Racking his brain for some way out of the situation, nothing definitive came to him. But right as he began to look genuinely suspicious — like a spotlight had switched on over his head — a vague idea surfaced.
"I ate a bad mushroom."
His sister received the comment with obvious disbelief. Her brow furrowed in deep suspicion, and her eyes narrowed, studying him with cold, careful scrutiny. She didn't look away, determined to dig through his every gesture for the smallest crack that might confirm what she already feared.
"A mushroom? How?"
Without missing a beat, Alphard cleared his throat, sensing her starting to believe the lie.
"Yeah — a mushroom. I'd had coffee and some bread at a café, and it turned out the bread wasn't in great shape. I'd already taken a bite before I noticed."
Studying him closer, she still couldn't find the truth she was searching for. Her brother had always trembled under her stare whenever he was hiding something — and yet this time, not a single tremor. Which meant, as far as she could tell, he was telling the truth.
"Then we should get you to a doctor."
The words closed Alphard's throat instantly. The terror of being unmasked by his own sister froze him for a moment, leaving him at the mercy of the fear that she might uncover his secret.
His thoughts ran deep enough that he couldn't quite pin down why he was hiding something like this in the first place. But the longer he sat with it, the more obvious the reason became.
Maybe what I experienced wasn't real. Or maybe it just isn't common here. And if it isn't common, it'll look like something's genuinely wrong with me.
Glancing around at the crowd, it wasn't long before people fell back into their ordinary, unhurried rhythm, the street settling back into its everyday pace.
"I feel better now, actually. Maybe it wasn't a mushroom after all — something else, maybe. I'll talk to the café about it."
Helena's expression never fully lost its unease, but she had little choice but to nod and walk on with her brother. This wasn't the place for an argument — not in public, and certainly not now.
Taking short, measured steps, the two of them made their way through a long stretch of the district, passing through several neighborhoods. Many of them looked much alike, but the further they walked, the grander and more elegant the houses became, until Alphard began to suspect they'd entered a wealthier part of the city entirely — right as they reached their destination.
The house embodied the tidy respectability of the fin-de-siècle middle class Alphard remembered from his own world. A two-story building with a white stone façade and a mansard slate roof dotted with small dormer windows, and at the edge of the property, a mailbox bearing the engraved name Villeroy.
Waiting outside on the wide lawn that surrounded the house, a young woman stepped out, looking to be around Helena's age. She wore an afternoon dress cut from cream muslin, its lightness betraying her youth.
"Hi, Helena — I was waiting for you. Come in, please. Hello to you too, Alphard."
"Hi, Virginia," Helena answered, pulling her into a brief hug.
Alphard nodded, nerves still simmering beneath the surface, and followed the two of them inside, where Virginia's parents were waiting as well.
Her mother carried herself with a distinguished maturity — grey hair swept up into a tall pompadour, the volume of the style lending her an air of dignity befitting the home she kept. Her father, meanwhile, looked to be a man of about fifty, stern in bearing, his brown hair thinning at the crown and touched with grey at the temples.
The house itself breathed the sober, orderly warmth of the comfortable bourgeoisie. The oak parquet floors, polished to a soft sheen, creaked faintly underfoot. The walls, dressed in wallpaper printed with restrained botanical patterns, were crowned with simple, elegant plaster molding.
Moving further inside, they reached the main sitting room, where a grey marble fireplace stood flanked by a walnut cabinet, a pair of upholstered armchairs serving as the quiet heart of the family's daily life.
In his own mind, Alphard was still reeling, disoriented by everything that had just happened. He could hardly believe that only minutes ago, reality itself had felt like it was tearing apart around him — his very existence unraveling as he lived through it.
Still, keeping his expression calm and his smile steady, he acted as though nothing had happened, matching his sister's own composure as if the incident from before had never occurred at all.
I need to play this right — act like I know these people. I need to find a way out of this, or at least catch a moment to breathe.
The thought sat heavy on him as the seconds ticked by. Helena and her friend fell into easy small talk about their week, while Alphard had no idea what he was supposed to say or do. Before long, the two of them climbed the polished staircase to the second floor, leaving him alone in the dim quiet of the sitting room.
Turning the situation over in his mind, he realized it wasn't exactly normal to leave someone alone in a room this grand — which told him, without much doubt, that Alphard, too, was someone this family clearly trusted.
Then, a gentle voice echoed through the walls of the house, reaching his ears with a soft, deliberate clarity, almost like a brief song.
"Alphard, could you come here for a moment?"
Answering the call, he made his way quickly toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Lisa Villeroy stood slicing tomatoes.
His mind stumbled into a moment of confusion at the sight of a lady of her standing doing her own cooking. Without dwelling on it too much, he'd simply assumed there would be a servant, or someone hired for that kind of work.
Maybe I'm just letting appearances and class get the better of my judgment.
Recovering his composure, he offered her a small smile, which she returned in kind.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Villeroy?"
The words caught her off guard. For a brief moment she went utterly still, suspended in disbelief; then, straightening herself and softening her expression, she reclaimed the moment with a practiced warmth, careful not to let the air grow any stranger than it already had.
"You're being awfully formal today," she said, her faint smile never wavering.
At that, a small chill ran down his spine. Still, weighing his thoughts against his reaction, he found the answer easily enough.
"I've been out looking for work, so I've been practicing my manners a bit more than usual."
Understanding settled over her, and she let out a soft laugh, along with a quiet murmur that faded into the air before Alphard could catch it. Not quite following, he risked a question of his own.
"Sorry — why the smile? Was I overdoing it?"
"Not at all. It's good to see a young man carry himself politely wherever he goes — though you always have. Actually, that's exactly why I called you over. My husband's given me this note — go to this address, and you'll meet someone we know there. He'll be the one offering you the position."
She handed him a slip of paper from a nearby table, a clear address written across it.
Moulin District, Rue Valrose.
He turned the address over in his mind with meticulous care, the details circling again and again.
The pull to dig to the very bottom of whatever was happening to him had stopped being simply an option — it had become an urgent necessity, not just for the chance of finding his way home, but to make sense of everything that had happened to him since.
"Thank you so much."
"Don't mention it. We know you're already a man capable of making important decisions. Your mother would be proud."
"I know," he said, a faint sadness creeping into his voice.
Something in his chest ached with a strange, heavy melancholy at hearing those words from people who, to him, were still strangers dressed in the shape of loved ones. It felt like living through a play that never truly ended — one where, even after the curtain fell, the role refused to let go of him.