disappointed, but you don’t have filament and coils anyway. Of course you don’t have nitrogen too.) 』

Reading Mr. Newell’s second love letter, he edited it  (He added a heartfelt advice that it would be better to delete all the parentheses, starting with ‘you know, of course, it’s a metaphor…’).

Shavonne received the following letter.

『Are you short of groceries?』

It was his stalker, of course. Shavonne hadn’t been to the grocery store in a while. The last time he stopped by the owner said, ‘Are you buying emergency food in case a war breaks out?’ He bought so much so he didn’t have to go many times.

It was creepy to think whether Shavonne was going out or not. However, all Shavonne could do was lock the front door carefully and close the curtains by the window so that they couldn’t see an inch from outside.

『… Dear S, dawn is looming over the window. S, I have a question: Does constant exposure work? Will someone drink if they keep exposing themselves to people who drink? Will that someone fall in love if they’re exposed to love letters even though they’re not interested in dating? You are smart, so I think you might know. Of course, it’s not that I don’t know you’re acting like a fool in certain situations, but you’re generally smart, except in those certain situations. I will wait for your reply. Kisses and love, your Newell.』

At the end, Shavonne read Mr. Newell’s third letter an edited it. He wanted to ask if Mr. Newell’s lover gets sexually aroused when being a jerk, an idiot or something like that, or if Mr. Newell was a sadist, but he didn’t want to lose the job where he could get 30 ronas every time he opened a letter.

『Aren’t you lonely?』

It was his stalker, of course. The stamp on the mail indicated that it had been approved by the South Bush Post Office, so he went there to search for a clue.

It’s a crude forgery that can be seen at a glance. That was the end of the post office’s explanation. The workers were so busy that they couldn’t afford to solve Shavonne’s questions.

Then it wouldn’t have been delivered through the post office. The stalker himself would have delivered it or ordered an errand man. Shavonne decided to go out and monitor the mailbox in Ira. It was a primitive but certain way. If there was a person who wasn’t a mailman and was hanging around in front of the mailbox of Room 303, he or she must be a stalker or the stalker’s messenger.

“I’ll teach you a lesson.”

Shavonne clenched his fist holding the letter and thought. The letter was crumpled from his grip with a rumbling sound.

On the first day, he was out the whole day and Shavonne got nowhere.

On the second day, I was out the whole day and Shavonne got nowhere.

On the third day, he was out the whole day and Shavonne got nowhere.

Five days passed through like that. Shavonne was neither a detective nor an agent. He wasn’t even a hitman. He was just an ordinary citizen. It was also natural that he began to wonder, “Am I wasting my time?” when he was repeatedly beaten up in vain.

After six days, Shavonne was unsure enough to quit the vigilance at any moment. Shavonne had no confidence in his eyes to overshadow his decision to catch the stalker.

It was ironic As soon as he decided to quit, Shavonne witnessed him just before he left. He wasn’t a mailman, but a man hanging around the mailbox of Room 303.

He could tell by the back.

It was Lewellyn.

Lewellyn opened the mailbox in room 303 and closed it.

It was clear. If he were a stranger, Shavonne might have been mistaken, and Lewellyn might have looked at the mailbox No. 302 next to it, not the mailbox No. 303, but that wasn’t the case. There was a bell ringing. Six days ago, Shavonne set it up behind the door of the mail of Room 303, and if anyone set off the alarm that Shavonne made for that case, he wouldn’t miss his stalker.

No way, Lewellyn?

“…”

His mind went blank.

After Lewellyn left, Shavonne rushed to the mailbox. But the mailbox in room 303 remained the same. Nothing had changed.

‘It can’t be like this?‘ He searched everywhere, but the results were the same.

The mailbox of room 302 caught his eye.

Maybe…

Shavonne gulped down saliva. A loud gulp sounded in his ears, nervous.

I’m just checking, I won’t touch it. It’ll be okay. Brainwashing himself, Shavonne reached out to Room 302 mailbox.

It was then that he heard a voice suddenly.

“It’s my mailbox, not Mr. Shavonne’s.”

Before Shavonne knew it, Lewellyn was standing in front of him with a smile as usual. Shavonne caught his lower lip with his teeth and opened his mouth.

“… I’m sorry. I was confused.”

It was an unbelievable excuse, but he couldn’t help it. That was the only excuse he could come up with right away.

“Hmm.” Lewellyn looked at Shavonne with a lost look that didn’t tell what he was thinking. There was even a plausible smile on his mouth.

Shavonne held his hands tightly. Cold sweat was dripping out and the grip was damp.

I thought you left, but why did you come back? You didn’t forget anything or have any business here.

No way… you knew I was here?

He got chills.

“You’re being impolite again, right?”

Lewellyn’s eyes were glistening as he said so. It was an extraordinary ability that made people wary, rather than to comfort them whenever he laughed. Shavonne accepted it while avoiding his gaze.

