July 9, 2003

  I had a chance to speak with the wife of Dieter Schulze—an elderly woman now living alone after her husband took his own life. Since no family members, not even her own children, were willing to take her in, she’d been placed in a senior care facility—one of those places where elderly people without support are looked after.

  "I'm sorry for taking you out like this, Mrs. Schulze," I said gently, my hands on the back of her wheelchair as I pushed her through the facility’s quiet garden. The sun was soft that day, filtered through the tall trees surrounding the grounds.

  She turned her head slightly and gave me a warm, almost nostalgic smile. “It’s quite alright,” she replied. “Actually, I should be thanking you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been outside like this. It feels... nice. Peaceful.”

  I smiled back. Looking down at her, she seemed remarkably healthy for her age. But the reports I’d read prior to our meeting painted a different picture. The home’s medical file indicated that she had suffered from severe depression after her husband’s death—so severe, in fact, that it had triggered symptoms of post-traumatic stress. Her physical health, though relatively stable, had also taken a hit. She was still capable of walking, but her legs had grown too weak to support her for more than a few minutes at a time, hence the wheelchair.

  “You’re here to ask about my husband, aren’t you, Mr. Detective?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the silence that had settled over us.

  I blinked, a bit surprised. I hadn’t mentioned the purpose of my visit. But perhaps it wasn’t difficult to guess. A detective visiting unannounced, asking for a walk outside—it probably wasn’t the first time someone had come with questions like mine.

  “I don’t intend to pressure you, Mrs. Schulze,” I said honestly. “If it’s too painful or uncomfortable to talk about, I completely understand. I won’t force anything from you.”

  She gave me that soft, wise smile again. “How very thoughtful of you. But I assure you, I’m alright,” she said calmly. “I’ve made peace with it—well, as much as one can. The staff here, and some of the other residents, they’ve helped me a great deal. I’ve managed to recover, at least enough to talk about it now. Besides,” she added, her gaze drifting across the garden, “I always knew this day would come. Sooner or later, someone would come asking questions about what happened to Dieter.”

  We continued down the path in silence for a short while, the rhythmic squeak of the wheelchair wheels the only sound between us.

  Then, softly, as if speaking more to herself than to me, she said:

  “It looks like... it’s happening again, doesn’t it?”

  I stopped walking immediately.

  There was something deeply unsettling about the way she said that. The calmness in her voice only made it worse. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement. Not only did she seem to know that something strange was happening again… she spoke as though she’d seen it before. As if this wasn’t the first time.

  “Again?” I repeated slowly. “What do you mean by that?”

  She didn’t look at me, but her expression didn’t change either.

  “You must be here because of a string of suicides, aren’t you, Detective?” she said. “That’s the only reason I can think of as to why you’d come all this way to ask about the details of my husband’s death.”

  I hesitated, then nodded. “To be honest… yes. There have been a series of suicide cases lately. And... the deeper I dig, the more I get the sense that your husband’s case might not be an isolated one. That maybe... he was part of something bigger.”

  “I see,” she murmured, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Well, suicides aren't exactly uncommon, are they? Sadly, they happen all the time. But…” she turned to look at me now, her voice suddenly quieter and more serious, “…if it’s been happening regularly—every year—for the past fifty years... wouldn't anyone start getting suspicious?”

  I felt a chill crawl down my back.

  “Fifty years?” I asked. “What... what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “I’ve always found it strange,” Mrs. Schulze said softly, her eyes gazing far off as if watching something only she could see. “Why does it happen… every year? Year after year, there have always been suicides. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Suicide isn’t exactly a rare thing, after all. But when it starts happening consistently—without fail—every single year, and in a series, too… eventually, you just can’t help but question it.”

  She looked up at me with a shadow of pain in her eyes.

  “I began to notice the pattern, and when I did, it unsettled me. That’s when I started asking questions—quietly, to myself, to others who might know something. But the more I tried to pry into it, the more it slipped through my fingers. I never could find any answers. Just hints. Hunches. The truth, whatever it is, stayed hidden in the dark.” Her voice dropped, and she looked down at her trembling hands. “But what I did manage to learn… was that this didn’t start with me. It didn’t even start in my lifetime.”

  I blinked, confused. “You mean… these suicides? They were already happening before you were born?”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s as far back as I can trace it. It was already an established occurrence when I was still a little girl. And... the people who took their own lives—they were part of the message. Clues, in a way. Starting from the very first. It’s only in hindsight that I saw it. But by then, I was already old. It was already too late to do anything about it.”

