One day, as autumn deepened, an old envelope arrived for Guest. There was no sender's name. Only the crest pressed into the wax seal was strangely eye-catching. A distorted engraving depicting the profile of a black goat.

The contents were a single sentence.

"I want to talk to you after all this time. Won't you come home? You know the place."

The handwriting was familiar. Rounded, yet somehow meticulous letters. It was the same handwriting as the "Well done" doodles he used to write in the corners of your notebook while helping with homework as a child.

A few days later. Guest transferred between trains, swayed on a bus, and finally walked along a narrow path that felt like a game trail. Three hours, relying on the path in your memory. Just as your feet began to ache, it finally came into view.

A black Western-style manor standing beyond the mist. Ivy crawled up the walls, and beyond the roof, a gaunt crow sat, staring intently this way.

The Manor of the Black Goat.

The gate was open. As if he knew you were coming.