“Right.”

There was an unexpected response.

“How are you going to compensate me?”

Compensate? Shavonne unknowingly asked back “What?”.

“Did you know that Mr. Shavonne was impolite to me a total of 22 times? Now 23 times,” Lewellyn said naturally. “So far, I’ve been trying to stay still because you’re cute, but the balance isn’t right. So I thought, compensation per discourtesy. You’re going to pay for it every time you’re impolite.”

“What …”

“You don’t have complaints, do you?”

He couldn’t have. Being impolite is just being impolite. It’s not a crime so you can’t force compensation.

Lewellyn added when he was going to argue back. “Don’t say no because it’s just a question of courtesy.”

“…”

Even before it started, the objection was stopped. Shavonne lost the chance to speak.

“Take your time thinking about how you’re going to pay for it, because I’m going to slowly think about what I want.”

Shavonne didn’t respond because he needed to pretend to be considerate. QuIte naturally, Lewellyn smiled brightly, regardless of whether Shavonne answered or not. Looking at it, Shavonne thought again. He has an extraordinary ability to make people alert rather than to make them comfortable whenever he smiles.

At midnight that day, Shavonne headed to the mailbox on the first floor of the apartment building without anyone knowing. Shavonne was able to open the No. 302 mailbox only after confirming that there were no people, checking again just in case, and checking again for fear that Lewellyn might be in ambush.

There was something.

He couldn’t see what that ‘something’ was because it was dark. Shavonne took out the matches he had brought and lit then. A small flame rose at the end of the wooden head with the sound of chik. It seemed that that ‘something’ was… paper. He opened the folded paper in the shape of a ship. He thought he should not open it, but it was already too late.

『Being impolite again? 』

Was Lewellyn already expecting Shavonne to be impolite for the 23rd time?

The day came back before his eyes. The day when Shavonne became convinced that Lewellyn wasn’t the stalker in question.

– What thing is so funny? A man in his thirties being stalked by an unknown person? That I’m the owner of the house, but I didn’t even know if there was a hole in the door? Or…

– It’s not ‘thing’, but ‘things’. Lewellyn smiled. That’s what it is. Shavonne complained with a sound. – First, there is no way to prove that the stalker in question is me.

― …

– The second is that the Mr. Stalker in question is very… vulgar.

― …

– The third… you mistook me for a low stalker.

What if, however, it wasn’t an ‘illusion’?

Although Lewellyn said he wasn’t a stalker, it was only Lewellyn’s claim. Anyone can lie. Furthermore, it would be even easier for Lewellyn, whose specialty is to lure others with plausible words.

Yeah. In other words, there were more than one or two suspicious solid facts. When he was homeless in the square because he was kicked out of the apartment house in Ira, and when he opened his eyes, the memory of Lewellyn holding an umbrella flashed in front of Shavonne.

What did he explain? He was going for a walk in the early morning and found me by chance? Ha. Back then, I just ignored it, but now that I look back, it’s just an excuse that makes me snort.

Shavonne didn’t believe in pure coincidence. Beyond what is called a coincidence, there is always a man’s meticulous trick.

Lewellyn was faithfully following a stalker’s basic knowledge. I did it just this once. Didn’t you follow in the footsteps of Shevonne, who was meeting with the editor of Deck Publishing? Then he shamelessly broke the contract between the editor and Shevonne. Come to think of it, Lewellyn once touched the mailbox of Room 303. Lemon juice. He even left a note saying “Drink me ;D!” shamelessly.

It took quite a short time to stop the growing suspicion. Shavonne came to his senses and repeated his rational judgment. All he had was evidence. There was no confirmation, so he shouldn’t have made a quick decision.

Keep your distance from Lewellyn until the truth is revealed. Yes, truth. Only if it is ‘truth’ that Lewellyn isn’t the stalker in question.

If Lewellyn is the stalker in question.

If Lewellyn was the one who asked if he had been sleeping well, if he didn’t have enough food, or if he wasn’t lonely, he would be the one who looked inside room 303 through a hole in the door, tilted the door plate, broke it and even sent it by mail.

So…

“…”

***

Lewellyn grabbed his hands. His nails dug deep because of the pressure, but he didn’t feel any pain.

He felt good.

Lewellyn checked the mailbox in Room 303 purely to see if his edited letter had been delivered. It wasn’t his exactly, it was Newell’s letter. He knew he was being rude, of course, but he didn’t care because he wasn’t very moral and didn’t intend to be a polite person.

The mailbox in room 303 was empty. He sent a letter of request six days ago, but the South Bunch Post Office seemed very busy, given that it had not arrived so far. What he then noted was the sound of bells when opening and closing the mailbox in Room 303. The sound of bells. The sound that said that the mailbox of room 303 was closed.

He wasn’t slow-witted.

