The warmth of the sun fell on Edmund's face long before consciousness returned. The grass beneath him was cool, soft, uneven — a meadow in the heart of the city's public park, where children usually laughed, couples walked, and old men fed crumbs to pigeons.
Today it was quiet.
Or maybe he was too tired to hear anything.
Three days had passed since the hospital discharged him. Three days since the explosion, the chase, the humiliation of failing to catch the Fool. His ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply, and a dull throbbing lived behind his eyes like an unwelcome lodger.
He exhaled, a heavy, defeated breath.
A shadow fell beside him.
Edmund opened his eyes.
Someone was lying on the grass next to him — on his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the clouds as if they held answers to life's riddles. A young man, perhaps his age or slightly older, with calm eyes and a strangely serene expression.
The man didn't look at him.
He simply said:
"Nice weather."
Edmund blinked. "...I suppose."
The man turned his head a little, offering a small, friendly smile.
"You look like someone who forgot what good weather feels like."
Edmund found himself staring. The man's presence was oddly comforting. No threat. No suspicion. No tension in the air — just a stranger who didn't seem bothered by the proximity.
"May I ask," Edmund said slowly, "who are you?"
The man chuckled softly. "Just somebody trying to breathe. Name's Harold."
Edmund nodded, unsure why he felt like he could trust him instantly.
"And you?" Harold asked.
"Edmund," he answered. "Detective."
Harold lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? Detectives sleep in parks? I thought they had important crime to chase."
Edmund huffed a tiny laugh — his first in weeks.
"Sometimes they get tired."
"Well," Harold said, folding his hands behind his head again, "you picked a good place to be tired."
A silence settled between them. A peaceful one. Birds chirped somewhere distant. The wind brushed through the meadow grass like a whisper.
Edmund didn't know why, but he started talking.
Really talking.
He told Harold about the explosion. About the Fool. About the sleepless nights. About how he felt like the whole world was slipping through his fingers.
Harold listened — quietly, attentively, without judgment.
When Edmund finished, Harold sat up and hugged his knees.
"Sounds like you're carrying a lot," he murmured. "More than most people should."
Edmund sighed. "It's my job."
"No," Harold corrected gently. "Your job is to solve cases. What you're carrying… is the pain of someone who's afraid to lose everyone he cares about."
Edmund froze.
That sentence cut through him like a blade.
Harold realized it — he lowered his voice.
"Sorry. Too direct?"
"No." Edmund stared at the ground. "Just… true."
Harold leaned back again, closing his eyes. "We all have ghosts, Edmund. Some scream louder than others."
And for the first time since the hospital, Edmund felt… understood.
---
Over the next month, they met again. And again. And again.
At the park.
At a small tea shop.
On the edge of the river docks.
Sometimes just walking in silence.
Harold always listened more than he spoke.
Always with calm eyes.
Always with a softness that made Edmund forget the chaos of his job.
Edmund never questioned why Harold seemed to be everywhere he was.
Never questioned why Harold knew exactly when he needed company.
Never questioned the timing.
He was simply grateful.
He had lost too many people.
This unexpected friend felt like a gift.
Harold talked too, occasionally — about stress, about sleepless nights, about feeling trapped by a life that wasn't his. Nothing deep, nothing dangerous, always just enough to sound human, relatable, vulnerable.
They grew close.
Closer than Edmund expected.
For a brief moment in his chaotic life, he felt steady.
---
Until the letter.
It arrived one cold evening, tucked neatly under his door.
No signature.
No seal.
Just a single line:
"Tomorrow one of your friends will die."
— Fool
Edmund's blood went cold.
He called every colleague.
Every acquaintance.
Every relative.
All safe.
He didn't think of Harold.
Not for a second.
Because Harold wasn't part of the "danger" in Edmund's mind.
Harold was part of the "peace."
A mistake the Fool counted on.
---
Next morning, the mortuary was colder than usual.
The burnt body lay on the steel table, covered until the chest. A lone tag hung from the toe: Unidentified Male — suspected arson. But beside the body were items: a ring, a pocket watch, a notebook.
Harold's notebook.
Edmund's breath hitched.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, no—"
The mortician spoke gently. "We found these with the corpse. I'm sorry. It… must be him."
Edmund's whole chest hollowed out.
His vision blurred.
He leaned over the table, trembling so badly his knees nearly buckled.
He lost him.
Another one.
Another person he cared about taken away.
He whispered, barely audible:
"Why does everyone I care about leave…?"
His tears fell onto the cold metal surface.
And then—
A soft, sharp crackle.
A speaker somewhere in the room came alive with static.
Edmund lifted his head.
A voice — distorted, warped, mockingly calm — filled the room:
"Betrayal never comes from your enemies."
Edmund froze.
The phrase hit him like lightning.
But he misunderstood.
He thought it meant someone at the station.
Someone in his department.
Another threat.
He had no idea the truth stood inches from him for weeks.
No idea the corpse wasn't Harold.
No idea Harold never existed.
And somewhere, unseen by Edmund, the Fool watched through the mortuary window… smiling.