The day had come, and in that familiar stage were a thousand people who wanted to finally hear the truth after three years of vague responses and sidestepping. Standing in the crowd was the man who claimed to be Virgil who stood alongside the two representatives who, caught up in the suspense of the soon-to-be revealed truth, bickered among one another.

A thousand people stood among one another, crowded in that conference center, surrounded by banners and posters of the upcoming event. They had been given only three days to prepare for the big event, and despite that, people came in the masses. Some recorded on their phones while others brought tripods and cameras to stream it live.

There was no way around it. It was an event big enough that the internet had its eyes on her. It felt like the entire world was waiting for an answer. Of course, they would have to wait — longer than they expected to.

The representative of truth stood, checked his watch, and let out a sigh.

“She’s five minutes late. What’s taking her so long? Wasn’t she supposed to start the reveal today?”

The representative of reality turned to his opponent and scoffed.

“She’s been holding onto the truth of the events for the past three years. If you can wait three years, you can wait five minutes more.”

Mister Truth shook his head. “It’s unacceptable. Knowing her and her track record, it wouldn’t be too far off to believe that she’s led us all on,” he said, and he turned to Virgil to say, “Additionally, it looks like we’ve gotten a new player in this game — one who’s tight lipped as the princess herself.”

Mister Reality turned to Virgil to ask, “Mister Virgil, are you really who you claim to be? Because, as the representative of reality, I have to ask — who are you really? Are you one of the nine victims? Or is Virgil a tenth person?”

“I am who I am,” Virgil responded. “As to your question, I refuse to answer whether or not there were more than nine people present at the time of the murders.”

“You’re no different from the princess,” Mister Reality said with a frown.

Virgil simply shrugged at his response, upsetting the two who flew into a storm of questions. They interrogated Virgil, all while murmurs escaped from behind the scenes.

Sitting alone in a staff room was Beatrice, and while the conference waited for her to finally reveal the truth, she worked away with a pen and a black notebook. The minutes passed her by — leaving it up to a member of staff to come get her.

They had a key, and when they unlocked the door, they opened it — only to find that it had been chained shut.

“What is it?” Beatrice asked, obscured by the body of the door itself.

“You’re five minutes late. The crowd has been patiently waiting for you to begin.”

“Let me put in the final finishing touches.”

“Finishing touches? What are you doing in there?”

She scribbled in the last touches, and with the notebook shut tight, she stood up straight. The notebook was kept close to her chest, and with a breath in, she unlatched the lock.

The staff member guided her down the familiar hall, all the way towards a familiar podium. A thousand pairs of eyes watched her, and that familiar sensation from years ago returned — the feeling of being the center of attention. She stood, notebook in hand, and bowed to the people who went out of their ways to hear the truth. It must’ve been shocking to see the sadistic and cruel Higanbana princess bow before them so respectfully, and knowing that, she felt a bit lighter at heart.

“Before we begin, I’d like to thank you all for coming,” Beatrice said, the gratitude in her voice genuine. “I’ve spent so long leading people on and dragging out a mystery that should’ve been solved years ago, but now, it all comes to its conclusion. In those three years, I’ve received thousands of messages from people online and have received numerous notebooks in person — notebooks filled with theories, examinations and fan media. In the past, I never quite realized how much all of this meant to you. In the past, I often brushed things off immaturely, but now I know that all of it is important.”

For the first time, the public heard Beatrice apologize. She was only eighteen, and yet, she held herself to a high standard — a standard she had to make up for for her immaturity in the past.

“To everyone who has come and shared with me their own theories, fiction and investigations — I thank you. Because of all of your love and support, I’ve been able to cope with events and the personal tragedies that come with life. At first, I thought this was a parasocial relationship between celebrity and fan, but now I realize this passion goes both ways.”

The crowd seemed honestly shocked by her apology, but that wasn’t something she hadn’t expected. After all, she was a detective with a firm grasp on action and reaction.

“Today, things come to an end. Finally, we reach the conclusion.” and she pressed a button on the podium, starting up a projector which lit up the wall behind her.

She had, in actuality, prepared a presentation for the case years ago. Only those in her school knew about it since it was actually an assignment she had handed in. Despite that, she had banked on the assumption that no one would remember one of many school projects.

Projected on the wall were photographs taken of the castle, pictures taken years ago, a sweeping shot that illustrated just what sort of castle it was. From the sliding traditional doors to the setsugekka snow-moon-flower styled paintings on the walls, the castle’s interiors were covered with ink-brush branches.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Every inch of the castle’s interior was carefully hand painted — an art that most likely took years, all done with one painter’s hand. The result was an atmosphere of peace that was unmatched, surviving to the modern day under her care.

Finally, the entrance of the castle stood before the crowd — a familiar image that had been posted a countless amount of times on the internet.

With the architecture and scene-setting out of the way, nine peoples’ faces flashed before them.

Nailed to the wall were nine hand painted portraits. A stage light lit them up for the crowd to see. The nine paintings depicted the victims as close to the source material, with every one of them sitting on a sofa chair almost regally — as if to oppose the belief that they were all victims.

