“Is this… so kind of horror short story?”
I murmured as I put down the newspaper.
It was an utterly absurd tale. Not the kind of content one would expect to read at the beginning of a new year. If anything, it seed like a nonsensical, implausible horror story. It was as if soone had mistakenly picked up a tale and decided to write about it.
“You could see it that way. It’s set more than ten years ago, after all.”
Liam Moore, who answered, quietly turned his attention back to his column, his eyes scanning each sentence.
“But in reality, back then, grave-robbing was quite frequent. It continued for years. Even when I was in school, there were grueso rumours.”
“Corpses rising from their graves?”
“Exactly.”
Liam explained that this led people to bury bodies deeper and place coffins upside down.
“It’s a superstition, but…”
Yes, a superstition. Unfortunately, in this 19th century, superstition, magic, and legends are alive and breathing. So, dismissing it entirely as superstition is unwise. You never know when a rumour you thought was baseless might suddenly turn out to be true.
“Even if it’s related to events from back then… why publish such an article now?”
I asked.
Honestly, it didn’t make sense. Digging up corpses and stitching them together to bring soone back to life? Reviving a person with electricity?
Of course, in the 21st century, you can restart a heart that has just stopped with an electric shock. But no matter how advanced dical technology is in the 21st century, it can’t revive a corpse that has been dead for a long ti. Dead is dead. Even if it were possible, a brain that has died once doesn’t co back easily. We can revive hearts, but brains…
“…It’s not entirely impossible. We’ve experienced it ourselves.”
A tale of magic. I finally understood what Liam Moore was talking about.
“Could this person have done sothing similar?”
“It’s hard to say, but the probability is high. Otherwise, they might have used a unique thod only they knew.”
I suddenly recalled a ti when my brother Jonathan mocked a tabloid (which he rightfully did) for publishing a similar article.
‘Corpses Walking in London!’
“It’s strange,” I murmured.
“You think so too.”
“It doesn’t feel right. Philip Peterson is dead too. There shouldn’t be any stories about dead people walking around London. The timing of this article isn’t a coincidence.”
Liam Moore approached . His fingers naturally brushed my neck and lingered on the chain of the necklace I always wore.
“Don’t take off the necklace for a mont. Always carry a weapon.”
His lips brushed my cheek and whispered.
“If this is indeed within our realm of work, be cautious, Jane. You are a very easy target. Many in London’s sewers wouldn’t hesitate even if Lucita and Plurititas took an interest in you.”
I reached out and ruffled his hair. Liam Moore, kneeling at my feet, looked up at . The worry in his gaze made my heart flutter.
“Don’t give that look.”
I complained.
“What look?”
He asked mischievously.
The look that says he wants to kiss right now. But I kept that answer to myself and tapped his mischievous lips. He wrinkled his nose and laughed.
＊ ＊ ＊
In London, there was only one place where people could gather regardless of status, gender, or age. Although clubs were typically the domain of gentlen, this place was different. I had been active as a mber for a long ti, and the connections I made here often helped navigate life in this foreign city (London).
The Leximion Association.
Commonly shortened to Leximion or AL, this was our gathering. To be honest, the nas varied. Just as Liam calls Greenwich a club, so people call it an association, while others call it a union.
While our essence was a reading group, there was one thing all participants had in common: they were single. There were people who were single, divorced, or widowed. But they were all ‘currently single’ individuals who gathered to read and discuss books.
Books were purchased with voluntary mbership fees. A few wealthy mbers often contributed money to buy books for those who couldn’t afford them. I rember occasionally pitching in with my extra money.
At Leximion Association, we read classics that stood still in the rapidly changing tides of the tis.
Classics are the preserved language and proof of a bygone era. Sentences written by soone in the past remain for future generations, becoming eternal with the mont. That’s the power of words—to lead to eternity.
People sotis want to live forever, but the characters in books can achieve that. Whether they live forever or et an eternal end. The phrase ‘lived happily ever after’ in stories actually represents human desire. The impossible desire to ‘live happily forever’ is immortalised in writing, lasting through centuries.
So, past writings are outside the flow of ti. We, book lovers, or in other words, lovers of the preserved past and the embald eternity, cherished them.
For so ti, I had been very busy and had beco a ghost mber.
Honestly, how many tis have I truly rested in the past few months? From the cult uproar at Old Paradise to the tragedy at Stranden Manor, the auction train with its mysterious host, Dahlia and Greenwich, and the kidnapping by an escaped convict… I had barely any ti to rest.
It felt like soone was deliberately working to the bone.
In any case, I hadn’t attended a Leximion Association eting for nearly half a year. I hadn’t been active enough for the group to assu I would rarely show up anymore.
So when I showed up in my outing clothes, hat in hand, it caused quite a stir among the mbers.
“Who is this! Jane!”
“Jane? Jane Osmond?”
“Miss Osmond is here?”
I smiled brightly. It was a grand reception. They surrounded , delighted to see in good health.
At that mont, my friend, having heard the news, ca running from inside. My mory provided his na and detailed mories.
Clara Barnum.
“Jane!”
“Clara, my goodness! You cut your hair!”
Clara, with a bob cut just below her ears, burst into laughter. She was wearing very wide trousers that swayed like a skirt when she moved.
Clara was a rare visionary in this 19th century. I recalled a passionate voice from a past mory discussing ‘mariti trade.’ She always had suitors, but Clara gave up on the marriage market and declared herself single. She soon established a significant shipping company in London.
Clara, her hair bouncing, smiled at .
“Isn’t it cool? I decided to change my style.”
“Wow, I thought a princess was walking out.”
“Oh, you!”
Clara laughed and pulled along. After a brief commotion, we all sat down for a reading session.
We began lightly with Hamlet.
“To be or not to be, that is the question…”
The famous lines of Shakespeare were softly spoken, accompanied by the quiet rustling of pages. At this mont, everyone focused on the book. Conversations outside the book were allowed only through written notes.
Just then, Clara handed a small note. I unfolded the neatly folded paper to see her tidy handwriting.
[I have a boyfriend.]
I quickly took out my fountain pen and scribbled a reply.
[What’s he like? Does he treat you well?]
[He’s really kind. His slightly tanned skin is also very sexy.]
‘Goodness.’
What should I do with this bold girl? I never imagined a 19th-century lady would use the word ‘sexy.’ I struggled to contain my laughter, my ears burning.
[Can you introduce him to next ti?]
[Of course. It would be a betrayal not to show my best friend my boyfriend.]
I felt a bit emotional. Normally, friends who don’t see each other often grow distant, but Clara still considered her closest friend. I should have made ti to visit earlier.
[Jane, would you like to have lunch together on Thursday? He’s coming.]
[Can I co too?]
[Of course!]
I drew a small heart and a hand-blown kiss in the corner. Clara then dramatically stamped the note with her lips, leaving a red lipstick mark on the paper.
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