After passing through the 303 mailbox, he checked the 302 mailbox, and turned around without hesitation like a person who has finished his work and left the apartment lobby. It was important to act as if there were no problems. That way, that someone won’t be suspicious while watching him somewhere. He went behind the stairs. After counting forty-five seconds, he turned to the lobby of the apartment again where the mailbox was located.

(To his surprise) ‘someone’ was Shavonne. (Even more surprisingly) Shavonne was trying to open the mailbox for room 302.

Mailbox for Room 302. His mailbox.

-… I’m sorry. I was confused.

Shavonne explained it.

Lewellyn knew Shavonne was neither sorry nor confused, but he didn’t care. What he cared about wasn’t such a trivial lie,

「Shavonne tried to open the mailbox of room 302.

Shavonne was wondering about the mailbox of room 302.

Shavonne was curious about him.

Shavonne took an interest in him. 」

but that fact.

Being curious was a precursor to love. He felt good. Shavonne will fall in love with him. Maybe he’s already in love. He wasn’t very moral and didn’t intend to be polite, but he could expect that much. He was allowed to expect that much.

He looked down at his hand. He didn’t feel any pain today.

It’s easier to advance in a relationship with gifts.

That night, Lewellyn wrote a list of possible gifts.

Flowers? Although it was a standard for romance, Shavonne seemed to be a person who has never received flowers in his life and doesn’t want to receive them. Would Shavonne really like ‘normal romance’?

He thought about it.

“Do you like any flowers?”

And when Lewellyn asks,

“Chrysanthemum. When I die, put them in my grave.”

But when Lewellyn thought it was obvious that he would answer bluntly, his mind quickly rejected it. He drew a line on the first item, ‘flower’, without hesitation.

The next item was cash. Shavonne would love it as much as a beggar, but that was all. Anyone can give you cash. Publishers, real estate, architecture offices. It was cash that had no romance and had no special meaning. He hesitated as he drew a line on the second item, ‘cash’.

An enemy’s head? Should I cut them out of the people who rejected Shavonne? Shavonne wouldn’t be so happy even if it was wrapped in a cute box or a red ribbon as a gift. The beauty was also aesthetic, but if it decays, the smell of rotten will be severe. Of course he will have throw it away. His face twisted when he thought his heartfelt gift would be trashed. He drew a line to the third item, ‘an enemy’s head’.

He held a pen in his mouth and thought about it.

Flowers. I should give him flowers. What flowers do I give you other than chrysanthemums?

The first thing that crossed his mind was the poisonous grass. Leaves and seeds were highly toxic, which had the effect of paralyzing the heart. It would be perfect to write a note saying ‘to the fatal you’. Yes, unless Shavonne inadvertently touched the leaves of the poisonous grass, he wouldn’t die.

The second thing that came to mind was the aconite (causing death by suffocation) and the third thing that came to mind was belladonna (which caused heart shock). Even the fourth and fifth flowers that he barely came up with were digitalis (which causes visual impairment) and saffron (breathing paralysis), respectively.

He couldn’t think of flowers that were perfect gifts such as roses, lilies, and tulips, because he wasn’t too familiar with them. It was only twice in his life that he encountered the word rose, and even he had read it all in John Gray and Adam Eyle’s novels.

Romance was important, and money wasi important to complete romance. Moneyless romance was as reckless a gamble as crossing the desert without water, and he had no intention of “gambling” with Shavonne. He shifted his gaze and looked at the second item. He noticed the letter ‘cash’ with the crossed line. At that moment, something flashed through his head, a brilliant idea to satisfy the romance of flowers and the practicality of cash.

Folding flowers with cash to make bouquets, so it literally took a whole day to make a wad of bills. The next morning, in the hallway of the brightly sunny apartment building, he handed over a bouquet of money and was rejected before boasting, “It’s a total of 70 ronas.”.

“I refuse.”

Shavonne’s voice was cold as he turned his back to the room. Lewellyn thought he would accept it, so he gave him cash, non-toxic flowers sold on the street, onions and lemon juice, but he kept refusing.

That wasn’t the only problem. Shavonne wouldn’t face him. Rather than face-to-face, he didn’t even talk, and even if he did, those were only two or three short answers. He would have tried to deny it a day or two, but after the next day, the other, and the day after, it became undeniable that something was going wrong.

In the end, Shavonne started to not go out of his home at all. Judging from checking the mail or preparing daily necessities at dawn, there seemed to be no problem in his personal life, but it had already been three days.

All he could do was wait. He leaned in the hallway in the morning, sat on the stairs during the day, wandered the hallway in the evening, and at night said “Good night” to the closed door of Room 303, and then he went back.

He should do so today. “Good night” he wanted to say to the closed door and step back.

“Good night.”

But he couldn’t avoid just standing around and looked down at the door handle of No. 303. The idea of whether Shavonne would let him in if he opened it was wandering in Lewellyn’s head.

“Mr. Shavonne.”

