Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 3

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 3
Though it had stood empty for years, Patrick’s room was as immaculate as that of a fastidious invalid.
An ordinary nobleman’s son would have relied on servants to maintain such cleanliness, but Patrick was different.
He despised the thought of anyone entering his personal space, and so he had made it a strict rule to clean and organize his room himself.
He removed the dust covers one by one and carefully lifted the heavy rectangular case onto the table.
After unfastening the brass buckle and opening the case, he peeled back the thick velvet cloth to reveal an elegant Carl Zeiss microscope, wrapped in layers of protection. The cutting-edge instrument, representing the world’s finest optical technology, was a gift Patrick Bennett had given to him upon completing his degree.
And beside that microscope, Patrick carefully set down a small glass vial. Inside was a dried handful of grass—the research subject of Patrick Bennett.
Unremarkable as it appeared, Patrick had steeled himself to devote his entire life to this small bundle of grass.
For a moment he gazed at the vial with satisfaction, then set it down and withdrew a newspaper from his leather portfolio, unfolding it before him.
The faceless columnist ‘Mr. Greenleaf,’ possibility raised of his appointment as director of the expanding Royal Natural History Museum….
Who will be the new director of the Royal Natural History Museum? Besides Professor A, a traditional bureaucrat, and Doctor B, a promising new candidate has emerged: ‘Mr. Greenleaf,’ who has gained public favor through extensive overseas work, might also be considered….
The academic community is divided over ‘Mr. Greenleaf,’ who has disseminated accessible Biology to the general public. Some worry that appointing him to the director’s post would be based on celebrity alone…. The board dismissed the matter, stating ‘nothing has been decided yet.’
Social engagements, marriage prospects, arranged meetings—he had even forgotten his father’s pleas. His deep blue eyes sparkled like stars as they moved between the newspaper columns and a Ball Invitation.
‘Mr. Greenleaf.’
An anonymous columnist who had remained active even while undertaking years of expedition into remote regions, he was known in his primary occupation as a botanist.
His columns conveyed Biology knowledge with witty prose in an easy and entertaining manner, and had gained considerable recognition among the general public. It was entirely possible that he might truly become the new museum director.
Patrick clutched a worn Notebook to his chest and plunked himself down on the edge of his bed. It wasn’t certain yet, but if he could truly meet Mr. Greenleaf…?
His heart swelled at the mere thought. How should he introduce himself? Would confidence be better? ‘I’m researching a Novel Plant Species that could transform the world’—would that work…?
No. He had no idea.
Patrick flopped backward onto the bed, and as his body tilted, a Pocket Watch spilled from his pocket and rolled away.
“Ah….”
He reached for it, but the watch remained just beyond his grasp, and so he finally had to rise and retrieve it from beneath the bed.
Yet even afterward, Patrick’s gaze lingered long in the dim shadow beneath the bed.
It was because of ‘that box.’ A large, black, rectangular cardboard box held his attention with relentless force.
If Mr. Greenleaf was light to him, then this black coffin-like box was the source of Patrick Bennett’s descent into hell.
From fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and into his eighteenth year….
Those turbulent years that had shaken Patrick Bennett’s entire adolescence, a cursed object that sealed within it joy and pain and love-hatred in their totality.
He really ought to dispose of that damnable box this time. Patrick glared at it with burning eyes, his lip caught between his teeth.
In his mind, he had already destroyed that wretched box countless times. But the moment came to act, the problem was that he would open the box’s lid.
While Patrick deferred his decision, the black box survived crisis after crisis, enduring year after year beneath his bed.
One day became a week, a week became a month, seasons changed, and eventually several years slipped away entirely.
This time, he would dispose of it.
Without further deliberation, Patrick seized the offending box and dragged it out. Now he would say goodbye to this cursed thing.
He had graduated from university, after all. He wouldn’t harbor regrets anymore; he would advance toward the path of a true adult.
For that, he absolutely must….
Patrick stared hard at the black box, his lips grinding against his teeth. He must not lift the lid. He could not open that lid.
Absolutely… he could not open it….
Patrick’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the box. A familiar urge began to torture him. No. You madman. Don’t open it. Don’t you dare.
The moment he opened the box and looked inside, it was certain that the box would remain in his bedroom for another several years.
He had already endured the same thing multiple times. So the box’s lid… he must not open it….
“Ah… damn it.”
Patrick’s hand moved reflexively, despite his final struggle against the impulse. The brass hinge creaked, and the Black Leather Box gaped wide open.
“Madman.”
Patrick ground his teeth. He had failed to dispose of it again.
The box was filled with what must have been several hundred Letters. The quantity was so great that scarcely a gap remained.
Staring down at them in dismay, Patrick suddenly caught the familiar fragrance rising softly, and his face twisted in pain.
Ah, damn it. That sweet-scented jasmine.
Again, he had failed to dispose of that wretched box. He ground his teeth so hard at the thought that it was futile that anger surged up within him.
And yet, Patrick’s fingers moved against his will. Even when he resolved not to indulge in such pointless sentiment, he always ended up this way. Swept up in bygone memories, he couldn’t help but harbor a tender feeling.
As his fingers traced the edges of the tightly packed envelopes, Patrick randomly drew one out.
There was no need to open the envelope. This green envelope, its corner notably creased, had been received in early June of his sixteenth year.
As he recalled, it was June.
A letter written with indignation over his delayed reply, pressed so hard the pen had nearly torn through the paper. One could feel how angry she had been simply by touching the envelope, where the texture of the paper, compressed by the pen nib, bulged outward in small bumps.
‘You’re really too much,’ it began, followed throughout by petulant complaints. And yet, at the end, she had written with rather endearing reproach, ‘Still, please write back soon. Don’t you know how hard it is for me to wait?’
Patrick withdrew another envelope.
He knew its contents well too. This letter, with an ink stain on the front, had been received in his seventeenth winter. He had hastily hidden it when his roommate nearly caught him, and he had claimed the stain came from overturning his inkwell in panic.
It was filled with talk of exams, shared anxieties about the future, and a charming lament that she liked so many things now it was a real problem.
At that time, the girl’s dream had been to become a novelist. Since she had considerable talent for drawing, the letter included a wonderful declaration that she would illustrate the cover of her own novels.
Patrick even remembered the contents of the reply he had sent. He could vividly recall teasing her with the line ‘You only ever like those scandalous books, don’t you?’
Every single one was like that. No matter which envelope he withdrew from this box, Patrick could recall every word with perfect accuracy.
The letters that passed between them had been so numerous that by the time his clumsy, rounded handwriting had grown into something genuinely mature, there was hardly anything left unsaid between them.
Was it because they were young? How had he and she found so much to say to each other? If only he’d known it would end like this—he might never have exchanged letters with her in the first place.
“…ah.”
Patrick slipped the letters back into their box and exhaled heavily.
Considering that it was this very letter affair that had driven him to throw himself into Biology with such fervor, Patrick Bennett had surrendered nearly half his life to the person who had written them.
When would he finally escape her? Or was it possible he never would?

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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