The judge’s house was dark. He sat in his small study adjoining the master bedroom, at his desk, having already removed his judge’s robe, and was now in his shirt. On a small table right by the door, a gramophone lazily turned a record. One of Lady Furina’s earliest works, recorded almost at the start of her career. He had bought this record long ago and rarely listened to it, but now was one of those rare occasions.
All leave me now;
this tomb shall be my shelter,
and I wish here alone
to pour out my soul’s sorrow…
Who was that youth who sang with her back then? Did Neuvillette remember his name? He did. He remembered the names of everyone who had ever appeared in Lady Furina’s life, of whom she had spoken during their tea times. Now, without those tea gatherings, the evenings had grown quiet and cold, and playing the records brought sound back into the nights.
Where art thou, my beloved?
All day long I call
thy tender image,
thy tender image!
"Where are you, Furina?" thought the judge, piecing together the puzzle, one fragment after another, assembling them into a single picture. A new pastime from the newspaper kiosk he couldn't pass by. Furina’s clear eyes gazed at him from the image, shattered into pieces, and it was as if he was once again, fragment by fragment, reassembling his Archon, who had quietly left the Palais Mermonia, leaving behind only the faint scent of sea water… One last piece remained, and he held it in his hand, while the record, as if mocking him, grew louder and louder, echoing off the study walls, gaining power and resonating with the vibration in Neuvillette’s chest.