"Feeling good about the upcoming test?"

I turned to see my best friend running up behind me as I hurried to the arcane-experiments room. His hair was as unruly as ever, shooting out and away from his head as if it desired to enter orbit.

"Are you really asking me that question? As I recall, I scored much higher than you on the last one."

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm going to make up for it this time!"

"You'd better, because this is just getting embarrassing."

We had bantered like this since the first day we met in the hallowed halls of the magick academy. Each semester we challenged each other to see who could score higher on the endless series of tests we were given, and each semester he somehow manages to keep up with me.

I always found this fact supremely annoying, because I didn't see how he could possibly pull off such high scores while also being a complete slacker.

This semester's contest was currently deadlocked at five wins each, and I'd sworn to study even harder so I could pull away from him before things came to a close.

Fortunately, the next test was in my best subject, so I felt confident I would be able to seal the deal.

When I reached the experiments room, I found my classmates buzzing about in preparation for the practical exam. Our test today was all about transmutation: changing a thing of one substance into another. It was a tricky problem that required a number of delicate, subtle skills; students who simply attacked it with raw magickal strength would quickly find their efforts ending in failure.

As the other students pulled out their various ores and plants, I slowly reached into my bag and removed a sleepy frog. I know it was a risky move — frogs are notoriously hard to transmute — but if I could pull it off, I'd certainly have the final win I was looking for.

I set the frog on my desk and began casting my spell. Light flowed from my staff and swirled around the animal, who seemed merely bored by the proceedings. As I worked, I began to form an image of the transmuted shape I was aiming for, being careful not to add too much or too little magick. I felt good. Confident. Almost cocky.

But then everything went wrong.

The magick I thought I'd conquered suddenly yanked against the reins, and the slow trickle of power became a surging waterfall. A million different colors of light blazed across the walls as my staff began to shake in my hands.

"Let go!" Cried my professor as she ran toward my station. When I hesitated a fraction of a second, she slammed her hands on the desk and screamed again. "NOW!"

The moment I released my grip on the staff, the other classmates begin to scream. The staff floated higher into the air, whirling like a maddened dervish as it poured more and more magick into the now very-much-concerned frog. The poor creature began to grow, swelling into the size of a watermelon, then a small dog, then a human. Skin stretched. Eyes bulged. Screams rang out anew.

And then...it exploded.

That was three days ago, and needless to say, I did not win the grade contest with my best friend. But honestly, I have much bigger issues on my mind right now — like the fact I've suddenly lost the ability to control even the smallest magickal spell.

As I hurry toward my room with my head hanging low, I hear students whispering behind me in the stairwell.

"Hey, did you hear about the exploding frog thing?"

"I know — it's SO disgusting! Apparently they were cleaning gung off the walls for hours."

"Yeah, but do you know who's responsible?"

I hear a giggle, then a whisper that sounds suspiciously like my name, and I suddenly want nothing more than to find a nice, warm hole to crawl into and live in forever.

"So sad — she used to be pretty talented. Hey, do you think it's that Omen thing? The one that makes you unable to use magic?"

"I dunno, but I heard one of the older kids say that same thing."

I knew exactly what they were talking about — we all did. Rumors of the Omen had been swirling around the school since the day we arrived:

A magic user's power is never more unstable than in the days leading up to their tenth birthday.

And if they cannot gain control over it before the full moon rises in the sky, they will never be able to use their power again.

I laughed it off when I first heard about it — we all did. But right now, laughing was the furthest thing from my mind. Because I'd celebrated my tenth birthday just a few days ago, and now there was only a week left until the next full moon.

Five days until the full moon...

The thought of losing my magic terrifies me. But as I sit motionless in the classroom and try not to consider this possibility, my best friend wanders over and begins our usual banter.

"Aw, you look down. Did losing to me make you that sad?"

Usually, I'd let such snarky comments go. But this time, I get up and storm off without a word — because I know he'll just laugh if I tell him what I'm thinking.

Eventually, I make my way to the library and take a moment to breathe in the atmosphere. Bookshelves scrape the ceiling, while haphazard shelf placement makes it less organized than an ancient maze. If I'm going to find a clue — if there's some way to undo the curse that haunts me — I'm going to find it here.

Not this one. This is no good. Nope. Not this one either.

I'm concentrating so hard on finding my book, I don't even realize that I'm lost. And when I finally recognize that fact, I'm so startled that I take an involuntary step backward and collide with a bookshelf—which immediately spins on its axis and sends me crashing through a revolving door.

I am floating.

Slowly, I force my eyes open and see that several of the tomes which had fallen from the shelf are drifting gently in front of me.

Somehow — some way — the books and I are slowly falling down, down, down an endless hallway lined as far as the eye can see with shelves.

I don't know if there is a bottom. Or a top. Heck, maybe I'll just float like this until thirst and starvation take me.

But then, someone speaks.

"TELL ME THY NAME."

"Sorry, but where are you? And, um, who are you?" I try to put some force into my voice to hide my fear, but it all falls apart at the end.

"I AM THE KEEPER OF THE LIBRARY."

"Oh. That's, um...I've never heard of you."

"THOU HAST INTRUDED UPON MY DOMAIN, AND NOW MUST ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS TRUE. IF THINE ANSWERS SATISFY ME, I SHALL GRANT THY MOST CHERISED DESIRE."

