Ch.19Ch.2 – Outro (Video Not Opening)

# Once Again, This Story Returns to the Nail Head

1929. 4. 9. AM 10:42

Gorde Street No. 22, John Crayfield’s Office

I’m glad to see the protruding nail head on the stairs. Not wanting to ruin my new shoes, I carefully climbed the steps. When I entered the office, Crayfield was making a commotion.

“How does it feel to be a real ‘detective,’ my sixth assistant? I’m giving you an official case. Do some investigating on where I should hang this to make it look impressive!”

Thanks to rescuing Becket O’Brien, I received my official detective license. The official record states: “Recognized for the merit of rescuing a missing boy.”

Attached to the document were recommendation letters from Mother Abasina, the abbess of Pollard Southern Cathedral, and Audrey Burroway, the owner of Burroway General Store, along with a certificate of verification.

Years later, someone unfamiliar with the circumstances might look at this document and think I spent quite a bit of money to get my detective license.

Crayfield is excitedly making a fuss. He figures that with two officially licensed detectives, he can charge higher fees.

That’s also why he’s causing such a commotion about framing the detective license certificate and hanging it in a “prominent place.”

Eventually, the certificate ended up hanging next to the Doomsday Clock, tilted about 15 degrees.

“So. When are you planning to introduce me to that fiery nun?”

Crayfield is very interested in Sister Abasina.

He knew about the truce between the White Hand Mafia and the Red-Headed O’Malley, but he didn’t know that a “neutral zone” had been established in the entertainment district.

So the fact that nuns from the Vatican’s direct “Black and White Rose Order” had opened a “bar” right in the middle of mafia territory was a significant and major change.

“The purpose of this patch seems to have been the addition of those ‘nuns.’ Originally, the players, the ‘hero lords,’ were supposed to be deeply involved with them, but thanks to your intervention, the situation has become somewhat peculiar.”

Crayfield didn’t view this matter simply.

The reason Red-Headed O’Malley can’t grow into a major force despite attracting young residents is the lack of heavy weapons and money.

In contrast, the White Hand Mafia, though slightly fewer in number, has many well-trained and loyal subordinates and exerts influence throughout Pollard Island with its formidable financial power.

“The source of their financial power is obviously alcohol sales. The White Hand doesn’t deal with shoddy moonshine like O’Malley. They sell high-quality imported Italian communion wine.

But look. The Pope’s heavily armed personal guard is directly selling communion wine—the White Hand’s financial lifeline—while doing business in the entertainment district, which is O’Malley’s territory.

It’s circumstantial evidence that the church is exerting influence over both mafia factions. There also seems to be an intention to directly manage the risks of the underworld.”

Crayfield scratched his head at this point.

“But why? I don’t understand the reason. The Vatican and the church aren’t dark forces. They’re a massive bureaucratic organization that has continued for 2,000 years.

For such an organization to naturally intervene in Pollard’s underworld without reason? I don’t know what the managers ‘up there’ are thinking.

What kind of development are they planning?”

Another issue troubles Crayfield: the existence of the massive tunnel beneath the cemetery. That place was also a kind of dungeon added in this patch.

Crayfield went around City Hall and the library looking for added records and clues. According to the setting, it was a secret base disguised as a coal mine.

It was first created during the American Revolutionary War against the British Empire, and during the Civil War, it was used as a shelter.

“Actually, the part about it being used as a shelter is suspicious. This island wasn’t a valuable place during the Civil War.

Back then, it was just an island for whaling, and its location is isolated in the southeastern part of Massachusetts.

What tactical value could it have had? They were busy firing cannons and fighting on the mainland.

However, it’s true that major renovations took place during that period. It’s estimated that’s when it was disguised as a coal mine.

What could be down there? A cemetery keeper who moves the dead with music and zombies working to bizarre tunes.

Where did those railway tracks lead? What were they digging for?

Ah, of course, I don’t want to find out myself. I’m curious, but that’s the job of our ‘players,’ our ‘hero lords.’

In that regard, I deeply commend you. Thanks to you destroying the elevator, our players will have to struggle their way down, and then they’ll face hordes of angry, hungry zombies. Just imagining it makes me happy. Yes, you’ve done a great job making this game absolutely shitty!”

Crayfield rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.

“By the way, did you know Audrey Burroway called yesterday? She said O’Brien is being discharged around lunchtime today. She wants to treat us to a meal as a token of gratitude, so let’s go to Pollard Hospital. If we leave now, the timing will be perfect.”

