Episode 51

Perhaps even Archibald Hanger, who had dragged Marcus back, hadn't expected his son to end up like that. The seasons passed slowly, and the man’s transformation was just as gradual.

The summer of the year he returned from Cliff.

By the time news of Marcus’s marriage broke, it had already spread throughout the capital’s social circles. What cemented it was Archibald obtaining the King's official seal on the will.

The King had a peculiar fondness for Marcus—tinged with a significant amount of dislike.

He was fond of Marcus because he was Archibald’s son, the heir to the Hanger family. But he loathed him just as much—undoubtedly because of his infamous habit of falling in love at the drop of a hat.

Among the many women who had fallen for Marcus, some had done so knowingly, fully aware of his reputation. Yet even more had been naïve young ladies, unsuspecting and sincere.

Which is why the King grew increasingly curious about the woman who had managed to capture Marcus Hanger’s heart and lead him all the way to marriage.

Long before the Hangers returned, the King had already told the Queen, the Prince, and the nobles that he’d personally signed the Hanger will. He waited with them in anticipation for the arrival of the new “Lady Hanger.”

But Archibald Hanger, ever the portrait of deference, bowed deeply to the King and said:

“My daughter-in-law is in frail health and unable to make the long journey. She will be arriving at a gentler pace.”

“Good heavens, even by train it’s a two-day journey at most!”

“She is unable to sit for even that long, Your Majesty. I’m told the smell of burning coal gives her terrible headaches. That is why she’s convalescing in Cliff.”

The King could hardly believe it. In fact, it was far easier to believe Marcus had simply fallen out of love and tossed his wife aside. So he asked, casually:

“Is that so? And what family is she from? Wasn’t it a baronet’s daughter, if I recall? If her family has no heir, perhaps now is the time for me to grant a title to yours...”

Archibald gave a bitter smile.

“Yes, but she’ll be arriving soon. I’d prefer Your Majesty meet her in person.”

“Oh, I’m looking forward to it. But let’s not keep me waiting too long.”

The King let out a hearty laugh. He was convinced—Marcus Hanger had, once again, stirred up trouble and made his father miserable.

If he had brought a noble-born young lady into a merchant family like his, he ought to be shouting it from the rooftops. Instead, he was hiding her name. Gossip quickly spread that Marcus Hanger, despite going as far as to receive the King’s signature on the will, had cooled on his bride and cast her off.

Now, society buzzed, waiting for Marcus to show his face. Yet strangely, he never appeared during the summer season. Dozens of balls and garden parties were thrown, but the man who had once been the very spirit of such events was nowhere to be found.

[Is he hiding out of embarrassment?]

[It’s possible. As shameless as he usually is, even he might find it difficult to crawl back out after trying to call off a marriage the King himself endorsed.]

Countless speculations were thrown around Marcus’s name.

But in the end, everyone came to the same conclusion: Marcus Hanger was trying to back out of his marriage.

Eventually, the Queen, nearly sick with curiosity, begged the King to summon Marcus to the Harvest Ball in autumn. Marcus appeared alone—just before the ball began. Despite being married, he came without his wife.

No one was particularly shocked by that. They’d expected as much. What startled everyone instead was his face—once so polished and radiant, now hollow and drawn. It was obvious at a glance that he’d been through something rough.

[Oh my God, what happened to his face? His looks were all he had going for him…]

[He looks half-dead.]

A few innocent ladies expressed concern, wondering if perhaps his wife truly was unwell. But the seasoned veterans of the social scene only scoffed. They speculated that maybe it was just age and stress, or perhaps he was ashamed to show up at all, or worried the King might revise the will.

Even so, a few nobles approached him to say hello.

And each time, they were thrown off—just a little.

One lady greeted him with a gentle smile, only to falter at his flat expression. Marcus had always smiled brightly, baring perfect white teeth to anyone who spoke to him.

One gentleman clapped him on the shoulder and laughed, “It’s been a while! But what’s with your face?”—only to be met with a weary reply: “I haven’t been sleeping well, it seems.”

Everyone who remembered Marcus Hanger as the man who drank, laughed, and chatted the most at parties began to doubt their own memories that night.

Not once did Marcus smile. Even when the Queen spoke to him, he only bowed his knee—without a hint of a smile.

Even when the young Prince threw an arm around his waist and exclaimed, “Hanger! It’s been ages!”—Marcus knelt and bowed his head.

The Prince’s eyes widened. He had never seen the man who used to lift him up with ease kneel so formally before him.

[But... isn’t that kind of charming, in its own way?]

Marcus’s family was the wealthiest merchant house in the kingdom, and though he had grown gaunt, his appearance was still immaculate, draped in wealth and pride.

Now that he seemed broken and brooding, he began to attract the attention of the bolder young women—those who preferred melancholic, twisted men over well-bred, happy ones. Among them, one particularly forward lady gently nudged his side under the shadow of a palace column.

Lady Ross of the Ross family knew very well that Marcus Hanger was a man who sometimes fell for someone with nothing more than a well-timed smile. So when Marcus turned to look at her, she gave him the best smile she had.

“What is it, Lady Ross?”

Lady Ross didn’t flinch.

She knew her smile rarely worked on gloomy young men anyway.

That Marcus Hanger had so thoroughly transformed into one of them in such a short time was unexpected, but in a way, it only emboldened her. Drawing out silent types was her specialty.

In less than twenty minutes, she had managed to lead Marcus out to the terrace—though “dragged” might be a more accurate term. Still, she had him alone, and that was what mattered. It was when she brought up loneliness that she first felt something off.

“Sir Hanger, I often feel lonely. Isn’t that strange? There are so many people gathered here at the palace... and yet, the more people around me, the lonelier I become.”

