"Do all doctors know this? Could someone accidentally poison themselves due to ignorance?"

  "I don’t think so. Even medieval witch doctors understood its pharmacology—and I’m merely a surgeon."

  How strange, then, that a man who claimed to be a doctor had blinded himself with an overdose of belladonna juice. If he wasn’t a fraud, was he merely a patient?

  Yvette then asked whether feathers, swans, and similar motifs held any other meanings in medicine. The Ghoul Doctor shook his head, saying it was beyond his understanding.

  "Now, regarding Dr. Walter Monis—I recall you worked with him on the 'resurrection of the dead' experiment at Place de la Concorde in Paris. As his assistant, what lasting impressions do you have of him?"

  Scholars, archaeologists, mediums—such professions were closely monitored by the organization. Though Yvette found Dr. Monis trustworthy, she decided to ask casually now that the topic had come up.

  "He was a man of vast learning. The happiest moment of my wretched life was when you plucked me from the filth of this world and brought me into your sanctuary. If I were to judge my sinful past now, only one thing still stirs excitement in my worldly heart—that dramatic collaboration with him. Dr. Monis specialized in neurology, yet his knowledge of surgery was profound—or at least extensive. First, we rehearsed with cadavers obtained illegally from the Cemetery of the Innocents, the ones from the grey zone. This allowed us to proceed when the executioner’s blade severed the rebel’s head, stitching together the arteries and nerves of the head and that of a Saint Bernard before the organs lost viability."

  "I was still young then, with only rudimentary skills like suturing wounds and reattaching limbs. Paris executed many rebels, but this... most would consider it an abomination. Had we failed even once, not just my reputation but Dr. Monis’ prestige would have suffered. Convincing the aristocracy to continue funding our experiments would have been near impossible."

  "Dr. Monis encouraged me greatly. We spoke for many evenings, and I realized his grasp of human anatomy rivaled even my mentor’s. Thanks to him, I mastered the cross-sectional structure of the human neck—otherwise, the actual surgery would have failed miserably."

  "Afterward, he let me take most of the credit, seldom mentioning his own contributions. Parisian newspapers even listed my name before his. I believe he was a gentleman, indifferent to fame, devoted to scholarly pursuits above all."

  The Ghoul Doctor spoke of Dr. Monis with high praise.

  A neurology expert with deep anatomical knowledge? Suspicious—but Paris was the holy land of anatomy. If Dr. Monis had spent time there, it was hard to conclude anything definitive.

  Her consciousness returned to the present. The sun had fully set. A lighthouse’s amber glow pierced the dark, while boat lanterns flickered like smaller stars amid the churning waves. She could hear the sea battering wooden hulls.

  The boundless ocean, vast as a desert. Only this solitary island teemed with life beneath the shimmering Milky Way. Starry radiance outlined dense foliage, like some slumbering beast brimming with latent power.

  Something was watching her.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Where were its eyes? The starlight? The forest? The lighthouse?

  This was an unimaginable—no, indescribable—experience. A superhuman’s heightened senses conjured an ethereal hand gripping her thoughts.

  No, she was in her room. She was safe.

  Unconsciously, she bit her lip, tasting salt. Tangible sensation sharpened the visible world again.

  Salty sea winds dried her skin; her hair clung stickily from prolonged exposure.

  How long had she been staring into the night?

  ———

  Not far from Darfield Island in a chain of islets, an elderly lighthouse keeper finished his nightly duties—wiping soot-blackened glass and coating it with glycerin against fog, ensuring ships could spot the beacon from afar.

  The lighthouse stood on a nameless reef, barely distinguishable even by day, let alone when high tide submerged it. Such hazards had claimed many vessels until the lighthouse’s construction. Yet this responsibility demanded constant vigilance—twice daily, at dawn and dusk, he climbed over 200 steps to tend the light. His only company was the weekly supply boat, delivering food and water.

  The keeper was a former first-class soldier, deemed reliable by society. Though his life was monastic, it was one of the few jobs suitable for the aged and frail.

  Loneliness clung to the old man like prison bars. Perhaps that explained why he harbored no suspicion toward the unexpected visitor arriving at dusk—a well-dressed gentleman paddling from the main island.

  Wary but armed, the grizzled veteran stepped out of his cottage, cursing and warning the stranger against mischief.

  Yet upon seeing the elderly guest, his guard dropped. The man’s refined demeanor, his neatly groomed white beard—what ill intent could such a gentleman harbor?

  "May I come in?" Dr. Monis asked as though visiting an old friend.

  "Of course, sir! Make yourself at home. I must excuse myself to light the beacon, though."

  Chuckling, the keeper fetched his toolkit, turning his back without a second thought—never even asking the stranger’s name.

  As he labored up the spiral stairs, the visitor sat by the window, gazing toward Darfield Island. Even after the keeper returned under cover of night, the man remained motionless.

  "At first, I too was enchanted by the sea. But after a decade of this view, the wonder fades."

  "Have you seen the ocean at night? Just... these waters," the old gentleman inquired with a smile.

  "Every evening, from that very chair. Not much else to do, truthfully."

  "Ah. I thought you might know the old warnings—'Do not walk clockwise around the capital; do not hunt sacred beasts; do not take treasure from marshes; do not leave the capital on the ninth night; do not sleep where firelight is visible through the window after sunset...'"

  "Superstition! My soul belongs to the Almighty; no devil can claim it," the veteran declared staunchly. He lit his pipe with the lamp’s flame, exhaling with satisfaction. "I’ve lived unharmed all these years. Proof enough those heathen tales are lies."

  "Your courage is admirable," the old gentleman said earnestly. "But perhaps the curses don’t strike uniformly. Heathen gods are capricious. Breaking taboos might invite some unseen gaze—for good or ill."

  Stars shimmered in the silent night. The waves’ roar dimmed, leaving only whispers against jagged rocks.

  Unease prickled the veteran’s spine. Yet he had served in the empire’s undefeated "Redcoats," whose discipline and valor had forged glory across half the globe. Fear might coil within, but he'd show none.

  "Then let it come, cowardly devil or sprite. I’ll shove this up its arse!" He slapped his loaded shotgun. "And you're watching the window too—‘do not stay where firelight is visible after sunset.’ You’ve broken the rule as well."

  The old gentleman’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Perhaps I’ve already been seen?"

  The veteran collapsed into the armchair. The stranger had vanished—no sound, no trace.

  The lighthouse’s reflection twisted on the black waves, morphing into eerie patterns. The surf’s murmurs grew ominous. Years of solitude and monotony exploded in his mind.

  Tears streamed down his face like a lost child. In the distance, Darfield Island glowed—luminous emerald, pulsing with vitality. It smelled of torn leaves, damp earth, and ancient bogs.

  So beautiful…

  The light swelled, a roaring tide flooding his vision. The island called his name.

  Then, darkness.

  A lone gunshot echoed over the night sea. No one heard.

  By noon the next day, lighthouse authorities sent a boat upon noticing the beacon still burning.

  They found the keeper dead—his double-barreled shotgun rammed down his throat, the trigger pulled by his own toe.