* * * * *

Same day, PM 12:11

In front of Pollard Municipal Hospital’s main entrance

Becket O’Brien’s attending physician was Dr. Gregory Hugh.

Fortunately, Crayfield didn’t encounter Dr. Hugh, as he fled to the parking lot as soon as he heard the sound of the doctor’s cane.

So I entered the lobby alone. As soon as the doctor saw me, he struck the floor a couple of times with his iron cane.

“If it weren’t for that damned fire, I would have been comfortable! Where is that corpse-dealer? I’ll smash his skull!”

The forensic doctor, who is gentlemanly to the dead but extremely unkind to the living, had returned to the diagnostic medicine department.

Although there was a clause stating “until the morgue is rebuilt,” for the old doctor, having to treat living people seemed to be the greatest stress.

But the doctor’s misfortune was O’Brien’s luck. Where an ordinary diagnostic physician might have overlooked it, the doctor, drawing on his experience as a military physician and treating veterans, identified O’Brien’s psychological trauma.

“When he was first brought in, he had mild malnutrition and severe dehydration. The short-term memory loss, not remembering anything for a few days, isn’t actually a big problem.

The real issue is that he shows abnormal reactions to certain stimuli. Listen carefully. This is very similar to shell shock.

It’s quite similar to how soldiers returning from trench warfare experience abnormal symptoms when they hear sounds resembling artillery fire.”

“What should we be careful about?”

Audrey wrapped her arms around O’Brien.

“What’s been confirmed is music. Absolutely avoid it. He shows particularly violent reactions to string instruments like violins, so keep that in mind. Ah! Speaking of which.”

Dr. Hugh, leaning on his cane, walked toward the reception desk. A nurse handed him a thin book from the shelf.

The doctor flipped through the pages, then roughly tore out one page. The nurse shouted something, but he ignored her and returned to us.

He abruptly held out the page, which was labeled “Medical Journal, March 1929” at the bottom.

The page featured a photo of a young woman with short hair wearing glasses.

It was a photo taken against the backdrop of a rainy window, and the woman wasn’t even looking at the camera, let alone acknowledging it. Below her slightly bowed head, the line of her thin, long lips was distinct.

Below it read: “FBI Special Agent, Dr. Katherine Scully, Doctor of Medicine and Psychoanalysis.”

“Go see this person. She’s a talent who graduated from Johns Hopkins Medical School and earned a doctorate in psychoanalysis in the Old World.

She was originally in Washington, but now she’s at Arkham Miskatonic University Hospital for some project, so it should be easy to find her.

I’ll write you a letter of introduction and a diagnosis. She’s a person with a great appetite for research, so she’ll surely welcome you.”

“I’m not an American. Will that be okay?”

O’Brien asked in a dejected tone, but Audrey pulled his arm.

“How old are you, O’Brien?”

“Seventeen, ma’am.”

“Really? Then from now on, you’re 18.”

“What?”

“That way we can go to City Hall after lunch and file for marriage. Why do you think I called those detectives and the nun? I asked them to be witnesses. If we get married, you can become an American. You don’t dislike the idea, do you?”

It wasn’t just O’Brien who was too stunned to speak.

“Do you dislike it?”

Audrey’s eyes narrowed.

O’Brien mumbled something about needing time to think and not being mentally prepared.

Just as even Dr. Hugh was scrunching up his face,

“Please understand. O’Brien is just shy.”

A familiar voice was heard. O’Brien turned around happily.

“Sister Abasina!”

Abasina, dressed in civilian clothes, was walking toward us with the support of another nun. Dark sunglasses suited her well under a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“Have you been well? Doctor, is our child healthy?”

“Depending on how you define ‘health,’ but I can only tell you that the possibility of sudden death is very low.”

Dr. Hugh grumbled. Abasina smiled brightly.

“You’re such a positive person! I like that. By the way, how much is this child’s medical bill?”

“You should ask at the desk for that. The desk is two steps to the right from where you are now, and twenty steps forward. Anyway, Audrey. I’ll mail the relevant documents to Burroway General Store, so make sure you receive them. I’ll call the doctor directly, so keep that in mind.”

Dr. Hugh disappeared, muttering. The distinct tap, tap of his cane could be heard even in the crowded lobby. The nun beside Abasina uttered a small curse.