  Her voice trailed off, leaving a chilling silence in its wake. I didn’t understand what she meant. But I made sure to write down everything she said, word for word. “The people themselves were the clue.” That was all I had. All I could go on.

  Then, gently, I reached into my bag and pulled out the book. The book felt strangely heavy in my hands. “Mrs. Schulze,” I asked carefully, “do you recognize this book? Did your husband ever read it?”

  The moment her eyes landed on the book, her entire expression shattered.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

  The scream pierced the air like a blade. It was raw, guttural, filled with terror. She began thrashing in her wheelchair, clawing at her hair—tearing it out in handfuls, screaming and wailing with such intensity that it sent a shock through my body.

  “Mrs. Schulze!”

  I rushed to her side, but there was nothing I could do. Her mind had been overwhelmed. This wasn’t a normal panic attack—it was PTSD in its most violent form. The very sight of that book had broken her. That could only mean one thing: her trauma wasn’t solely about her husband’s suicide. It was the book itself. It triggered something far deeper, something much darker. Which meant… Dieter Schulze truly had possessed the book. It wasn’t just a passing connection—it might very well be the root of all of this. The catalyst.

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  By the time I realized what had happened, I was already outside her room. A pair of staff members had intervened and managed to calm her down, ushering me out in the process.

  "The visit is over, Detective," said the staff member, his tone curt but restrained. “We were very clear that any reminder of that incident could trigger her PTSD. You disregarded that. You may have wanted answers, but you can’t just come in here and force someone to relive their trauma. People have things they desperately want to forget. And for that reason, I’m afraid you’re no longer welcome here—for the time being.”

  I nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I was a detective, yes, but in that moment, I had forgotten what it meant to balance pursuit of the truth with empathy for the broken. I shouldn’t have handled it like that. I shouldn’t have forced her into a corner. I had no right to drag people through their pain for the sake of my investigation.

  I did feel guilty—deeply so. But despite how it all went, I had found something. Something important.

  That book meant something. It was connected. If it weren’t, she wouldn’t have reacted like that. And if it were just coincidence… then it was a terrifying one.

  I was just about to leave when I heard someone call out behind me.

  “Wait, Detective.”

  It was the same staff member who had just reprimanded me. I turned around.

  “Mrs. Schulze wants to speak with you one last time.”

  I said nothing. Just nodded. Then I followed him back down the quiet hallway. When he stopped outside her room, he gestured for me to enter.

  “She asked for you alone.”

  I stepped in, quietly shutting the door behind me.

  The room was still, dim, and the scent of lavender hung faintly in the air. Mrs. Schulze lay in her bed now, propped up slightly by pillows. The vibrant, sharp-eyed woman from earlier seemed distant, as if part of her had faded away. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow. The episode had clearly drained her.

  “Detective…” she murmured, her voice soft, carrying a faint smile. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “No. I should be the one apologizing,” I said, my voice low with guilt. “I brought you back into a trauma you’ve worked so hard to forget.”

  She let out a small breath, a shadow passing over her expression. “Well… I do have history with that book,” she admitted. Then, after a long pause, her smile faded, and her gaze turned distant—serious. “Listen closely, Detective. I can’t speak of certain things—at least, not directly. I’ll have to be vague, and I hope you understand why. The reason I can’t tell you everything is because if I did… if I revealed it plainly… then my very existence might cease to be.”

  I blinked, confused. “Cease to be…? What do you mean?”

  She looked away, toward the window where light filtered through sheer curtains. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s not death I fear. I’ve already made peace with that. But being erased… erased so completely that I leave no trace behind—not even memories in my children—that terrifies me. I may not have had the best relationship with them. Things between us have been strained for years… but even so, I don’t want to vanish from their hearts. I don’t want them to forget I ever existed. If I disappear like that, they’d lose part of themselves too. They wouldn’t even know where they came from.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Her words didn’t make sense—not in any logical way. It sounded like something from a novel or a fantasy story. What did she mean by being “erased”? Was she talking about death in a metaphorical sense? Or was there something more?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, watching my puzzled face. “But I’m telling you this with all the seriousness I can give. The answer you're seeking… it lies in that book. The very first page. That’s where the clue is.”

  She leaned back against her pillow, her eyes fluttering shut as if the conversation had drained her completely.

  That was all she said.

