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Since his resurrection, life at Hotel Krat had slowly turned into a curious experience for Romeo.
There were still mornings when he awoke convinced that everything had been nothing more than a delirium conjured by the feverish final moments of his former existence, only to remember, seconds later, that the steady warmth of the fireplace, the woody scent permeating the corridors, and the voices that occasionally echoed through the halls were, in fact, real. He never came to understand what had brought about his return; restoring his human consciousness, preserving it intact beyond death, and placing it within a new corporeal form seemed to defy every conceivable law, especially after everything Krat had witnessed throughout its slow and inevitable ruin.
Perhaps there were answers to that miracle. Perhaps there never would be. Romeo, however, never allowed himself to waste time searching for them. There was no need. It was enough that the haze clouding his awakening gradually receded for the first face his eyes found to be Carlo's — or, as he now preferred to be called, P.
The brief, silent meeting of their eyes told him far more than any explanation ever could. In that moment, every question that might have arisen concerning his resurrection lost all significance.
Romeo had understood with surprising speed what his role would be alongside the small resistance group that was slowly rebuilding the foundations of the city. As the former King of Puppets, he remained connected to the puppets in a way no one else could truly comprehend, capable of restraining the mindless fury of those that still wandered the city's streets, silencing them before they could bring about yet more tragedy. At the same time, the experience he had gained during the darkest days of the catastrophe made him an equally indispensable force against those infected by the Petrification Disease, whose presence continued to spread devastation throughout the districts still clinging to the brink of ruin.
Being there, at P's side, meant standing on the front line between what remained of humanity and the chaos that still refused to release Krat, wielding everything that had once been used to destroy it in the difficult task of finally giving the city a chance to be reborn.
His new routine was far from remarkable. Though the city beyond the hotel's walls and gardens remained steeped in ruin, the interior of the building preserved an almost stubborn sense of normalcy. The abundance that had once defined the hotel in its glory days was gone, as was the luxury reflected in its impeccably appointed halls and lavishly stocked tables. Even so, a simple, orderly, and remarkably comforting routine endured—one capable of making the dying city beyond its doors fade from memory, if only for a few precious hours.
Every morning, at the first hint of sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of his room, he allowed himself to "wake," though the word had far more to do with habit than any genuine necessity. A puppet had no need for sleep; his body would remain just as functional even after days without rest. And yet, there was something profoundly comforting about lying on a soft mattress, feeling the weight of carefully tucked blankets draped over him, and closing his eyes for a few hours, pretending he still belonged among the living. Those brief moments of repose brought back memories of a humanity that seemed to drift farther away with each passing day — of a life that smelled of freshly baked bread, sun-warmed wood, and rain upon cobblestone streets, rather than carrying the metallic taste of ergo, blood, and death.
After leaving his bed, he devoted a few minutes to tending to his appearance. Bathing was no longer a necessity, yet that had never stopped him from appreciating the simple ritual of carefully combing his hair, changing out of the clothes he had worn the day before, and presenting himself with at least a measure of quiet elegance.
Afterward, he left his room and made his way to the grand hall at precisely the hour breakfast was served. Hunger was no longer a part of his existence, his body simply no longer knew it. Even so, Romeo insisted on taking his place at the table alongside the others, quietly accompanying the moment as Polendina served the carefully prepared meals to Antonia, Eugenie, Venigni, and the handful of survivors who still found refuge within the hotel. He never truly took part in the meal itself. Instead, he simply remained there, listening to scattered conversations, observing the small disagreements of everyday life, and allowing the human presence around him to remind him, day after day, that there was still a world worth fighting for.
Living alongside the residents of Hotel Krat was a profoundly welcome change. After all, his former routine had been one of spending his days surrounded by puppets that did nothing but obey his commands, stripped of any will or autonomy of their own. It had been an undeniably lonely existence.
Even so, although he had forged good relationships with nearly everyone at Hotel Krat, whether human or puppet, it was inevitable that his attention would constantly gravitate toward P.
It was simply something that happened. Whenever his duties afforded him a few moments of respite, his feet seemed to carry him naturally to wherever P happened to be; and when that was not possible, his eyes would invariably search the hotel's corridors for the familiar silhouette.