He called in a low voice. There was no answer.

“Shavonne.”

There was no answer again. He knew what ‘his’ silence meant. He couldn’t help not knowing. His bloody eyes stared at the door without a single flicker. The white part was scarlet.

The Ira apartment building was so soundproof that the sound of sex upstairs, physical fights downstairs, and crying of children next door could be heard perfectly, but Shavonne never blamed the soundproofing. Even when he couldn’t concentrate on writing with the sound of sex, fighting, and a child crying, he used to swallow in resentment, thinking, “I can’t help it, it’s a cheap apartment.”.

Until a moment ago.

-Good night.

Again. Lewellyn’s voice was also being heard over the door. As usual, Lewellyn would leave after saying good night like for the past three days, but strangely he didn’t do it today. He was silent, then suddenly.

– Mr. Shavonne.

He said in a low voice. Shavonne opened hid eyes wide open. Do you know I’m awake? Do you? Shavonne felt his back was on end. To make matters worse

-Shavonne.

Shavonne held his breath. He was worried that the poor soundproof facility wouldn’t let Lewellyn hear Shavonne’s jagged breathing, so heI was afraid that Lewellyn would notice that Shavonne was awake.

It was long after he left the door. It wasn’t until Shavonne heard the door of Room 302 open and close while the sound of the shoes disappeared that Shavonne was able to relax.

“Ha…”

While sighing, Shavonne hurriedly closed his mouth, fearing that Lewellyn would hear it over the wall. The only place Shavonne could rest in peace was under the blanket. Shavonne, covered in a blanket to the top of his head, sighed (“Whoo…”) and (“Ha…”), he cursed (“What did I do wrong to get caught by a psycho…”), and kept doing so (” Damn it, damn it… Go to war and disappear.”).

Shavonne knew that if he avoided him as openly as he was doing now, Lewellyn (mid-twenties, main job is murderer, side job may be stalker) will notice it. However, just as ideals and reality do not necessarily coincide, noticing and acting bad didn’t necessarily coincide.

He had no choice but to be on guard. Since Shavonne had been caught trying to secretly open Lewellyn’s mailbox, Lewellyn became strange, stucking a bunch of money, flowers, onions, lemon juice and so on as a gift. Shavonne couldn’t make head or tail of it. For Lewellyn, Shavonne was a suspicious neighbor who tried to open his neighbor’s mailbox without permission; he deserved to be on guard. However, he was trying to ‘deal’ with Shavonne by giving him gifts, maybe to become friendly and relaxed.

That’s how every moment he encountered Lewellyn began to become a horror. Even if Shavonne saw a bunch of money, he could refuse it if he thought his life was at stake, and he could reject it if he thought it was chrysanthemum for his grave after seeing the flowers.

Even after seeing Lewellyn’s beautiful face, Shavonne was able to turn around the situation without hesitation if he thought that that was the beauty of a killer who would chop Shavonne into 20 pieces.

It was time to work. Whether he was cut into 20 pieces, killed by he’s stalker in a nervous breakdown or starved to death because he had no money to buy bread and milk, dying was still dying. Shavonne wanted to live. If he had a trouble-free spirit, he would have enough money to buy a hundred days’ worth of bread and milk at once.

Shavonne sat at his desk and pulled out his glasses. It was Shavonne’s working glasses for typing or correcting handwritten manuscripts. The moment he opened Newell’s love letter requesting editing, Shavonne doubted his eyes. He took off the glasses he had put on and put them back on, but nothing changed. He was sure. Shavonne didn’t see it wrong.

The letter was crammed with the same sentence.

S, why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you avoiding me?

It’s understandable why they’d avoid you. Shavonne wanted to reply on behalf of Mr. Newell’s lover, Mr. S.

The next day, the stalker sent a new letter. The sentence was cut from newspaper.

『Did you lick it? 』

Shavonne didn’t know what they meant by licking.

He was about to throw away the letter in the envelope when he saw a stamp. To be exact, a stamped postmark. In the last letter, it was an obvious counterfeit postmark, but that wasn’t the case anymore. The stamp for South Bunch Post Office was official.

Shavonne felt a chill down his spine. Do they know that Shavonne stopped by the post office? Did they think Shavonne was trying to track them down?

Shavonne hurried to the South Bunch post office. Unlike the last time he visited, the post office worker didn’t turn a blind eye to Shavonne and didn’t treat him as a cumbersome hindrance.

“It’s not a forgery. It’s real” explained the employee, pointing to the official postmark. “This letter was collected from the C-5 mailbox on Ira Street the day before yesterday.”

“…C-5?”

“You know, the mailbox at the entrance to the apartment.”

The day before yesterday. On Ira Street… the mailbox at the entrance of the apartment building. Shavonne closed his eyes. The three words the employee said were dizzyingly floating in his head.

***

Shavonne had received a complaint.

“Me?”

