XXVII ※ Rosé-Tinted Tragedy: 97 Years, 3 Cursed, and 2 Left to Burn

"He was 97 years old," a woman said softly, her voice laced with a bittersweet calmness. There was no trace of grief, only a sense of acceptance, as though she'd made peace with the inevitability of his passing long before. "He lived a good life. Long and fulfilling, wouldn't you say?"

"But he was a victim of the Rosé disease," came a sharp, biting response from a younger boy seated nearby. His tone was laced with sarcasm, and the bitterness in his words was palpable. "That mustn't have been all that great."

The woman raised an eyebrow but remained composed. Before she could respond, another boy—one I hadn't noticed before—chimed in. His voice was calm, measured, and carried an air of quiet understanding that seemed to defuse some of the younger boy's frustration. "What are three difficult years out of 94 great ones, brother?" he asked rhetorically, his gaze steady. There was no malice in his tone, only a gentle attempt at reason.

Despite their discussion, the man at the center of it all—the one lying on the bed—seemed untouched by their words. He rested peacefully, the lines on his face softened as though life's burdens had finally lifted. His breathing was slow and shallow, but there was a serenity about him. His expression was tranquil, and even in death, a small, almost imperceptible smile lingered on his lips, as though he'd come to terms with everything long before this moment.

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The vision began to fade, its colors blurring together until there was nothing left but darkness. I stood there for a moment, frozen, as the weight of what I had just seen settled over me like a heavy blanket. My heart pounded in my chest, and my breathing came in short, uneven gasps. I reached up, wiping the cold sweat that had formed on my forehead with trembling fingers.

"Rosé disease," I whispered, the name of the affliction falling from my lips like a curse. The sound of it sent a chill racing down my spine, and goosebumps rose unbidden along my arms. My body seemed to instinctively react to the fear and unease the words carried.

The man sitting across from me noticed my reaction immediately. His brows furrowed with concern, and he leaned forward slightly, his presence both steady and grounding. "When?" he asked, his voice quiet but urgent, as though bracing himself for what I might say.

I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. Finally, I managed to find my voice, though it came out quieter than I intended. "You will be 97 years old," I said carefully, my gaze fixed on him. I watched as the tension in his shoulders eased, and a faint, relieved smile appeared on his lips.

"Then I'm glad," he said after a moment, exhaling deeply. His tone was lighter now, almost optimistic. "I still have more than 30 years to live. I'll be able to meet my grandchildren and see them grown." He paused, and the smile on his face grew a little wider. Despite everything, he genuinely seemed content with the knowledge. Even with the looming specter of the Rosé disease, he appeared to find solace in the years he had left.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, guilt creeping into my voice as I glanced away. My chest tightened as I noticed the familiar sting of blood tears forming. He must have noticed, too, because he reached out with a tissue and gently wiped them away.

"Don't be, child," he replied, his voice firm but kind. There was no reproach in his tone, only understanding. "I needed to know that. It's better than I thought it would be." He paused, studying me for a moment before speaking again. "But, Thya?"

"Yes?" I asked, meeting his gaze.

"Could you tell me how long you have, child?" His voice softened, and there was a note of genuine concern that made my chest ache. "I swear, in the name of the Gods and my own life, that I will never tell anyone. I just need to know. I'm really worried about you, kid."

The sincerity in his words hit me harder than I expected, leaving me momentarily speechless. I felt my throat tighten, and a wave of weakness washed over me. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself, and quickly ensured there was no one nearby who might overhear. When I opened my eyes again, I could see the worry etched into his features.

I sighed deeply, the weight of the truth heavy on my chest. "Two years," I said, my voice barely audible. His reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly as though he were about to say something but couldn't find the words.

"What?" he finally managed, his voice trembling.

"I have two years before I die," I repeated, forcing the words out despite how they made my stomach twist. Saying it aloud made it feel more real, more inescapable. "Two years left. And one year wasted on these stupid trials."

He looked at me, his expression a mix of shock and pain. "How... how are you going to die?" he asked, his voice unsteady. "Please, don't tell me it'll be horrible." There was a pleading note in his words, and the fear in his eyes was almost endearing.

How adorable, I thought fleetingly, though the thought brought me little comfort.

"I'm going to be murdered, as expected," I said, my voice bitter. "And by someone in this castle. I just... don't feel like saying out loud who it is." My body felt heavier, weaker, and I swayed slightly. He was quick to steady me, his hands firm but gentle as he guided me back to the chair.

"Oh, dear child, I wish I could help you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He paused, gathering himself before continuing. "Don't worry, I'll be taking care of your health from now on. And I'm also a psychologist, so you can just come to me when you need someone to talk to, once I believe you have no one left."

His words stung more than they should have, because they were true. "Unfortunately, not anymore," I said with a weak smile. He looked even more worried now, his concern deepening.

"Using your power takes a lot out of you, child," he observed, his tone thoughtful. His eyes scanned my face, noting every detail. "You look as pale as before. Drained. I guess the worse the death, the worse you feel after you see it. Do you feel weak?"

"Like a porcelain doll," I joked weakly, forcing a faint smile. The joke felt hollow, but it was all I could manage.

"If you can make jokes, you'll be alright in no time," he said, squeezing my hand gently, his touch steadying me. "Now, you have to rest a little bit."

"Just don't let me sleep for more than 25 days," I said, trying to lighten the mood despite the heaviness that lingered in the air. He chuckled softly in response.

"I won't," he promised, his voice warm. "Now, rest, child." He took a tissue and gently wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. "I'll take care of this fever."

"I'm... having a fever?" I asked, surprised.

"Your skin is burning, child," he replied with a light laugh. "I guess it's so bad that it's affecting your mind. Come on, close your eyes and don't force yourself."

I nodded weakly, letting my eyelids drift shut as exhaustion began to pull me under.

In no time, consciousness slipped away, and I sank into the darkness.