Ebony Castle

Jean’s face lit up when he spotted Doha, and he waved with one hand, holding up a large tray with the other.

“You’re here early! Are you feeling tired?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Perfect timing. Come with me for now.”

He acted as if they had just seen each other yesterday, showing a warm familiarity. Jean quickly ascended the stairs, and Doha followed, holding his backpack on one arm while watching Jean balance the tray. He assumed Jean was leading him to his guest room, but that wasn’t the case. Jean reached the top of the stairs, turned in the opposite direction, and walked down the hallway. They passed several closed doors before reaching one that was half-open.

Balancing the tray with one hand, Jean knocked on the open door and spoke to someone inside, not to Doha.

“The entrée is salmon prepared with truffle cream and baby spinach.”

It was only then that Doha realized the room beyond the door was a dining room, and seated at the central table were Tristan Locke and Lowell.

He tried to retreat, but it was too late. Jean had fully opened the door, and Tristan Locke, who had been looking in the direction of the door, saw Doha. Their eyes met, crossing the threshold.

“…Mr. Locke.”

Doha murmured under his breath, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach. It seemed Tristan wasn’t too eager to see Doha before the evening either, judging by the subtle expression on his face as he gazed at him.

“Come, sit down.”

Finally, Tristan spoke.

“Jean seems to have something prepared for Mr. Eden.”

“…”

Doha had no choice but to step into the room. As Jean moved to place the food, he pulled out a chair across from the secretary for Doha.

“Here, please sit.”

“…Thank you.”

A table mat was already set in front of Doha, suggesting Jean had prepared it in advance.

Doha sat down without looking at Tristan, who sat at the head of the table, and placed his backpack on the floor. There were two plates of salmon on Jean’s tray. After placing the entrée dishes on the table mats in front of Tristan and the secretary, Jean gave Doha a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Wait here for just a moment.”

As Jean left the room, an uncomfortable silence settled in, as if it had been waiting for its chance. Doha absentmindedly lifted his gaze, only to meet the secretary’s eyes. The secretary spoke as if the three of them dining together was the most natural thing.

“This is the small dining room. There’s a banquet dining hall downstairs.”

“…I see.”

“Was your trip here smooth?”

“Yes, it was fine.”

Just then, Jean returned, holding a tray. When he uncovered it, there was a single plate on the tray this time.

Jean placed a small, shallow dish in front of Doha and proudly announced, “This is truffle congee.”

“…”

The dish reminded Doha of Korean rice porridge. Jean scratched the back of his neck when Doha blinked.

“I’m not sure if it’ll taste the same as what you know. I tried to replicate it with what ingredients I could find and crafted a course around it.”

“A course?”

It sounded like the porridge was only the beginning. As Doha struggled to find words of thanks, Jean slid a spoon toward him.

“Give it a try, if it suits your taste.”

“…Thank you, Jean. I’ll enjoy it.”

Doha held the soup spoon between his ring and pinky fingers. He scooped a small amount of the steaming porridge and brought it to his lips. The taste was surprisingly exotic.

“How is it?”

Jean asked, looking slightly anxious. Doha swallowed the porridge he had been holding in his mouth. Except for the rich truffle aroma, the taste and texture were very much like rice porridge. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it tasted good.

“It’s delicious.”

“Glad to hear that.”

With the answer he had hoped for, Jean left the dining room with a satisfied expression. While Doha focused on the porridge, Tristan and the secretary were discussing company matters. Doha quietly continued eating, careful not to drop his spoon.

Among the next courses was a large bowl of braised short ribs. Although Doha hadn’t eaten much Korean food since moving to London, he couldn’t leave anything behind out of respect for Jean’s effort. Every time Jean brought out another dish, Doha repeatedly expressed his thanks, until Jean eventually just waved it off in mild exasperation.

Doha, busy finishing all the food, had little energy to pay attention to the others, and Tristan and Lowell acted as though Doha wasn’t even there. After finishing the final course of persimmon sorbet for dessert, Doha sat back in his chair, feeling like he might burst if he moved. He heard the sound of the secretary pushing back his chair from across the table.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, CEO. Rest well, Mr. Eden.”

Jean had disappeared into the kitchen after serving dessert, and there was no sign of him returning to collect the dishes. As Doha considered going downstairs to thank Jean, a calm voice from above interrupted his thoughts.

“Eden.”

“…Yes?”

Doha slowly looked up. Tristan Locke was looking down at him, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. Their eyes met again, at close range, with no chance to avoid it.

He had long, almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, and his gray irises were as dark and still as water untouched by sunlight.

The man gazed at Doha in silence for a moment before speaking.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“…”

“Would you mind following me for a bit?”

Faced with his pale and refined features, any words of refusal crumbled. Doha averted his gaze and nodded.

***

“Come in.”

Opening the office door, Tristan turned to look at Doha and spoke. With a soft click, the ceiling lights turned on, casting a bright glow. Doha glanced up at the modern lighting fixture. Although he had been in this room once before, at the time, he had been too distracted by his healing finger to notice his surroundings.

“Have a seat. Over here.”

“…Okay.”