Seeing them sitting on their thrones, their expressions oh so sullen and brooding, filled her mind with countless ideas. Seeing them so dignified made her believe that any one of them could’ve been the culprit.

After all, that was her intention. Beatrice was both a detective and a skilled painter, going as far as to honor Sen’s story with her two hands and a palette that brought color to the dreary murder mystery.

Cameras snapped, flashing at the paintings that were fit to be exhibited in some sort of museum memorializing the mystery. The presentation hadn’t even started yet, and the excitement had reached its peak.

But like a black bird in a flock of doves, she had to bow her head and reveal the truth.

“I’m glad you all love my hand painted artwork and photography, but I’m afraid the presentation must come to an end, early.”

Ending things early? The crowd grew wild at the suggestion of ending it before it even began, but Beatrice had to do what’s right.

“I must do the right thing and relinquish ownership of this story,” Beatrice announced. “For the past three years, I have been lying to you all.”

Lies?

“Yes. I am a liar. A fraud. A plagiarizer,” she said. “I had no right to introduce to the world this mystery and I have no right to reveal the truth to you all now.”

The crowd grew mad. They knew deep down there was a possibility that she was just some figurehead representing the real killer, but this was too much. A growing rage filled the crowd, all while Beatrice simply bowed.

“My apologies to you all,” she said. “If the staff wishes to go through with this, then they shall go through it without me. The testimony has been placed on the podium, ready for anyone to read and unveil the truth. I’m afraid I have other places to be — by the side of someone else.”

She saw the anger in the crowd, how they shouted. She couldn’t blame them. She had been jerking them around for years, and now, at the climax of the tale, she bailed on them. After all, it was in her sadistic persona to do so. She might’ve actually been a sweet, caring girl but years of wearing this identity molded her into the personality of the Higanbana Princess.

Beatrice completed her respectful bow, but before she could turn and vanish behind the curtains, she heard a familiar voice.

“Don’t you think you’ve drawn this game out for far too long, darling?”

She froze in place, but instead of turning to see who they were, she felt a tear spill down her cheek. She didn’t need to turn. She had faith it was who she thought it was.

The crowd looked shocked. The last thing they were expecting to see was an elderly woman pushing a wheelchair. It creaked and rolled, all the way to her side.

She saw that familiar plumage of black hair and she heard his sigh.

“This game wasn’t meant to be drawn out for three years. Look at the mess that’s come of it.”

He acted disappointed, but in reality she knew he was happy.

“The last thing I expected out of this story was to have the whole world wrapped around your finger. Looks like you led em on real good, my darling detective.”

Her hand rested by her side — a hand he took and squeezed.

“Leave the rest to me,” he told her. “I’ll take things from here.”

The surgeon brought over a pair of crutches, and the boy turned to her with an embarrassed smile.

“Beatrice, darling?” he asked. “Could you give me a hand?”

It wasn’t just a hand. It was a whole hug. Three years was more than enough grief and pain for one girl. Sen simply chuckled, then hugged her back with what strength he had in his arms.

“It’s over now,” he said. “No more tears. The tragedy, today, comes to its conclusion.”

Beatrice pulled him up onto his feet and perched him atop the crutches. There, he brought light to the truth.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Ieri Sen, your host tonight, and it is with utmost pleasure to see you all. It’s been quite a rough ride, being in a coma for the past three years, so I hope you all can forgive my darling princess who was in my stead.”

Realization filled the faces of the people, and after hearing of how he was in a coma for the past three years, they grew more lenient towards Beatrice and her wishy-washiness. With that said, he grabbed onto the podium while barely keeping himself standing. There, he saw the book and simply smiled to himself.

“It looks to me that the testimony looks a bit different than I remember.”

Hearing that, the crowd grew wild. That statement meant that Beatrice may have forged the testimony, and that meant that the truth was — once again — out of their grasps.

“I’m just kidding, folks,” Sen said. “I wouldn’t do that to you all. It’d be too cruel of me to introduce uncertainty, now, would it? Now, the question arises. Is this story fiction or nonfiction? It’s time I revealed that to you all, and the truth is…”

Anticipation filled the crowd, and Sen’s only response was to smirk oh, so cruelly.

“This story is not fiction… written by Beatrice.”

It’s not fiction, written by Beatrice? Or is it not fiction written by Beatrice?

Beatrice herself grew confused by this ‘either or’ statement in terms of fiction versus nonfiction. The original testimony wasn’t written by her, but the testimony sitting before Sen was written by her in a last minute effort — though, that doesn’t overrule the fact that the testimony could be real, meaning her forgery was as real as the original.

Either way, both interpretations of the statement could be true.

Sen seemed to get a kick from confusing and baffling the crowd, and of course, he turned to her with that playful look. While the crowd was distracted by their own arguing, Beatrice took the moment to finally ask the question.

“Sen? Is it true? Did the murders really occur?”

His response was to smile softly, then answer her with a question of his own.

“Even if the feather was fake, does that rule out the possibility that a witch roams the falling forest?”