During those first few days, however, that closeness proved far more painful than comforting. Romeo discovered that a single glance at that face was enough to make his chest tighten. The features were exactly as he had preserved them in his memory through all those years. The eyes held the same quiet shade he had looked into so many times when they had been nothing more than two boys dreaming of an impossible future. And certain gestures — the slight tilt of his head whenever something piqued his curiosity, the silent way he observed the world around him, or even the unconscious smiles that escaped him before he realized it — came so naturally that, for a few cruel, fleeting moments, Romeo's heart stubbornly insisted on believing the impossible.
Carlo stood before him. He had survived and come home.
The illusion, however, never lasted for long. It took only a few more seconds of looking at "Carlo" for the truth to reassert itself.
That was not Carlo. It never had been. He was a new individual, created in Carlo's image, shaped to carry fragments of his memories and his heart, offering that boy the chance to live the future that had been so brutally taken from him. Yet his existence no longer belonged to the past Romeo had once known. Certain traits still called the boy he remembered to mind, but the soul that now inhabited that body was an entirely different one, forged by experiences, choices, and sorrows Carlo himself had never lived through.
Accepting that difference proved to be one of the hardest things Romeo had faced since his resurrection. There were days when he had to remind himself, over and over, that he was not standing before the childhood friend he had lost so many years ago, but before someone new — someone who deserved to be seen and loved for who he truly was, rather than for the shadow of the one whose appearance he had inherited.
Only when he finally came to accept that truth was he able to look at P without desperately searching for Carlo in every expression that crossed his face. At last, he allowed himself to know the extraordinary person who was slowly blossoming before his eyes.
Carlo had never known how to stay quiet for long. Outgoing by nature, he talked incessantly and seemed incapable of keeping any thought to himself, no matter how trivial it might have been. P, by contrast, proved to be his complete opposite. He listened attentively to everything that was said to him, following every conversation with quiet focus, yet remained stubbornly silent most of the time. Gemini had explained that this was not the result of any permanent inability. P's voice box was still in the process of developing, gradually refining itself as his humanity continued to blossom. Although he was already perfectly capable of speaking a few words, he had deliberately chosen to use his voice only when absolutely necessary, allowing his inseparable automaton companion to handle nearly all verbal communication instead.
Carlo had always been impulsive, letting his heart guide his steps long before reason had the chance to voice any objection. P, on the other hand, possessed a far more contemplative nature; he would observe his surroundings for long moments, analyzing people, weighing possibilities, and only then acting. Even the way they expressed joy seemed to belong to entirely different worlds. Carlo would laugh out loud, making no effort to contain the enthusiasm sparked by his own jokes, often amusing himself more than anyone else around him. P, by contrast, would merely allow a subtle smile to curve his lips, almost always accompanied by a calm brightness in his gaze—subtle enough to go unnoticed by those who did not know him, yet intense enough for Romeo to understand precisely what was unfolding within his heart.
Those small differences, which at first had been painful, eventually became the reason Romeo began to see him differently. P was not replacing Carlo. He was becoming someone, and there was something extraordinary in witnessing that process. It was fascinating to realize that Romeo had become more of an observer of the phenomenon itself — watching a puppet learn how to be human.
First came the lies, clumsy and hesitant, spoken as though he still did not quite know how to shape his own voice into something that was not strictly true. Then, almost imperceptibly, preferences began to emerge, small inclinations that had not been programmed or taught by anyone, but which surfaced spontaneously, as if consciousness itself were beginning to test the contours of what it meant to be someone; P began selecting specific records for the gramophone in the main hall, lingering longer than necessary in front of the shelves before deciding which melody would fill the space that day. He also showed a persistent curiosity about the flowers growing in the gardens of Hotel Krat, observing them with prolonged attention. Over time, he started to remain a few minutes longer in conversations with the hotel's residents, even when nothing of particular relevance was being said.
Gradually, he began to formulate questions that bore no direct relation to his mission, nor to the reconstruction of the city or the threats still looming over Krat, but instead arose from a genuine, almost childlike restlessness about the world around him and about himself. He learned to laugh at unexpected moments, as an authentic reaction to something he found truly curious or pleasant. And, in turn, he also learned to remain silent by choice, as a deliberate decision to stay beside someone simply through presence, as if he had discovered that shared time alone could constitute a legitimate form of communication.
