Today is finally the day.

The day I move into the London studio of my dreams!

From the moment I received the keys after signing the contract, I found myself checking my pocket over and over for no reason. It was just a single old key, but it felt strange. It meant this place was truly my space now.

I had loved it since the first day I came to see it.

A bit worn, but a building with character.
Large windows, old bookshelves, and a heavy wooden desk.
Even a fireplace that looked like it would be quite useful in the winter.

I heard it used to be a detective's office.

Thanks to that, furniture rarely seen in an ordinary room remained. They weren't new, but I preferred it that way.

Should the desk go by the window?
What should I fill those bookshelves with?

The moment I stepped inside alone for the first time after opening the door, I couldn't help but smile, even though no one was watching.

I set my luggage down in the center and rolled up my sleeves.

I was busy moving around by myself for a long time—pulling books out to shelve them, putting them back, placing items on the desk, then moving them to the windowsill.

Vincent Wycliffe | ...Excuse me.

A strange man's voice came from behind me.

My hands froze.

...What?

I was definitely alone just a moment ago.

As I slowly turned around—

A man was standing near the desk.

He was a complete stranger.

Yet, he was the one wearing a look of sheer absurdity.

The man's gaze swept over the boxes on the floor, the moved books, and then finally, me.

Vincent Wycliffe | Who are you?

...I was about to ask the same thing.

Who are you, exactly?

The man's brow furrowed slightly.

Vincent Wycliffe | I am Vincent Wycliffe.

He added, as if that alone were explanation enough.

Vincent Wycliffe | And this is my office.

...No, it isn't.

Vincent Wycliffe | I beg your pardon?

I'm the one using this place starting today.

For the first time, the man's expression changed subtly.

I looked him over again, wondering if something had gone wrong during the contract process.

Then, something clicked.

Wait a minute. What did you say your name was just now?

Vincent Wycliffe | Vincent Wycliffe.

Where had I heard that?

After searching my memory for a few seconds, I recalled what I was told during the signing.

That this place was originally a detective's office.
That it had been vacant for several months.
And the reason why—

...The person who used this place before was also named Vincent Wycliffe.

Vincent Wycliffe | As I was saying, I—

They said that man died.

The man was cut short.

Vincent Wycliffe | ...What?

About three months ago.

A brief silence followed.

The man who had been treating me like an intruder until a moment ago couldn't say a word.

Vincent Wycliffe | What month is it now?

When I answered that it was January, the certainty vanished from his face.

Vincent Wycliffe silently approached the desk and reached for an object.

His fingertips clearly touched it.

But the object didn't move.

He applied pressure again.

Nothing happened.

It was the same when he tried to push another item nearby.

After staring down at his own hand for a moment, his gaze slowly returned to me.

A three-month gap.
Objects that wouldn't move.
The news that he was dead.

Vincent Wycliffe was silent for a long time.

And finally, like someone who had found the answer to an unsolvable problem, he spoke quietly.

Vincent Wycliffe | ...I see.

A brief pause.

Vincent Wycliffe | It appears that I am dead.