Shavonne looked back, pointing his finger at himself with a frown. It was a blue morning.

“Who else would it be if it weren’t for your house?” The janitor’s voice was as abrupt as if he was angry. Shavonne was at a loss for a moment, only to burst into a moped laugh.

It was clear that Shavonne wasn’t reported because he made a mistake. It was Shavonne who was more careful than anyone else to avoid the attention of Lewellyn for nearly a week.

Far from throwing away trash in the hallway, he didn’t ever leave his house, and there was no trace when he sneaked out late at night or early in the morning. Of course he didn’t make a single noise either. When he opened and closed the door, the door knob had a certain pressure, and he raised the chair so that nobody couldn’t hear a sound when he was sitting at the desk, and he had been writing everything by hand for a week to not use the typewriter.

But the next moment, the type of complaint the janitor had delivered was somewhat off of what Shavonne had expected.

“Why aren’t you cleaning?”

Cleaning?

“Did you want to turn this place into rats and cockroaches nests?”

“What are you talking about?” Shavonne frowned. Shavonne wasn’t that neat, but he wasn’t that messy either. Shavonne cleaned twice a week if he was busy and once every two days if he wasn’t.

“Look, rats and cockroaches have been around for eight years since I first started living here,” protested Shavonne. “If something happened to the number of rats and cockroaches because of me, would be that it has decreased, you know?”

“If you’re so confident, let’s see how clean your house is.”

The last time Shavonne cleaned the house was last night, so it was perfect for him. “All right,” said Shavonne. The thought of making the janitor embarrassed made his voice elated.

The problem was that it was Shavonne, not the janitor, who was embarrassed.

“Wooow, absolutely clean.”

He was being sarcastic. There was a speck of dust on the janitor’s finger that had just swept through the desk. Embarrassed, Shavonne said, “No, I’m sure I swept and wiped it in the evening…” but it was counterproductive. “Uhm, right. Of course you swept and wiped it” snorted the janitor. Shavonne couldn’t say anything but stare down at the dusty house.

After the janitor returned, Shavonne cleaned the house to the point of no dust to be seen, wiped it with a mop, and swept it with a broom. In the meantime, his pride had been scattered.

There was dust in the house again when Shavonne woke up. The dust was piled up thick enough to come out white if he wiped it with his fingers. Shavonne cleaned the house again but to no avail. It took only one night for the house to turn into a dust hole again. No, it was even more than that.

According to architectural expert Baker, dust constantly piled up due to a combination of problems such as temperature and humidity, ventilation, the location of the third floor of the apartment facing the road, the materials of bedding, curtains and furniture.

But…

-The house hasn’t changed… Strangely, it feels unfamiliar.

The day that happened, because of the fight with the janitor, he was kicked out of the apartment house, was homeless for two days, and was able to return to room 303 thanks to Lewellyn paying 30 months’ rent. Shavonne thought the house was strange. He couldn’t figure out what was strange. The “strangeness” flowed without a second to think about other problems: Lewellyn, his stalker, work and Newell.

But now he knew what was strange.

Room 303 was a house that became full of dust in less than a day after cleaning.

But the day Shavonne returned to Room 303, which had been left unattended for two days, it was clean. The surface of all the furniture, including the desk, chair, bed frame, wardrobe and closet, was smooth without a speck of dust.

Someone went to room 303 during Shavonne’s two days away.

The management office said that Shavonne never cleaned Room 303. It was obvious, there was no rule that tenants should remove household items as they moved out of the apartment, and there was no rule that the apartment management office would take care of them instead. No one came to buy room 303. Even if someone had wanted to buy it, the door was locked so they could not come in.

If they didn’t pick the lock, that is.

Shavonne went to see all the locksmiths nearby. If a locksmith had helped the person who entered, then the process would have been done while he was still away from his home. Only after turning the entire street of Ira upside down could he meet the man who opened the door of the apartment building 303 in Ira on that day in question.

“They said that it was their house and they had lost his keys. I asked them if they had any spares, but they said they didn’t have any.”

“So?”

“I made them a pair.”

The locksmith shrugged his shoulders. Shavonne felt distant in front of his eyes. I made them a pair, I made them a pair…

Now someone I don’t know (probably my stalker) has my house key. The thought sent shivers down his spine when he thought that it hadn’t passed just a day or two.

“Were they a man?”

“Maybe.”

“Were they young?”

“Maybe.”

“… Yellow eyes?”

He shook his head and replied, “I don’t remember well because it’s been so long.”

Damn, there’s no conclusive evidence. Shavonne suppressed the urge to grab the man by the collar and yell at him to please remember.

It was already sunset when he left the store. The sunset was bright red in the sky beyond the apartments and abandoned shops.

Shavonne, who turned his head unconsciously, saw someone looking at him. He could barely see them because they were far away, but he was familiar with silhouettes. As soon as Shavonne pulled his head out to take a closer look, the silhouette hurriedly went into an alley and hid their traces.