Sometimes Romeo would find himself watching P interact with the other residents of Hotel Krat. He would see the care with which P treated Antonia, always with an even more restrained and respectful gentleness, as if his awareness of the elderly woman's frailty instinctively shaped his behavior, adjusting even his gestures and physical proximity to avoid any movement that might be too abrupt for someone of such delicate constitution. He noticed the patience with which P listened to Eugenie, following her technical explanations about mechanisms and prototypes with genuine attention; he observed the respectful, almost instinctively attentive way he responded to Polendina, and there was also the sincere concern that appeared on his face whenever Sophia showed signs of exhaustion.
Over time, Romeo began to notice that this same pattern of attention extended to all the other inhabitants. P showed a restrained yet genuine interest in Venigni’s inventions, remaining by his side for long periods as the engineer spoke with enthusiasm about his latest projects. In quieter moments, it was common to see him with Spring in his lap, gently stroking the small cat and rocking it with slow, rhythmic movements, as though the animal were a sleeping child.
There was also a strange naturalness in his interactions with Pulcinella, as he remained by his side while helping with simple day-to-day tasks around the hotel. At other times, Romeo would see him listening with genuine interest to Hugo’s exaggerated stories, the latter invariably appearing at the hotel with tales of treasures and adventures, delivered with an enthusiasm that bordered on the theatrical. Even Belle, with her more reserved and observant demeanor, seemed to find in P someone willing to respect her silences, staying near her without intruding upon her space.
That, in his eyes, was the purest portrait of humanity he had ever witnessed, and the former King of Puppets could not conceal the pride that swelled in his chest whenever he observed the way P integrated himself into that fragmented world. At first, however, they had been nothing more than companions in battle, bound together by practical necessity, fighting side by side because survival demanded it, exchanging only the strictly necessary words. Trust had existed, but it was confined to the battlefield, where each understood the other only through the raw language of action, instinctively knowing how to cover one another’s blind spots without ever needing to issue a single spoken instruction.
Over time, however, something began to shift in that silent balance. Missions came to be accompanied by brief conversations—simple questions thrown out almost at random during the passage from one conflict to the next, and equally short answers in return. At some point, Romeo realized he was no longer maintaining that alliance out of strategic convenience or immediate necessity alone. He began waiting for P at the end of every mission, his eyes automatically searching for him whenever he crossed the hotel’s hall, scanning the space with a quiet urgency until he found him among the other residents. And when a battle lasted longer than expected, a difficult-to-name restlessness would grow within him, lingering until the moment he finally saw him return unharmed.
As a natural consequence, P also began to seek him out involuntarily. He would sit beside him during dinner, choose to train when Romeo was in the courtyard, bring new records for them to listen to together—even if they spent half the time in silence, and, at times, they would simply share the same space, reading or watching the rain fall outside Hotel Krat.
There was a serenity that was difficult to explain when they were together. It was precisely for that reason that the affection between them began to change shape. Romeo was unable to pinpoint the transition; perhaps it happened when P fell "asleep" during a journey and, for the first time, rested his head on his shoulder without thinking; or when P smiled at him and Romeo felt something warm rise in his chest in a way no memory of Carlo had ever provoked; or perhaps the true beginning lay much earlier, when he stopped seeing the face of an old friend and began to search for the person P was becoming.
Even so, neither of them knew how to name what existed between them. It was more than friendship, and more intimate than simple companionship. There were glances that lingered too long, touches that remained a few seconds beyond what was necessary, and a constant concern that exceeded any logical justification. Neither of them spoke about it, because Romeo feared confusing his feelings with the lingering grief he still carried for Carlo, while P held back, afraid of desiring something he did not even know whether he was capable of possessing.
Yet everything around him seemed to demand Romeo’s attention, nothing captivated his gaze as much as P’s freckles. They were small constellations scattered across the boy’s pale skin, a subtle inheritance that Gepetto had made more prominent, even though the original son had never possessed them so distinctly.
