He Can Hear Me—Now What?

"Seriously, if Mrs. Whitmore could find someone like me to deal with you, you wouldn’t even be in charge. Pack up and leave before I really get mad, idiot." I was on a roll now, righteous indignation fueling every word.

He didn’t know what "bug" meant, but he got the gist. She wasn’t lying—he could tell by the strength in her voice that his attack hadn’t done a thing. Grant couldn’t see her, only hear her. That blade strike just now? It was meant to be fatal, if not deadly. But she wasn’t hurt, and she could even get mad at him. It meant that even if he tried again, it wouldn’t work. Someone this mysterious—if she wanted to kill him, he’d be dead several times over by now. So, what she said was at least a little believable. Only…

Grant turned toward the sound. "Why do you end every sentence with ‘idiot’? Does it mean something special?" He sounded genuinely curious, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

I hesitated, then replied with a straight face:

"Well… ‘idiot’ is an honorific where I’m from. We only use it for people we respect." I tried to sound as dignified as possible.

Grant nodded, taking it in stride. Even when she was angry, she remembered to use honorifics. That meant she was calm and well-mannered—definitely someone from a great family, at least in his book. Old books always mention spirits helping leaders in troubled times. Normally, he wouldn’t believe it, but today? Who could say.

After a moment, he asked, "How should I address you?" His tone was respectful, almost formal.

"System," I answered, trying to sound as official as possible.

Grant echoed, "System?" The word felt odd in his mouth, but he didn’t question it.

Maybe she was a spirit in the form of an object? The name was strange, but out of courtesy, he didn’t press. And thinking of her honorific…

Grant said solemnly, "I approve." Like he was granting a royal favor.

"What?" I blinked, caught off guard.

"I approve of you using your homeland’s honorific for me," he replied, dead serious.

Since she was a spirit, she deserved respect. I couldn’t help the delight in my voice: "You mean ‘idiot’?"

"Mm…" Grant hummed, still looking a little confused.

It felt weird, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

"Hahahahaha!" I couldn’t help it—my laughter burst out, bright and wild.

"Idiot, idiot, big idiot!" I chanted, feeling lighter than I had in ages.

This spirit was easy to please, Grant thought. My laughter tinkled through the room like windchimes, filling the air with a warmth neither of us expected. Maybe there was hope for this partnership after all.

Even though I’d finally made contact with Grant, I still had no clue how to actually do my job. Typical.

"Tell me, what kind of woman do you like?" I blurted, going straight to the point.

With a guy like Grant, subtlety was wasted. Might as well be direct—guessing would just backfire. I braced myself for another round of evasive answers.

"Hm?" He barely looked up, pen still scratching across the paper.

Grant, writing in the courtyard, glanced in the direction of my voice, then dipped his pen in ink and kept on working. Classic Grant.

"Why is the spirit curious about that?" His tone was almost amused, like he was humoring a kid who’d asked why the sky was blue.

My voice rang out again, a little more insistent this time.

"After all, your marriage is a matter of family importance. If you can find a good match soon, it’ll benefit your legacy." I tried to sound like a wise old advisor, but I’m not sure I pulled it off.

The ink on the page was still wet, the handwriting bold and confident. But on closer look, it was the poem "Song of the Bluejay Spirit"—a favorite among the young women of Maple Heights. Go figure.

"The spirit makes a good point," Grant said, another noncommittal answer. He was a master at saying nothing at all. If there was an Olympic event for dodging questions, he’d win gold.

As soon as Grant put down his pen, two housekeepers stepped forward, taking the finished piece from under the paperweight and setting it aside to dry. By the end of the day, the courtyard was crowded with drying racks, stacks of completed works everywhere. The scent of ink mingled with fresh-cut grass, filling the air with the promise of spring.

I floated behind Grant, watching him write. I’d expected epic poems or business plans, but all day, he just kept copying "Song of the Bluejay Spirit." Was he trying to make a point, or just messing with me?

"Song of the Bluejay Spirit" is the kind of poem girls in the city’s private schools adore. It’s about a bluejay spirit who helps separated lovers send messages. Once, it delivered a letter for a lady to her beloved at the front, only to find he’d already died in battle. The bluejay brought back the news, and the lady, heartbroken, took her own life. Turns out, she was actually a reincarnated fairy, sent to the world to break her fate with love, but the bluejay spirit ruined her chance. Her soul shattered, and she could never ascend again. So heaven punished the bluejay, turning it into a human to suffer the pains of love in her place, doomed to endless reincarnation. Talk about a raw deal.

"Throughout the whole poem, the bluejay spirit never becomes immortal, so why is it called ‘Song of the Bluejay Spirit’?" I asked, genuinely curious.

A rare smile flickered across Grant’s face. "Though the bluejay spirit never became immortal, in the hearts of the listeners, it already is." He spoke softly, almost like he believed it himself.

Become immortal? After reading the whole thing, that bluejay spirit is just as tragic as I am. Tried to do good, ended up suffering for it. Thinking of my bonus that I haven’t seen in three years, I got annoyed and blurted out, "Can we change the poem?"

My impatience didn’t go unnoticed. Grant turned to me, eyebrow raised. "Why? The spirit doesn’t like it?"

After a few days together, even though he’d never seen me, our conversations had given him a sense of my personality. I was obviously obsessed with his marriage. He was well past coming of age, had girlfriends before, but none seemed to satisfy the spirit. This "Song of the Bluejay Spirit" was the city’s go-to for lovers’ confessions. Today, he’d written a dozen copies, and by sundown, the estate’s staff would have spread the news to every influential family in Maple Heights. The rumor mill would be working overtime: which lady had caught Grant’s eye?

Grant tossed the finished calligraphy to a housekeeper. "Burn them all," he said, not even looking up.

The housekeeper hesitated, but nodded and left with a stack of paper. Grant wasn’t trying to please me—he just decided it was time to shake things up around the estate.

Grant popped a peeled grape in his mouth, lost in thought. The last batch of spies Mrs. Whitmore sent had all been fired by him for one reason or another. It was time to bring in new faces. Now, the only women left were daughters of families he controlled, and they avoided him like the plague. These peaceful days were honestly a little boring, except—

He leaned back lazily and shot a look toward where my voice had come from. "The spirit still hasn’t answered my question." His tone was half-teasing, half-challenging.

I was squatting on a maple tree nearby. Even though I knew he couldn’t see me, Grant’s gaze still made me squirm. I seriously wondered if he had another system, or if his hearing was superhuman. If I hadn’t checked my invisibility setting a dozen times, I’d think he had x-ray vision.

"The poem has a bad meaning," I said, scrambling for a reason.

"Oh? Please explain." Grant sounded genuinely curious, but I could tell he was testing me.