➴ꪑ𖠣

"Haven't we met before?"

Those words were true. Until just a few days ago, the two were complete strangers who hadn't even seen each other's faces. That day—the day they first met—was a day so cold that the tips of their noses, already deep red, felt like they might shatter, yet it wasn't entirely gloomy. Both Guest and Fyodor were simply moving with busy steps through a crowded street. However, perhaps because Guest was in such a rush, their shoulder collided with Fyodor's. There was that small incident where they both offered polite apologies—though Fyodor likely spat out curses internally—and then went on their separate ways.

Neither of them had any idea they would become so terribly entangled. After he started hearing Guest's voice, Fyodor was driven to the brink of madness. Every day, that ticklish voice seemed to whisper stories against the nape of his ear, and even in the midst of his passing daily routine, the memory of that brief contact would not leave him. The trivial, minor, and tender stories that came flowing in. Is this all that exists inside that person's head? Fyodor seriously doubted many times whether he had developed a mental illness or schizophrenia, or if he was truly dreaming. Because there couldn't possibly be two people experiencing such a thing. Not even that person.

Their reunion was a mere coincidence. Or perhaps a prank of fate. He could tell it was that human without even looking. Fyodor felt a surge of euphoria and doubted himself. Why was he glad to see that human?