Immersed in those nostalgic thoughts, Romeo made his way to the chamber that once belonged to Geppetto. P had insisted on turning that room into his own, both for the convenience of the machinery already installed there and for the memory of the man who, despite his malicious intentions, had still been a father to him. The room was steeped in serenity, the rain that had accompanied most of the afternoon had eased into a gentle drizzle, its soft sound partly muffled by the steady crackle of the lit fireplace. The flames cast a warm glow across the old furniture, bathing the space in shifting shades of orange as the fire slowly consumed the logs.
P sat beside the room's broad window, settled comfortably into an upholstered armchair. One of the many books borrowed from Hotel Krat's library rested open across his lap, carefully supported in his hands. His eyes moved across the pages with quiet concentration, though Romeo suspected the reading had ceased to progress several minutes earlier. He had seen that expression often enough to recognize when P was merely pretending to follow the printed words while his thoughts wandered silently to places beyond anyone else's reach.
It was then that Romeo's gaze settled entirely upon P's face.
Bathed in the glow of the fireplace, the puppet was able to make out the freckles that adorned Krat's savior's face. They were scattered delicately across the bridge of his nose and spread generously over his cheeks, the tiny markings revealed only beneath that particular quality of light. They were so subtle that they vanished entirely beneath the cool brightness of day, yet all it took was the golden glow of the fire brushing against his pale skin for them to reappear, like delicate flecks of paint scattered across fine porcelain.
Romeo lingered on them for a long while, unable to look away, wondering how many times he had stood before that very face without ever truly noticing something so simple.
His presence eventually drew P's attention. Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the pages of the book and found Romeo watching him with such unwavering focus that he instinctively tilted his head ever so slightly, as he always did whenever he failed to fully understand a situation. An unmistakable look of curiosity settled across his features.
"Romeo, is something wrong?" P greeted him.
At the sound of that voice — low, faintly husky, and touched by an almost melancholic softness, a restrained melody characteristic of someone rediscovering speech after a long silence — the former King of Puppets realized that Gemini was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the little lantern was keeping one of the hotel's residents company, allowing his partner a rare moment alone.
Romeo smiled softly and shook his head. As he walked toward P, his footsteps remained silent against the old wooden floor, coming to a halt only when he stood before the chair his companion occupied. Without saying a word, he leaned forward slightly and raised a hand to P's face, letting his fingertips come to rest against his skin with the utmost gentleness. The touch left P perfectly still. Only his eyes followed each of the other's movements as Romeo's thumb slowly traced the curve of his cheek before coming to rest upon the bridge of his nose.
"You know, I never stopped noticing them."
"Noticed what?"
"Your freckles."
P lifted one of his own hands to his face, touching the very spot where Romeo's thumb still rested.
"My freckles?" he echoed, blinking as his thoughts searched through his memories for the precise meaning of the word. "Ah, right. Gemini told me they're sometimes very difficult to notice. I always thought no one really saw them."
Romeo let out a quiet laugh, though there was something different about it, something beyond mere amusement. There was an almost aching tenderness in the way P seemed genuinely unable to understand why someone would spend so much time observing such a small detail of his face. To him, those tiny marks scattered across his skin were nothing more than an insignificant feature, something that had likely always been there but had never received enough attention to be truly noticed.
Perhaps that was what intrigued Romeo the most. P could face hordes of puppets and creatures that would make any man hesitate, carry the weight of an entire city upon his shoulders, and walk through streets filled with danger while accepting every responsibility placed upon him, yet he remained completely unaware that there were countless things about him worthy of admiration.
"I don't think you've ever truly seen yourself," Romeo murmured. P merely tilted his head ever so slightly. "Your freckles..." Romeo began, only to trail off, as though searching for a way to express something that felt at once too simple to require explanation and too complex to be contained in so few words. "They suit you."
P remained perfectly still. There was no exaggerated surprise in his expression, nor any reaction Romeo could easily interpret, only that complete, unwavering attentiveness he always seemed to receive from him.
"They're small. Subtle. Easy to overlook if no one takes the time to really look," Romeo continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "But perhaps that's precisely what makes them so beautiful. You have to truly see someone before you realize they're there."
The confession itself seemed to catch him by surprise. Romeo was not someone who often lost himself in words. Throughout his life, there had always been a reason behind every choice, every movement, and every decision he made, even if, at heart, he had always been an incurable romantic. In his human days, he had held an unwavering conviction that, to become a Stalker, everything needed a purpose and had to lead toward some greater end.