‘What, did I scare them?’ Shavonne frowned.

Anyway, the poor memory of the locksmith made him feel even more upset. Shavonne, who had forgotten about the incident and tried to go back to his apartment in Ira, stood still the next moment.

『Are you short of groceries?』

The letter sent by the stalker came to my mind out of the blue. According to the letter, the stalker was monitoring every move of Shavonne, which meant…

“No way.”

Shavonne jerked his head up. There was no time to hesitate whether it was a possibility or not. Shavonne ran into the alley. A broken can rolled over with a loud noise as he stepped on it.

Was I mistaken? The clattering footsteps echoed at the same time. As if those weren’t only Shavonne’s footsteps.

There was no one when Shavonne arrived at the alley, barely breathing. All that remained were discarded pieces of paper, cans, unidentifiable dirt, pieces of glass, and thick mud with footprints.

I missed them. They were just around the corner and I missed them. Fuck, fuck… Shavonne mumbled like crying and ended up banging his forehead on the wall. He was distressed.

He went to Mr. Baker to replace the door lock, but the store was closed. He had no choice but to spend one night in a situation where ‘someone unknown’ had his house key. The steps back to the Ira apartment were heavy, the steps past the lobby of Ira apartments, the steps up the stairs and across the hallway were heavier, an …

Shavonne stopped breathing.

There were footprints in front of room 302. It could be barely seen but Shavonne could recognize it. It was mud. Those were muddy footprints.

***

It’s not that Shavonne didn’t expect that the door of Room 303 would be opened that night.

Luck and unfortunate came together. Before he went to bed, he was lucky to grab a boning knife before he laid down to sleep, and it was unfortunate to put the boning knife on the table seven steps away, not at his bedside.

He couldn’t see an inch ahead. Shavonne, who was imagining the table seven steps away with the boning knife on it, questioned himself. Why did you put it on the table, not at the bedside? Why?

He wasn’t asking for an answer, but if he was, Shavonnee would have said, “I’m unlucky”. Shavonne felt like strangling himself.

He had to deal with it.

But how?

He didn’t even have time to think.

Creak–

Shavonne heard the door open. It was a low sound, but it could be heard because the house was very quiet.

You’ll think I’m sleeping because it’s night. You’ll come to the bed. You will. Shavonne’s mind went blank.

Shavonne hurriedly hid under the bedside desk. It was a miracle to crawl without bumping into a desk or chair or making a sound. He wished for a second lucky incident… Shavonne looked over to the table five steps away and thought.

It was only black until now, but now the outline of things is vaguely visible. It is distinguished what is the table, what is the knife, what is the wall and what is the floor. My eyes are slowly getting used to the darkness. Five steps, five steps… I think I can pick up the knife if I do well…

Step. He heard footsteps. Shavonne felt breathless.

Step. He heard footsteps again. Step, step. It was getting closer. Shavonne felt his hands get wet in a cold sweat. Step, step, step. The owner of the footsteps was approaching where Shavonne was. Do you know that I’m here? That’s what he thought, but it was only for a moment. As he expected. They went to bed because they thought Shavonne was sleeping. The blanket on the bed was rolled up as if there was a person.

But only it was just a trick. As soon as the blanket was lifted, the intruder would know that Shavonne wasn’t there and they would search around.

Checking the desk next to the bed is really obvious as it was obvious that Shavonne will be caught.

Shavonne quickly measured the distance between the table, the bed, and the intruder. He didn’t want to, but there was no other way. Shavonne closed his eyes to do his method. He needed to take the chance because there wouldn’t be another opportunity.

Shavonne escaped under the desk while the intruder stepped on the blanket of the bed. At the same time, he lifted the chair and slammed the silhouette on the back. The wooden chair’s legs were broken with a dull sound. Taking advantage of the intruder’s groaning, Shavonne threw the chair and hurriedly turned to the table. The blade of the boning knife was shining on the table.

But something hit Shavonne before Shavonne even made one step. It was the body of the intruder. Shavonne had been defeated by a body that weighed more and crushed him. His head hit the floor. It was fortunate that it was a wooden floor, because if it was a stone floor, his head would have been broken. But he couldn’t afford to be a crybaby now.

Shavonne bit the intruder. He didn’t know exactly where because it was dark, but he probably bit their arm. The intruder screamed back. Shavonne pushed the intruder and snatched the table’s boning knife.

However, the intruder smashed Shavonne’s arm and the boning knife bounced off. Everything went to the starting point.

Shavonne tried to run to pick up the boning knife, but the intruder grabbed Shavonne’s hair and pulled it. It hurt incomparably compared to when Shavonne just hit his head on the floor. He couldn’t get up even though he kept repeating to himself that he had to get up.

One step, two steps… heavy footsteps were near Shavonne’s ears. The sound was heard on the wooden floor. The black silhouette was slowly getting closer.

