Miss Witch Doesn't Want to be a Diva-Chapter 825 - 35: Songstress of the Pitch-Black Night_2

There's a sense of regret in her heart, she muses.

After all, she should start releasing her own true thematic album, just as her senior Evelyn had said, scattered songs, in the end, don't form a system, lack a core, like whimsical musings made on a whim.

But as a Songstress, she understands that such an identity and privileges are not meant for frivolous amusement. The various realms of the Federation have great expectations for them, albeit expressed in a broad and gentle manner, making many gradually forget the original intention.

Returning to the Mansion, Tilan, uncharacteristically, did not rest but sat in her private study.

The dark red, elegant curtains were half-open, she leaned against the chair back, her head turned to one side, gazing at the courtyard scenery outside the window. Soon, Tilan closed her eyes, reminiscing about this somewhat short life.

Looking back on herself from her current vantage, she feels a curious emotion, as if flying in the night sky over the city, gazing down at a tiny corner below, where there sits a girl crying in the corner.

Those matters she once cared immensely about have now become trivial and light, the pains of the past, gradually forgotten, yet the sweet parts of those memories, such as playing with Yilin in her childhood, and her sister taking her shopping, come to mind from time to time.

In fact, she knows that as a child, especially around the second or third grade of elementary school, her relationship with her sister was not exceptionally good, but she has gradually forgotten those feelings from that time.

Human memory can be deceptive, if it weren't for the diaries written at the time, it would be easy to alter and forget those feelings.

Why can adults treat children harshly? Because they have forgotten the discomfort and oppression of childhood, or perhaps through the encouragement of others around them, they gradually beautify that time; were they to relive that period, they might not be able to handle it.

Resting her head on her hand placed upon the desk, Tilan contemplates and summarizes her brief life.

It is said that a Songstress must sing the music of her heart and resonance, yet she has always somewhat avoided this, especially as she has aged and gained experience, seeing certain truths more clearly.

Some Songstresses, like senior Evelyn, are truly pure and flawless individuals, capable of singing genuinely beautiful fantasies and tenderness from the heart.

But Tilan knows she can't do that, even if she sings some gentle songs, they often carry a touch of sorrow because, fundamentally, she isn't someone who believes in all things tender and beautiful. Rather than tenderness, it is more that she hopes others will treat her gently, and so she expresses treating others gently.

Holding her thick diary close to her chest, Tilan reclines in her chair, her black hair spilling over the chair back and her side, quietly meditating.

Must she really sing? If her singing is too sorrowful, could it disappoint listeners, or bring about unfavorable outcomes?

Indeed, it leans towards the darker tones, the young girl thinks to herself.

Compared to the completely pure Evelyn, she stands like under the shadow of trees at dusk, gazing at the setting sun.

Well, recognizing herself now isn't too late; it's also unfortunate for the Federation. Although she possesses the Talent of a Color Level Songstress, she isn't the kind of Songstress that brings boundless Hope and beauty, probably a disappointment to all.

If Emuralin saw herself in the Echoes of Time, would she feel a sense of sadness and loss? Because her own emergence, to some extent, also foretold the future of the Federation, and her life's work, ultimately turned to nought.

Various thoughts flit through her mind, and after some time, Tilan sits up, reopening the diary in front of her, then picks up a pen to write meticulously.

[November 28th, senior Evelyn left, and before leaving, she advised me to start my first album.

I've been avoiding it, but I still need to muster the courage to take the first step.

I'm no longer a child, I must go on, not to disappoint mother, and also for sister's sake.]

She slowly closes the diary, returning it to the spatial rift, Tilan stands up, fetches related books about composition from the bookshelf, and begins to think of her first inspiration.

Fate is truly peculiar, bestowing the Talent of a Color Level Songstress upon her. If it were given to a thoroughly kind and gentle Songstress like Evelyn, wouldn't that be somewhat better?

The young girl holds her pen, continuously sketching on the paper with thoughts guided by her emotions, trying to transform the vague feelings of her mind into concrete images and song.

...

...

Time slowly passes.

No, she still can't do it, she cannot speak of false Hope and beauty she herself does not believe in.

The pen was thrown on the table, the pages full of various doodles and scribbles, many marked with ×, negating each preconceived idea.

The essence of the world is darkness; the beauty she is currently experiencing is merely due to her Talent as a Songstress, this is Tilan's true inner belief.

Why does she seem so indifferent to everything? Because in her view, these are but embellishments attached to her Talent as a Songstress, not truly belonging to her. If she were really fond of and passionate about it, when she inevitably loses it one day, it would surely be very painful.

So, it is better not to be particularly fond of anything.

After realizing her true inner thoughts, the girl sighed softly, picked up the pen, and began to outline on the paper. Gradually, a black Lacquer Night Flower took shape.

Although such a flower represents the splendor of despair, she oddly finds herself somewhat fond of it now.

Everything will slowly come to an end, whether it be individuals or civilizations, or all present relationships.

...

...

The sun gradually sets, and the night slowly approaches. Lamps with a vintage design begin to illuminate the corridors of the Mansion.

Standing in front of the study, two maids in black and red uniforms exchanged glances, mustered a bit of courage, and knocked on the door gently.

"Is Lord Tilan inside? Would you like your dinner brought in?" It is now past 10 o'clock at night. Normally, Tilan finishes dinner before 8 o'clock and does not delay it this late.

The door wasn't locked, so after knocking, the two gently pushed it open. The room was dark, with only a small area by the drawn curtains where the silhouette of the girl leaning against the chair back could faintly be seen.

Black hair, dark blue skirt hem, pale skin, shrouded in the cold, dim moonlight, somewhat blurry.

The girl was not asleep; she leaned against the back of the chair, her eyes fixed on the night view outside the window, the cold crescent moon drifting slowly through the clouds, the starless sky so quiet.

A night without stars, a lone moon on its journey.

...

Minutes later, having composed herself, Tilan returned to the gentle demeanor as seen by the maids, and then went downstairs for dinner.

In the spacious hall, lights shone brightly; the long table was adorned with various delicacies, and she sat alone at the head, with seats on both sides empty. On either side of the hall, dozens of maids in black and red rose uniforms stood silently, heads bowed, waiting.

For the first time, Tilan did not say anything to lighten the mood; she simply dined in silence, with the hall so quiet that only the soft clinking of porcelain and utensils could be heard.

After dinner, she stood up.

"Let it be," she sighed softly, then turned and left.

Afterward, the maids quietly cleared the long table and the hall. Eventually, in the Mansion, lights in other rooms were turned off one by one, leaving only a few nightlights in the corridors to light the floor.

In the study, where the darkness once reigned, a lamp was now lit and placed on the desk, flickering like a tiny candle in the blackness.

Sitting beside the desk, the girl took out a stack of new pages and began writing lines of text, her hidden feelings, and the emotions she once forgot and never expressed, emerging with her strokes.

Like the blooming in the night, unnoticeably quiet yet somehow cathartic.

Indeed, life is so cruel and dark, and fleeing or waiting yields no results; she knows not how to bring Hope to those living in the darkness.

But at the very least, there should be voices emerging from the darkness, whether in rage or in tears. She does not want to deny these because they are part of the world, as well as the true undercurrent of her heart and emotions.

The world is not all Sunshine and rainbows.

Like the lyrics of the Lacquer Night Flower, the song of this dark Songstress quietly surfaced on the paper, ready for her first outpouring and chant.