Yet in front of P — in front of that face which carried the memories of someone he had lost while belonging to someone entirely new — he found himself confronted with an unexpected inability to remain indifferent.
"And it's not just them," he admitted at last, his voice falling to a whisper that nearly disappeared beneath the crackling of the fire.
P lifted his eyes ever so slightly, meeting Romeo's gaze with the same quiet attentiveness as always. Too late, Romeo realized just how much of himself he had laid bare, how much of his own soul he had entrusted to that confession. Yet, for the first time in a long while, the familiar urge to retreat or hide never came. There was a quiet weariness in carrying so much unspoken feeling, and the warmth of the room seemed to melt away his defenses.
"When I look at you, at first, all I could see were the things that reminded me of Carlo. Your face. Your eyes. Certain little gestures that felt so familiar they almost hurt."
His expression softened, and Romeo's thumb traced another slow path across P's cheek before lingering there.
"But time passed, and I found myself searching for the things that belonged only to you," a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "And before I realized it, those were the only things I wanted to find."
P's lips parted into a small, perfect "o," a fleeting flash of surprise that, for a brief instant, broke through his usual composure before his mouth settled once more into a gentle line. He swallowed, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm just slightly quicker than before as he quietly took in Romeo's words.
"The way you listen to people, even when you don't completely understand what they're trying to say," Romeo continued, his voice soft as each feeling he had kept hidden finally found its way into the open. "The way you care for others without even realizing it. How you spend far longer than necessary listening to that explorer's stories because you know they matter to him. The way you hold Spring in your lap as though he were the most precious thing in the world. The curiosity with which you watch Venigni's inventions, even though you always try to hide it. The way you choose records for the gramophone, even when no one has asked for music."
He smiled, the expression small and tender, his eyes never leaving the constellation of freckles glowing beneath the firelight.
"I see how you always stop to listen to Eugénie, patiently waiting for her to finish explaining her weapons, just to see her smile. Or the way you quietly wipe down Polendina's counter, saying nothing, simply keeping him company. The reverence with which you accept Antonia's advice, a kind of respect that belongs to you alone. The way you linger beside Sophia in quiet attention, as if every word she offers deserves all the time in the world, and how you turn to Belle with the same gentle patience, giving her your full presence until she smiles," he shook his head. "All of it, every small kindness, every quiet gesture you offer the people in this hotel, it's all yours, P. Every bit of it."
P continued to look at Romeo. There was no ready answer written across his face, though his features had softened enough to reveal a quiet acceptance that seemed to strip away the last traces of his mechanical nature. Then, slowly, he raised one of his hands to his own face and touched the place where the freckles rested.
"They suit you."
"Suit me?"
"Yes," Romeo smiled. "They're just as delicate as you are."
Romeo watched, fascinated, as the puppet's pale skin took on a reddish hue, a shy blush slowly spreading across his cheeks and reaching the tips of his ears with a speed that revealed his growing embarrassment. It was a captivating glimpse of his humanity blossoming, alive and genuine. P instinctively looked away, lowering his gaze to the book that remained open in his lap.
Romeo let out a quiet laugh, a tender sound that echoed softly through the room. With the utmost gentleness, he reached out, placing two fingers beneath P's chin, and with the slightest yet deliberate pressure, guided him to lift his face again. As he brought him back into his gaze, the fireplace light fell over his features once more, and the contrast of his newfound blush made the small freckles immediately reappear, even more distinct beneath the golden glow.
Without any haste, Romeo moved just close enough to place a gentle kiss upon the tip of his nose. The gesture was so delicate that it could barely be considered a kiss at all. When he pulled away, he remained looking at P for a few seconds, quietly amused and satisfied to notice that the other was still completely motionless, unable to decide whether he should hide his face or remain exactly where he was.
P held his companion's gaze with a shyness that Romeo had rarely had the opportunity to witness since they had begun sharing such peaceful moments again. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head to the side until his face rested against Romeo's palm, closing his eyes for a brief moment. A small smile formed on his lips as Romeo absentmindedly caressed his dark hair, certain that he would never again look upon P's face without searching, before anything else, for the tiny freckles that had come to seem like one of the most beautiful marks of his existence.