The room had the feel of a corporate office in London. Although there were only two desks—one of them a large executive desk—the layout of sofas facing each other around a coffee table was familiar. Doha was about to sit on one of the sofas, but Tristan’s words made him stand up again and take a seat in the chair Tristan indicated, opposite the large desk.

Tristan sat down in the big leather chair across from Doha and switched on a desk lamp. The light pooled on the wooden surface of the desk like it might in an interrogation room.

“If you had come to see me in London, we probably would have met in an office like this,” he said lightly.

“And I would have rejected your request without a second thought.”

“……”

“Or perhaps we never would have met face to face at all. Your situation would have been communicated to me in writing through a secretary, and my refusal and subsequent actions would have been relayed the same way.”

Doha stayed silent, unsure of Tristan’s intentions with these words. Across the desk, Tristan reached under the desk, and Doha heard the sound of a drawer opening and closing.

“…Ah.”

What Tristan placed on the desk was a keychain Doha recognized. He had carried it around so often that the transparent plastic had yellowed, but seeing it lying there made his heart sink unexpectedly. The surface, scratched and worn, was marred with white marks, and the bite marks on the edges showed Ulysses’ handiwork.

Doha suddenly remembered the day he bought this keychain, shortly after arriving in London. Many homes in England still used keys, and the flat Doha shared near his school was no exception. He lived in a cramped flat with three other people. The strict landlord had warned repeatedly that losing the key would result in a hefty fine to change the locks. That’s why Doha had bought the cheap keychain on a random outing while exploring the unfamiliar streets of London before the semester started—a time when he felt both anxious and excited about being far from home with only his piano.

“This kind of plastic material is difficult to restore,” Tristan explained calmly.

“It could be remade similarly, but it wouldn’t be exactly the same.”

“…Yes.”

Doha reached out and pulled the keychain toward him.

“It’s fine. Thank you for your concern.”

The keychain wasn’t broken, so a good cleaning should restore its function. He looked down at the worn keychain in his hand and then raised his head.

“The keys that were attached to it…”

Before he could finish his question, Tristan placed something else on the desk. Two keys and a new keychain came into view under the bright light.

For a moment, Doha couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene.

Attached to a short silver chain was a simple black square made of ebony, framed with a slim silver edge. A subtle sheen graced the wood’s surface, with a gentle curve mimicking the lid of a grand piano, running from corner to corner.

“I asked for it to be as understated as possible, to avoid drawing attention,” Tristan explained.

“The materials are platinum and ebony. Ebony, as you know, is used for the black keys of a piano. There’s no signature on it, but it’s crafted by a rather famous artisan. I’d like you to use it in place of the damaged one, if you don’t mind.”

“Why…?”

Doha couldn’t stop the question from slipping out.

“Why go to such lengths?”

Tristan repeated his words as if puzzled by them.

“As the owner of the house, it’s my responsibility to make amends for something my dog damaged.”

“But this is far too much for compensation. The original keychain only cost about one or two pounds.”

“Eden.”

Tristan spoke with a slight hint of exasperation.

“To me, one pound and a thousand pounds aren’t that different. You know that.”

“…But—”

Tristan sighed softly, rising from his seat.

“It’s no big deal. I have no other use for it, so just accept it.”

The platinum keychain felt heavy and cold against the back of Doha’s hand. He stared at the new keychain for a moment, feeling the irony of receiving such an extravagant gift from the person who had taken the piano away from him.

“…Thank you.”

Remembering his manners, he muttered softly. Tristan, now leaning against the window, looked out at the forest outside and spoke again.

“Did you know? They say Neim forms between people when they share even brief skin contact.”

“…Yes.”

“Perhaps we met once before when you were a scholarship student at the foundation.”

He didn’t turn toward Doha but continued gazing out the window. Doha looked at his profile and answered.

“I don’t remember, but… it’s possible.”

“I remember seeing your performance, though,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“……”

Doha suddenly recalled his early days in London at the age of twenty. The remaining tuition after his scholarship had been covered by the Locke Foundation, and it was the foundation’s monthly stipends that allowed him to afford food and shelter in the exorbitantly priced city and focus on his studies and practice.

The Tristan Locke Doha remembered from those days had been a distant figure, seated in the center of the VIP section at concerts, impeccably dressed. He was a patron with impeccable taste, far beyond reach in his own world. During his university years, when Doha had admired and feared him, he had never imagined they would meet again under such circumstances.

“Back then, and even now…” he began to say without realizing it.

“Thank you for your help.”

The man was silent for a moment before letting out a soft, deflated laugh.

“Back then, I invested in you purely based on your talent and potential, so it’s not something you need to thank me for.”

“……”

“If you insist, I guess I’ll only accept thanks for now,” he added, with a tone Doha couldn’t quite decipher as either a joke or something serious.

Before Doha could gather his thoughts, Tristan straightened up from where he had been leaning against the window.

“I’ll head upstairs first. See you after you’ve washed up.”

“Okay.”

Without looking back, Tristan left the office. Doha remained seated, watching the neat figure disappear through the half-open door until even the sound of footsteps faded away.

The keychain, now warm from his body heat, still rested against the back of his hand. Doha gazed at the soft light reflected on the smooth, dark brown wood. Slowly, he stretched his fingers and grasped the keychain. The curve of the wood, reminiscent of a grand piano, and its sharp edges pressed into his palm.