The young Vanitas had shown him every corner of the estate. From the servants' quarters where he once hid from his enraged father, to the library where he feigned dedication to study, just for the sake of appeasing his father.
The tour felt so thorough, it was as though an entire week had passed.
Until they arrived at a single, unvisited door.
"Your room?"
"Yes," the boy answered, nodding. "This is—"
"Where he made you write those diaries."
"Yes."
"...."
They stepped inside. Unlike the grandiose of the rest of the estate, this room looked entirely different. It was nothing like the real version Vanitas remembered. As if he were seeing the room through the original Vanitas's eyes.
Clang…!
A prison.
Chains seemed to bind every corner, evoking a suffocating atmosphere, perhaps a glimpse of the torment the boy once felt. And yet, despite all the grandeur beyond these walls, the space also evoked a peculiar sense of solitude.
