In the deepest darkness, a young author, lost in his eccentricity, wrote every day without pause—scribbling vague tales that grew ever duller, lifeless, uninspired, and rigid.
"What is happening inside my head?" he wondered.
Each time his editor called to check for even a semblance of a chapter, his face froze in dread, consumed by terror and utter anguish. Sometimes, crushed by an almost unfamiliar emptiness, he would bury himself beneath his bedsheets, sinking into the darkest recesses of his mind, replaying scenes from his life as if they were half-forgotten stories. Yet deep in his soul, an unknown shadow seemed to taint the radiant light of his most beautiful memories.
In that abyss lay a letter—harmless at first glance. But as he tried to approach it, a strange pain pulsed in his chest, a tingling both incomprehensible and nostalgic. Each step toward the letter made his heart ache so violently that he collapsed, lost in the whirlwind of his thoughts—thoughts that were profound, tender, and agonizing all at once.
Morning came. He awoke buried in a valley of scattered papers, his room a wasteland of disarray.
Ding Dong.
Someone was at his door.
Startled by the unfamiliar sound of the bell, he numbly followed the noise. Then, abruptly, awareness struck. He rushed forward and flung the door open.
"Oh, I—I'm terribly sorry!" he blurted out in haste.
Behind the door wafted an oily scent of sunflowers. In an instant, the author's face stiffened. The smell was so overpowering that for a moment, he thought a long-lost friend—buried in his memories—had returned from beyond to surprise him. His disturbed gaze fixed on the girl at his doorstep, trusting only her scent. His ears buzzed, his vision blurred—then suddenly, he fainted into her arms, his expression both peaceful and troubled.
He felt wind brush his face. A familiar gaze seemed to pierce him. Slowly, he opened his eyes and glimpsed, far away in a field of sunflowers—golden as the sun itself—the silhouette of a pale girl whose face he couldn't recall. Desperate to know who she was, he ran with all his might, yet never reached her. Exhausted, he realized he was lost in a world entirely unknown.
"Where am I?" he gasped, breathless from a fatigue he didn't understand.
He stared at the horizon before his eyes slowly shut, adrift in confusion.
A gentle warmth enveloped the house. By the fireplace, the author lay on the floor, the heat caressing his face. He looked around—strangely, his home was now immaculate. The usually sticky floor was smooth and reflective. The cobwebs on the ceiling had vanished entirely. His eyes widened. He stood, only to realize even his favorite spider, Freddie, was gone—just like the filth that had once choked the house.
"Freddie?!" he cried. "What is happening?"
Then he turned.
A girl with the same pale gaze from his dream stood before him, clad in a black-and-white maid's dress. An oval pendant hung from her neck, and on her forearm was the crest of the Stone family. Startled, the author stumbled back and hid behind the table near the fireplace, panic gripping him.
"What is going on?" he muttered.
Yet the girl remained eerily calm, unfazed by his reaction. Seeing him awake, she pinched the hem of her skirt with her left hand and bowed—just as a well-bred servant would.
"The posture of the Stein maids…" the author marveled, torn between awe and unease.
He stared at her, frozen, waiting for her to move. Minutes passed.
"So this is one of those infamous dolls from the beyond? They say these dolls torment their masters… But why is she here?"
Then the girl's lips parted.
"I am not a doll," she said, her voice quiet yet firm. "I am a loyal and dutiful maid."
"C-Could you repeat that?" the author stammered timidly.
"I will not say it a third time. I am a loyal and dutiful maid," she replied, her tone sharp.
"Wha—"
In one swift motion, she drew a knife from her belt and pressed it to his throat.
"I will not repeat myself. I am a loyal and dutiful maid."
Despite the blade at his neck, her expression remained serene—her eyes hollow, pale. And though fear gripped him, the author found himself mesmerized by her gaze, a darkness that mirrored the unknown void in his soul.
By evening, they acted as if nothing had happened. The girl cleaned, cooked, and worked while the author tried—and failed—to ignore her as he struggled to write.
"What am I doing? They say if you ignore an animal long enough, it'll lose interest. But she's still here, acting like this morning never happened. I let her stay out of fear, but this is too much!"
Midnight arrived—the author's usual dinner time. He always ate at this hour, alone at the same table. He set down his pen, stood, and mechanically took his seat. The girl approached, carrying a bowl of chicken soup and bread. But when he reached for his usual loaf, he found the basket empty.
"Where's the bread?!" he cried, his stomach growling in protest.
Just as he resigned himself to going hungry, the girl placed the soup before him. He stared in shock as she set the scalding bowl down barehanded.
"Where is the bread? I saved it for tonight!"
"A heavy intake of carbohydrates at this hour would not suit you," she replied.
Rage burned in his eyes. Disgusted by the unwanted meal, he violently knocked the bowl to the floor. His breathing quickened. As the hot liquid spilled, a flood of uncomfortable memories surged—his childhood home, empty; the metallic stench of blood in his nostrils. The world blurred. Then—darkness.
Morning light seeped in. The author stirred, wrapped in fine sheets that smelled strongly of roses—as if he'd been bathed in them. He turned to the window and saw the girl outside, hanging laundry in the summer wind.
He rose and went to her. Watching her work, he heard a voice from the past call his name—so familiar, it left him speechless.
"Mr. Roselet," the girl repeated, louder.
He snapped back to reality, stunned.
"How… do you know my name?"
The girl tilted her head, curious. Then, pinching her skirt with her left hand, she bowed.
"I am Gomme, Flower of the Sun. It is my honor to serve you, Master."
The author stared, bewildered—yet deep inside, he felt it: this meeting would change everything.