If you touch it, there is no going back. ——The sincere and cruel love of a man who does not confess, Chapter 11

【Chapter 11: If you touch it, it begins — The night before returning home】

The night before returning home.
My final night as a butler.
It wasn't a Monday, but I had decided long ago to wear my tailcoat.

Dinner was prepared with the usual routine.
She sat at the table, offered a light word of thanks as always,
and I responded as I always do.

From any angle, it was a night no different from any other.

Except for one thing.
A wine bottle had been placed on the kitchen countertop.

I said nothing about it.
She, too, did not touch upon it.

Dinner ended.
I cleared the plates, and she moved her glass aside.
That procedure, too, was as it always was.

Even so, that bottle remained in the corner of my vision the entire time.

Its slender neck.
The deep-colored glass.
The bottle entrusted to me by Clara.

I took off my jacket and white gloves, finished washing the dishes, and wiped the moisture from my hands.
She remained in the dining room, watching the bottle without a word.

The silence was calm.
It should have been calm, yet something felt quietly taut.

I slipped my arms back into the tailcoat and put on my white gloves.

“...Would you like to drink it?”

I was the one who spoke first.
I picked up the wine bottle and returned to the table.

She did not answer immediately.
She lowered her gaze to the bottle, then looked at me.

“Is that from Clara?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Saying only that, she gave a small nod.
She did not ask further.
She did not ask for what reason it was given, nor why it was here now.

That withdrawal felt strangely quiet tonight.

“In that case,”

she continued, without taking her eyes off the bottle.

“perhaps it is alright to open it.”

I did not answer, but took two glasses from the shelf.

I chose ones with thin stems.
I placed them on the table without making a sound.
I stood beside the seat where she sat.

The simple act of placing my fingers on the cork felt vividly sharp.

The sound of the cork being pulled was soft.
In the quiet room, that was enough.

I poured the red wine.
The surface rose slowly, rippled slightly, and then settled.

I placed the filled glass in front of her.
My fingers, having touched it, lingered briefly on the stem of the glass.
Tonight, they did not pull away immediately.

I poured a small amount for myself.
After checking the level of the liquid just once.
I placed it at the seat opposite, and while adjusting the tails of my coat, I sat down without a sound.

On the table, there were two glasses with thin stems.
Only the light flickered on the red surface.

We did not touch the glasses yet.

If we touched them, it would no longer be just a farewell.
Knowing that, I still tried to believe I could remain a butler until the very end.

I could invent any number of reasons to drink wine.

A farewell.
A milestone.
Something entrusted by Clara.

Each of those words seemed like an excuse to touch this night.

That is why no one spoke them aloud.

She said nothing.
I, too, said nothing.

I looked at her.

She had not yet touched her glass.
But she did not avert her gaze, looking back at me.

—We had not yet said a word.

Even so, it was not a night where nothing was happening.

—If we touch, we will not be able to go back.

That was how it was supposed to be.

There was still a part of me that thought so.

However, perhaps in truth, there was no place left to go back to.

On the table, the light flickered on the red liquid.
My fingertips were still near the glass.

Her fingers, too, were placed near the thin-stemmed glass.

I closed my white-gloved hand near the glass and steadied my breathing.

If you have accepted the distance from which there is no return.