I have to get up.

It was the moment when he was trying to get power.

“You said that you regret it.”

It was a familiar voice.

“You said you missed me, you did, then why…”

August Basch. He was Shavonne’s ex.

August was holding the boning knife. What Shavonne prepared to protect himself was aimed at Shavonne’s neck now. Shavonne thought that he’d miss because of the fact that August, a right-handed man, was holding a knife with his left hand, and that his right arm was drooping like a dead animal.

“Shavonne, why did you lie, why…”

August raised his hand. The blade of the boning knife he was holding shined brightly. Shavonne closed his eyes tightly. He couldn’t help it. Like anyone, Shavonne wasn’t strong enough to face his end.

But the next moment, what Shavonne heard wasn’t the sound of a blade digging into his flesh. It was the sound of the blade falling on the floor.

Shavonne opened his eyes. He saw it. The person standing behind the fallen knife, the light, the falling August, and the person standing behind August.

“If you opened the door, you should have kept it closed, Mr. Basch.”

Sigh, I wanted to remain pacifist, said the sighing voice that belonged to none other than Lewellyn.

August Basch didn’t move at all as he collapsed. The back of his head looked black in the dark. Shavonne couldn’t take his eyes off August.

Lewellyn slowly passed by August and reached out Shavonne’s hand to grab him and get him up, but he looked at Shavonne, who didn’t hold his hand, and said, “Shavonne?”.

Shavonne trembled even though he tried not to. Shavonne tried to speak, but he couldn’t get his voice out. His mouth was dry and his voice seemed to be gone. That’s why it took more work to open his mouth than usual.

“D-Did you kill him?”

He regretted it as soon as he spoke. Shavonne thought he shouldn’t have asked, he should have pretended to pass out, but it was too late.

Lewellyn was a murderer. Not just a murderer, but a devilish murderer. If a murderer simply meant a person who killed a person, a devilish murderer was different. It meant a person who killed people recklessly and was someone who had no qualms about killing people. ‘Did you kill him?’ He had, of course. Shavonne wanted to slap himself in the face for asking a dumb question.

He got a natural answer.

“I didn’t.”

…What did you say?

“Your imagination is more savage than it looks.”

Shavonne, who was convinced that the answer was that he did, couldn’t contain his bewilderment.

He didn’t kill him?

Whether Shavonne was puzzled or not, Lewellyn didn’t care.

“Excuse me.” He grabbed Shavonne’s hand and pulled him up.

It was fortunate if what Lewellyn said was true. August’s death meant that Shavonne was neither with a dead body nor at the scene of a murder.

But, was that the truth?

Shavonne glanced down at August. August’s silhouette laid motionless in the dark.

Is he breathing, or…

Nervous, Shavonne swallowed saliva. The gulp made my throat hurt.

If he looked at his pulse, he would know the answer, but he was reluctant to touch it.

Of course he’s alive. There’s no way he’s not. But if there’s even one that he isn’t… Like almost everyone, Shavonnee didn’t want to touch a dead body

“Did you really not kill him?”

Shavonne asked, cautious.

“Of course. No one gets beaten to death just for one finger flick.”

“Why do you call it a finger flick if you punched him?”

“By the way, this guy will wake up in an hour. What should I do?”

Pretending he didn’t hear that, Lewellyn talked. For a moment, Shavonne noticed how Lewellyn mentioned him.

“Do you know August?”

“August?”

Lewellyn opened his eyes wide as if he had never heard that name before. Shavonne was puzzled. He had heard Lewellyn say to him that if he opened the door, he should have closed it, Mr. Basch. Did he hear wrong?

Didn’t you say ‘Mr. Basch’ earlier?”

“Is this man August Basch? Or Basch August?”

It seemed like Lewellyn really didn’t know. Shavonne thought he had heard it wrong and turned it over. The problem to be solved right now wasn’t whether Lewellyn knew August or not. Shavonne needed to deal with August. When Shavonne looked down at August with a serious face, Lewellyn suggested a plan as if he had noticed what Shavonne’s concerns were. The problem was that the measures weren’t very ethical.

“Should I hand him to a circus, or should I sell him to a salmon fishing boat? I heard there’s a large factory slave these days.”

“I’m against human trafficking.”

“Why? You’ll make money by selling him and that way you take care of it. That’s killing two birds with one stone.”

Shavonne had no idea whether it was a joke or not. Lewellyn stared at Shavonne and asked while yellow eyes shone.

“You’re not trying to hand him over to the police, are you?”

But he was right.

“What’s there aside from the police? Nothing.”

The police weren’t trustworthy. Shavonne remembered when a reporter was assaulted by the accused because the police didn’t protect him. They didn’t protect him because they liked his words, but when they revealed the identity of the reporter to the accused, it caused a crime. The accused kicked, slapped, beat, and cut the face of the reporter with a knife.