“Sister. Your words are a bit harsh. A doctor is someone who saves lives; they don’t have to be nice people, do they?”

Abasina extended her hand.

“Audrey Burroway, right? I’m Mother Abasina from Pollard Southern Cathedral. We’d like to pay for O’Brien’s medical expenses.”

Audrey shook her head.

“No. I’ll pay. O’Brien is part of our store, and I’m his employer. And he’s going to be my husband. So please wait.”

Abasina laughed, shrugging her shoulders.

“Is that so? Then do as you please.”

Audrey disappeared toward the reception desk, dragging O’Brien’s arm.

“They look like a happy couple, don’t they?”

Smiling, Abasina pointed to chairs near the entrance. She meant for us to sit and talk.

Thanks to the accompanying nun who tactfully gave us space, Abasina and I were able to sit side by side.

“It’s only been a few days, but it feels like a month has passed. By the way, I’m curious about something.”

Abasina brought her head close to my face and looked at me through the gap in her sunglasses.

“Do you really not remember? How we escaped from that underground place?

I don’t know. I clearly remember using my gun to cover you, but I don’t know why we were asleep in that metal door room.

Actually, I went down the ladder with the sisters afterward, but the broken elevator was blocking the passage, so we couldn’t go further down.

So next time, I’m planning to bring dynamite.”

An elderly white-haired woman looked at Abasina and me as she passed by.

Abasina leaned her back against the chair with a thud.

“It’s your turn. Don’t you have anything you’re curious about?”

Yes. Something I’m curious about.

“Oh? Are you finally becoming curious about me? Good. Good. What are you curious about? What? Of all the many things, that’s your first question?”

Abasina sighed deeply and shook her head. She looked at the man and woman standing at the reception desk for a while.

“You asked why O’Brien is a heart? I don’t mean he’s special. That boy is just one of many ordinary boys.

Of course, he has a rich and pretty girlfriend, but that’s someone who’s with O’Brien, not O’Brien himself.

I know. He’s diligent and sincere. But sincerity isn’t something you can compare. Either you’re sincere, or you’re not. It’s just one or the other.

And I know many children who work harder than O’Brien but don’t get anyone’s attention.

Most of those children will live ordinary lives and face deaths remembered only by those close to them.

But isn’t our heart like that too?

The heart doesn’t boast. It doesn’t show off. It doesn’t throw tantrums asking to be recognized. It just works silently.

It just beats the same way yesterday, today, and tomorrow, ordinarily and commonly.

But what would happen if it really stopped?

You see, I think like this.

The obvious, common, boring, tedious ordinariness is the force that keeps us alive.

Just as we live thanks to the monotony of the heart.”

I shared my thoughts.

Abasina let out a small laugh.

“Too romantic, you say? But that’s the truth, isn’t it? Sometimes I miss those times too.

When I was young, I vaguely thought I would live a boring life when I grew up.

But in the end, I didn’t become that kind of adult. Instead, I swore on the cross.

That I would protect boys and girls so they could lie down in nests without any danger, look up at the night sky,

and safely fall asleep yawning, thinking the world is unbearably boring.”

Audrey and O’Brien, having finished their payment, walked toward us.

Audrey still looked young and beautiful. But O’Brien did not.

The boy who had returned after deviating from his orbit was not the same as before. He had grown up abruptly in just a few days. Without any preparation or anticipation, forcibly.

The price seems too great.

Perhaps O’Brien is digging a tunnel deep in his heart.

Putting the anxiety he doesn’t want to remember, the things he shouldn’t recall, into a tunnel where even the elevator is destroyed, and blocking it with a flimsy 5cm iron door.

Trying to ignore the faint sound of violin music seeping through the cracks of his mind as he falls asleep, only to live the boring and predictable life of the heart again tomorrow morning.

If one knows that even the smallest thing can shatter ordinary life like an eggshell, life afterward can never be the same as before.

Of course. Somewhere, boys and girls will live in places where they need neither basements nor iron doors.

With the world being so vast, why wouldn’t there be at least one such country?

Perhaps I once knew such a country too.

But now I don’t know. It’s too late to know.

I can only hope.

That O’Brien will accept even that anxiety as part of his daily life. That he’ll be able to silently incorporate worries about the future into his life.

That he’ll continue to create new monotony, on and on.

– Ch. 2 There Is No Country for Boys End –