“…Is that so.”

Marcus replied slowly, barely seeming to listen. Lady Ross tucked her hair behind her ear with a wistful sigh and continued.

“Is this what they call solitude in a crowd...? People say everyone is born alone, but when autumn comes and the leaves start to fall, I feel it even more. No sweetness, no kindness can seem to fill the emptiness in me.”

By now, most men would take her hand and say, “That’s not true. Let me be the one to fill that emptiness.” She referred to those types as “the minimally trained ones.”

The shyer ones would glance at her and suggest, “Perhaps we could try to find another way together?” She mentally called them “the bookish types.”

The truly hopeless ones agreed with her: “To think someone like you could feel that way...” or “To have you understand this feeling... loneliness truly is humanity’s eternal curse.”

She called those “pathetic.” With subcategories. The former, the “manly pathetic,” the latter, “pretentious pathetic.”

So then, what kind of man was Marcus Hanger? She waited with mild anticipation.

Marcus furrowed his brow slightly, then said:

“…I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way.”

...A fifteen-year-old pathetic?

Lady Ross suddenly entertained the terrifying possibility that this man wasn’t any of the usual types.

He might be the worst kind of all—a man emotionally stuck at fifteen. The type who, with teenage arrogance, rejected everything or insisted on being special. The kind you never wanted to get involved with.

Lady Ross prepared to bolt. In her head, the same bell that rang in the manor kitchen when a fire broke out began to toll.

Ding ding ding. Danger. Prepare to flee.

But Marcus Hanger’s next words caught her off guard.

“I’ve never felt that kind of emotion. Not once. But I think I understand what you mean, Lady Ross.”

She eased her guard slightly. The mental bell fell silent for now. Marcus finally lifted his gaze from the floor. Though thinner, his handsome face caught the light of the ballroom, casting a crimson line across his cheek. He glanced briefly back inside.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to a ball… and I’m struck by how unfamiliar it all feels. I wonder why I used to love this place so much.”

Lady Ross gave a faint smile. Those kinds of lines usually came from immature boys trying to be deep. “The world seems so small now—only you shine in it!” That sort of foolishness, which often passed for charm.

Not quite a fifteen-year-old pathetic, then.

She tilted her head slightly, estimating his age. Well, they do say all men are just big kids, she consoled herself, and then spoke.

“Now that I see you again, I was surprised by how different you seem. Your eyes… they feel deeper somehow.”

“Is that so.”

At those words, Marcus let out a soft sigh. Lady Ross faintly furrowed her brow.

A sigh?

Usually, when men heard someone say their eyes had deepened or something of the sort, they would grin. It wasn’t an unpleasant remark, nor was it an overly intimate compliment for an unmarried woman like Lady Ross to make to a man.

But Marcus Hanger had already turned his gaze away from her and was now looking down over the terrace. Naturally, she followed his line of sight. Down in the shadowy garden, lit here and there with warm glows, nameless couples strolled slowly, hand in hand, veiled by the night.

Without removing his eyes off them, Marcus finally spoke.

“Lady Ross. Do you know what it feels like to love someone?”

...What the—are we diving straight into the main story now?

Lady Ross tensed. No, seriously—no matter how wild her dating history might be, no man had ever jumped into love right out the gate. As she wondered if Marcus Hanger really was as eccentric as the rumors claimed, Lady Ross answered calmly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that way. But I’ve heard many people speak of it, and I do dream of it.”

It was a flawless answer—graceful, untouchable. She waited in quiet anticipation for Marcus Hanger’s next words. He tapped the terrace railing with his fingernail a few times before speaking again.

“Then I suppose you’ve never felt what it’s like to love someone... and feel even lonelier because of it.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

Lady Ross blinked. But the man didn’t seem to care about her confusion. He said no more.

Marcus was thinking of the woman he had loved but hadn’t been able to see, even after the seasons had changed.

He had loved her deeply, with everything he had—so deeply that even if he gave her his entire life, it wouldn’t have felt like a loss. It was the first time he had ever felt that way.

But she had run from him.

And since the seasons turned, he’d been haunted by the creeping thought that maybe—just maybe—she had never loved him at all.

It felt like something was being scraped out of his chest.

“Like holding a handful of sand, only for the waves to come crashing in and drag it all away through your fingers…”

Lady Ross was now thoroughly lost. She couldn’t follow this man’s train of thought anymore.

Yet Marcus’s gaze remained fixed on the garden.

It was only much later that he realized: what he had been feeling… was loneliness.

Swear on his life—Marcus Hanger had never known the taste of such a thing.

He had always lived surrounded by laughter, raised amid constant attention and admiration since childhood. In fact, he often felt he needed more time alone.

But now, left truly alone, he was trapped in a storm of agonizing emotion.

The devastation of being truly in love, yet not trusted in return. The panic that perhaps she had never loved him at all. The fear—what if she hated me?

A flicker of hope that maybe she had her own reasons. And still, the betrayal that came from realizing—at the very end—she hadn’t considered Marcus. Not even once.

Even the aching distance he felt while wondering how he could ever explain his love if they met again.

All of it came down to a single word:

Loneliness.

And yet Marcus wanted nothing more than to reject all of it.

In his thirty-some years, he had never been tormented by a feeling so unfamiliar, so uninvited. He was lonely. And in his loneliness, he welcomed autumn while chanting to himself again and again.

She didn’t love me. She never loved me.

A hundred times over, it was agony.

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, at last, Marcus turned around.

The woman who had been pestering him just moments ago was gone. Perhaps she had left because he was silent. Perhaps she simply didn’t know what to say. Either way, he didn’t care.

Marcus turned his head back toward the garden.

It didn’t matter.

The woman who should have been by his side was not Lady Ross.

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