Chapter 2
“To Miss Helen Atwell, who loves money,
Unfortunately, I can’t show you my face right now. The reason is simple — I have no hobby of commissioning portraits. Even if I did, what’s the point? It’s obvious it wouldn’t be as good as the original.
And it’s not like I can just show up at your place unannounced. As you said yourself, talking face-to-face is best, but why do you think I sent you a letter in the first place? Telling you my name is the best I can do. (If I explained why, I think you’d get angry…)
I was only out for a stroll to observe the beautiful stars over the wasteland. Lying on the grass, I was admiring the neighboring world’s stars — ones I can’t see from where I live — when I saw someone flying by with a whooshing sound.
What was I supposed to think? Of course I assumed the person passing overhead was a witch on a broomstick. After all, that sound matched exactly the sound of a broom in flight!
But according to you, you’re not a witch and you don’t ride a broom. Instead, you say your job is to show fireworks to enemies. (Why fireworks, of all things?)
Still, it’s true you can fly in the sky, isn’t it? Even if it’s not on a broom, but in something called an “airplane,” the one who flew over my head that day was definitely you.
If you can fly in the sky, doesn’t that make you our equal — a witch and a sister to us? To freely soar in that high place forbidden to humans — isn’t that in itself a wonderful thing?
So, witches of the wasteland ride airplanes, not brooms. Someday, I want to see you fly in broad daylight, when the sky is clear.
In the lazy hour when the crow nods off,
Enoch Greer
P.S.: You asked how I learned your name. Of course I didn’t use a crystal ball. Think about it — there are many birds chirping around you.”
“To Enoch Greer, the delusional man,
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know how you can send me letters. I’m not even sure if you’re actually a man.
Maybe someone’s just pulling a stupid prank on me — using a man’s name and making up ridiculous stories. (If that’s the case, it’s not too late to stop. We don’t have much time, and your time is too precious to waste on this kind of nonsense. I mean it.)
You compared me on an air raid to a witch on a broom, or maybe to a “comet”… Sure, flying in the sky is romantic. Who wouldn’t think so? Like birds, soaring through the air is a dream people have had for ages.
But what I do up there is not romantic at all. It’s not wonderful. I only do it because I don’t want to watch them destroy my future. If I leave them be, they’ll take away everything I love. I’m only trying to stop that.
Got it? This isn’t my fault.
I don’t know what your purpose is in writing to me, but you said you wanted to talk. Then will you listen to my story?
I used to love fairy tales with magic and fantasy. Reading them made me feel like I could go back to that time when I believed I might enroll in a school for magic.
Yes, I really believed I could become a magician — fighting monsters with unexplainable miracles, going on epic adventures…
I thought I’d grow up to be a cool adult like a character in a magical novel. But when I came to my senses, I was rolling in this mud, clinging to the end of the war like it was the only rope left.
But you know what? I can’t do it anymore. I’ve been at this for half a year, and now I can’t even remember what I used to like before the war, what music I listened to, or how I danced.
Even if the war ends, I don’t know what kind of life to return to.
There’s nothing waiting for me.
Even if I remember, everything will already be ruined and destroyed.
I really don’t have the strength to endure anymore. I wish someone would play a cheerful song for me — just once.
Satisfied? Now that you know I’m nothing but a boring, pathetic, broken human, stop sending letters.
And you’re not even a real magician.
— H. A”
“To Miss Helen Atwell, who doesn’t believe in magic,
Magic is a miraculous thing.
For that reason, it can feel like a very distant concept.
But magic can happen to anyone, and everyone has the right to enjoy such miracles. That’s why it’s called magic.
It seems the magic I used last time wasn’t enough to earn your trust. I hope the magic I’m sending this time pleases you.
On the night when the Moon Queen hears prayers,
Enoch Greer
P.S.: Even if nothing is waiting for you, at least know there’s one magician here who’s upset and sniffling!”
“Dear Diary, I started writing this diary so I wouldn’t forget my daily life here. But today, since I first etched words into these pages, something strange — truly worth writing down — happened!
At least until sunset, it had been an ordinary day. I’ve said this so many times, but it was a really hard day. The more time passes, the less I adapt; instead, it feels like we’re all slowly being sucked into a deep swamp.
I was thinking that when I crawled into my sleeping bag to get some rest. This is my favorite time of day — sleep is the only time I can escape this hell.
In the quiet darkness, when everyone was heading to their personal place of escape, buying their ticket to dreamland — that’s when it happened.
From that big loudspeaker that usually blares government slogans or loud buzzing noises, a sound came that was both familiar and strangely out of place.
I knew exactly what it was. But why it could be broadcast here, I had no idea.
Either way, we all stood up, exchanged confused glances, and then, as if by silent agreement, we started making a commotion!
We danced together, pretended to drink brandy from our canteens, and laughed loudly. Nobody tried to stop us. I still don’t know how it was possible… It was just an ordinary song.
But it was a pop song — one we all remembered from before we were gathered into this desolate place, from that ordinary time.
I can still hear the lyrics in my head. Was it magic?
Yes, it must have been magic. If we’d been in our right minds, that song never would’ve been broadcast, and we never would’ve thought to make such a ruckus.
One thing’s for sure — for a moment, we were truly happy. Maybe because it felt like we’d gone back to the old days.
— From the diary of Private Kaya Stanton”
“To my dear Miss Helen Atwell,
Hello, it’s me again.
This letter will be much shorter. I couldn’t sleep because I just had to say this. And that is—
What did I tell you! I told you I’m a magician!
Ah, now I can rest easy.
See you tomorrow!
On a night when I’d freeze without a fireplace,
Enoch Greer”
