I looked at the middle-aged man standing next to my father, wearing a monocle.

He appeared to be around my father’s age, but his face bore an uncanny resemblance to Aurora’s—almost excessively so. There was something mysterious about him, almost dreamlike.

Moreover, his attire was unique.

He was wearing knee-length breeches, commonly known as culottes, fastened at the knees—men’s fashion that had gone out of style nearly a century ago. Over his vest, he draped an elegant outer garment reminiscent of a dopo, cinched loosely at the waist with a gold-threaded cord.

It looked like a fusion of Eastern and Western styles, yet it was impossible to determine which era or country it belonged to.

He almost seemed like an immortal transcending time.

Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the man gazed at my father with an expression impossible to decipher.