Shavonne hoped August would change his mind with that punishment and erase his malice toward Shavonne, but it was unlikely. He could try to hurt Shavonne in spite of evil. Lewellyn opened his mouth as Shavonne was contemplating.

“You have no idea what to do, right?”

Don’t you see it?

Shavonne grumbled and answered, stifling his desire to answer.

“Right.”

“I know.”

Shavonne turned his head and looked at Lewellyn. Lewellyn was smiling brightly.

“Leave it to me.”

Shavonne was tempted. However, it took quite some time to make up his mind. This was because there was a conflict between the original intention to transfer responsibility and the conscience to take responsibility.

“Alright, but before that.”

Shavonne started talking. He was going to confirm two facts from Lewellyn before he left him August.

“Don’t kill him.”

“You’re cruel! Do I look like a devil murderer to you, Shavonne?”

That’s right.

“Don’t sell him.”

“I won’t. I’m rich, unlike Mr. Shavonne, so I don’t need that kind of dump change.”

It was before Lewellyn took August out (August looked closer to be a thing than a human, so perhaps the expression “taking out” was accurate) that Shavonne, who was staring at August’s back, suddenly opened his mouth. “Wait a minute.” He approached August. Shavonne punched August’s face before Lewellyn stopped him.

“You bastard.”

Shavonne spitted it out. August didn’t wake up. That was the end of Shavonne and August.

***

That’s how Shavonne’s daily life came back. He ate bread and cheese in the morning, read Newell’s love letter at lunch, and visited the post office, grocery store, and market in the evening. There was no letter cropped from newspapers. Neither the door plate was crooked nor broken, nor the house was cleaned while Shavonne was away. The stalker disappeared and all the problems that stained Shavonne’s life with suffering disappeared.

Except for one thing.

“…It’s morning.”

Early spring. It was the end of February when the sun was pouring from the clear sky without a single cloud to be seen. Shavonne greeted him like that because she felt awkward to say ‘good’ morning. Lewellyn was sitting in the stairwell of the apartment building, peeling the onions and raised his head to look at Shavonne. Soon after, he smiled and said greeted him.

“Yes. It’s morning.”

“…”

Shavonne felt desperate that he wasn’t good at speaking. To get to the point, he had to put forward an introduction, but there was no introduction to talk about. He looked at Lewellyn, at the floor of the hallway of the apartment, and then at the ceiling.

“You were peeling them in front of my house the other day so why are you here again?”

It was just a thought, but when he said it, it sounded like a quarrel. Shavonne tried to patch it up, but Lewellyn’s answer was first.

“I crave attention.”

“If you want attention, you should have gone to Bunch Square, not here. Everyone is busy so they won’t even look at you.”

In response, Lewellyn reacted unexpectedly.

“What about you, Shavonne?”

“What?”

“Why do you care and look at me?”

His face was looking up. Lewellyn once said that Shavonne turned soft when seeing a crying face and that was true. Shavonne was weak in both crying and smiling faces. Maybe it was because the face was handsome, but anyway.

“I’ve been busy too, but things have been looking up recently.”

Shavonne shrugged his shoulders. It’s all thanks to the stalker’s disappearance, he thought but didn’t say.

Neither Shavonne nor Lewellyn spoke of the stalker after ‘that day’. They refrained from mentioning anything related to the stalker, such as door plate, mailbox, and August when he was his lover. It was the tacit rule established between Shavonne and Lewellyn to act as if there were no stalkers from the beginning.

This was enough to complete the introduction. It was Shavonne’s turn to get to the point, but strangely he couldn’t say anything. Of course, it was probably because he had never said it in my 29 years.

“Uhm…”, “Oh…”, “Ex…”, and Shavonne vaguely blurted his words. Lewellyn patiently (or to tease Shavonne) repeated, “Uhm?”, “Oh?”, and ” Ex?”.

But then…

“I’ll help you peel onions.”

It was difficult. Without getting to the point, Shavonne peeled onions all day. He tried to talk, but he felt like my mouth kept ticking. No word could be let out while he was peeling.

Three days passed like that. On his way back to Room 303, Shavonne vowed. Tomorrow will be different. No, it has to be different.

The next morning, Shavonne found Lewellyn. Lewellyn was the same as last time, he was sitting on the stairs of an apartment peeling onions, it was early spring, and it was late February when the sun was shining in the clear sky without a single cloud. The difference was Shavonne, who had drunk two and a half bottles of gin.

“Mr. Lewellyn.”

Shavonne’s cheeks were red with drunkenness.

“Let’s have dinner together.”

Shavonne knew. The fact that Lewellyn might be a murderer. But even so, Lewellyn saved Shavonne from August. If it weren’t for Lewellyn, Shavonne would have already been dead or severely injured.

Everyone is bad. It’s just a difference whether it’s bad for me or not.

Lewellyn thought. Oh, really, I wish Shavonne would be drunk all the time.