  -————-　■　-————-

  JOHANNE

  I was only three years old when my father died.

  It was my older brother who discovered him first—hanging by the ceiling in his bedroom. I still remember the sound of his scream, sharp and desperate, cutting through the quiet house. I climbed the stairs, drawn by that scream, confused and curious. I had no idea what was happening.

  And then I saw him.

  Our father. Dead.

  His face had turned a dark, sickening shade of purple, his tongue lolling out from his mouth, thick foam bubbling from the edges. He was swinging slightly in the air, a grotesque image burned forever into my memory.

  My brother stood beside me, crying so hard I thought he would collapse.

  But I… I didn’t cry.

  Not a single tear fell from my eyes. Maybe I was too young to process it. Maybe my brain couldn’t grasp the reality of what I was seeing. After all, I was only three. It was the first time I had ever seen something so horrifying, and my mind just… froze.

  Looking back, it should’ve traumatized me. It should’ve left deep psychological scars, the kind that change people forever. But somehow… it didn’t. I remained stable. Unchanged. It was my brother who was never the same after that.

  That incident happened ten years ago.

  I’m thirteen now.

  People say I’m smart for my age. Even the teachers at school tell me I’m unusually gifted. I score perfect marks on every test, solve problems others can’t, and see connections that others miss. My classmates don’t know what to make of me. Some admire me. Most just think I’m weird.

  I don’t mind.

  I’ve always preferred solitude. I find comfort in being alone, surrounded by silence and my thoughts. The only true joy I’ve found in this world is through books—especially fiction. Stories. Novels. Fantasies. Because within fiction, you find entire worlds born from the minds of others. Ideas you’d never imagine yourself. Perspectives so different from your own that they reshape the way you see things.

  I was already in the classroom. The bell had rung, signaling the start of the next period. Any minute now, the teacher should’ve walked through the door and started the lesson. But no one came.

  It had been like this for the past few weeks. And the strange part was—when I really tried to think about it—I couldn't recall having a proper, regular teacher for months. In my memory, it was always the teacher from the neighboring class who would occasionally come in and teach us. But that didn’t make sense. That teacher also had his own class to manage—at the same time as ours. There’s no possible way he could teach both classes simultaneously.

  The more I thought about it, the more my memories contradicted themselves. Nothing lined up.

  And yet... no one else seemed to find anything unusual about it. Everyone acted like this was completely normal. Like this was how it had always been. Like this was how it was always supposed to be. As if it were something etched into reality. Something that was set in stone.

  I felt like something was missing—something important—but no one was asking questions. Not a single person. The faculty should’ve had enough teachers to match the number of classes, but for some reason, our class had no permanent teacher. Instead, we were left with borrowed time from someone else’s schedule. It didn’t make sense. And no one seemed to care.

  It frustrated me more than I wanted to admit. I was supposed to be good at observation and deduction. But this—this was something different. My mind couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Everything was foggy. Fragmented. Like someone had taken my memories apart and rearranged them without bothering to make them fit.

  After school, I went straight home. I lived in a small coffee shop run by my brother’s lover, Regina Jensen.

  She had been a friend of my brother's since they were children. Over the years, their friendship turned into something more, and now they were planning to get married. I saw her almost every day. She took care of things around the shop while my brother worked somewhere else.

  When I stepped inside, the warm aroma of roasted beans and cinnamon filled the air.

  “Johanne,” she called out from behind the counter. “You got a text from Markus. He said it’s for you.”

  “Thanks, Regina,” I said.

  She gave me a playful frown. “Didn’t I already tell you to call me ‘sister’? I’m basically your sister now, you know?”

  “Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve always called you Regina. It might take me a while to get used to something else.”

  She sighed but smiled anyway. “Alright, fine. But from now on, start calling me ‘sister,’ okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Here’s the phone.” She handed it to me across the counter.

  I took it, thanked her again, and quickly headed upstairs to my room.

  Once inside, I closed the door and sat on the bed, flipping open the phone. There was a single message from Markus—and a photo attached.

  The message read:

  Do you know this book?

  I clicked on the image to enlarge it. My eyes widened as the picture filled the screen.

  It was a photo of a red-covered book with the title printed in golden letters across the front:

  Die Dramatiker.

  I knew this book.

  Even though my memory of it was hazy and incomplete, I was sure. I recognized it—not because I had read it, but because I had seen it before.

  It was the same book lying on Father’s bed the day we found him hanging.