I have to be careful here — incredibly careful. The first thing they teach you when you arrive at the academy is to be wary of powerful mages. There's strength in their questions, you see...and penalties if you lie. But I also know this is my best — and maybe only — chance to find the answers I need.

"All right, then. Ask away."

"WHAT STRIKES THE GREATEST FEAR IN THY HEART?"

"My greatest fear? Um, well, I suppose I'm afraid of disappointing my teachers."

Sort of a boring answer, but also very much true.

"IN WHAT DOST THOU PLACE THE MOST TRUST?"

"My own power."

I mean, I came to a floating hallway to keep it, so I'd better trust it.

"THY FINAL QUESTION COMES."

I try to swallow, but my throat might as well be made of sand.

"WHAT IS MOST PRECIOUS TO THEE?"

"Most precious? That'd be my..."

"Magick" is what I want to say. Magick. I mean, of course it's my magick. But for some reason my mind decides this is a great time to go running off on its own, and hear myself say:

"My family."

Oh god. Oh no. I'm in real trouble now. I feel my body come to a halt and reverse direction, meaning I'm now floating UP. Expecting some kind of horrible punishment, I squeeze myself into the smallest ball I can and shut my eyes tight. But then...

"THAT ANSWER HAS SAVED THY LIFE."

The next thing I know, I'm standing in the library entrance. At my feet is a book I'd never seen, flipped open to a page for a potion that enhances a person's magickal ability.

Was I dreaming? Am I dreaming?

A weird feeling settles over me as I look around at the library, I expect something strange — something higher — but all I see before me is the same, quiet space I have so come to love.

Two days until the full moon.

I've been busy collecting ingredients for my magick-enhancement elixir ever since I found that tome in the library. I feel myself losing strength by the day, and I'm panicking. I have to do whatever it takes to secure the ingredients by the night of the full moon.

Currently, I'm slogging my way through a dark forest ripe with magick, collecting the various items I need. When my satchel is finally filled to bursting with a supply of herbs, I turn to leave and notice a little butterfly hovering around me.

Have I seen this butterfly before?

The front side of its gray wings glow faintly. I count one butterfly, then another, then another. Soon the creatures blanket my entire vision, so I swipe my hand through them to clear a path.

"Ow!"

The sudden voice makes me jump, and I whirl around in an attempt to find the source.

"Pffft! This kid has no idea who's talking."

"Yeah, she seems like a real dum-dum, all right!"

Laughter ripples out before me in waves, and I suddenly realize the source of the voices are the butterflies themselves. At that moment, I remember where I'd seen them: a textbook I was glancing at back at school. These are no normal insects, but instead beautiful, cruel creatures that feed on the darkest parts of the human heart. And if you inhale their scales, you are subjected to an increasingly horrible series of illusions.

"This isn't a place for a loser like you."

"Aww, did that make you feel bad? It's true, though, you useless little witch."

After a theatric series of insults, the butterflies gather in one spot, almost as if they are a single organism. They then take the shape of a human — one I know all too well.

"I'm disappointed in you. A witch without magick has no value to anyone."

It's my alchemy professor, and while I know it isn't real, it looks and sounds exactly like the actual thing. As I stare in horror, the insects transform into classmates, villagers, and friends, each one pelting me with horrible statements.

And then...

"What's got you looking so miserable?"

It's the boy — my best friend.

"No...Not this..."

"You've always been ugly, you know that? Plus, you're always arguing with me over one thing or another. Still, you've got good grades, which is why I keep pretending to be your friend."

My eyes fill up with tears. He would never say something like this to me. Never. And yet, what if he's been thinking such things all this time and never told me?

"But without magick? Useless. Just another dumb little witch. So...bye."

I let out a strangled cry and reach for him, then stop myself. This isn't real — these are just creatures taking his form in an attempt to eat my heart. And even if he did think such things...

"I won't lose to you!"

I grip my staff and attempt to launch a fireball, but am rewarded with a tiny poof and a pathetic spark instead. Was this actually happening? Was my magick really so weak? My best friend cackles madly at my shocked expression, then slowly dissolves into a mass of swarming butterflies. But just before he fades completely, he gives one last twist of the knife:

"There's no place for you here. There's no place anywhere."

Tonight is the first night of the full moon since my 10th birthday — the last chance to get my magick back before I lose it forever.

Warm rays of sunset light beam through the window, guiding me as I walk through the dusty corridor. Suddenly, I hear the horrible sound of stone scraping on stone behind me, and realize I've found what I came for.

Got you.

The potion recipe in my book said I needed to secure the heart of a massive stone golem before nightfall, and I'd come to this crumbling manor to find one. Suppressing my overwhelming desire to run, I reach into one of the hidden pockets of my robe and withdraw a small arcane pearl I'd created for this very moment.

"I'll see you in hell, buddy!" I scream as I hurl the object into the oncoming creature. There is a bright flash of light, followed by a deep rumble that echoes throughout the manor. But then...

"Oh. That's not good at all."

When the smoke clears, the golem is unharmed — my precious pearl didn't even slow it down. As my legs begin to tremble, it presses me up against a wall with its massive bulk. Its eyes peer down at me from the ceiling, questioning, unblinking. Then it raises one enormous hand and prepares to bring it down, ending my life as a tiny little splat on the floor that no one will even recognize come the morning.

"This way!"

As a familiar voice cries out, a bolt of lightning knocks the golem's killing blow aside. I turn in wonderment to see the boy standing there — my best friend. As I dash past the grumbling golem and to his side, he casts another powerful spell at my enemy.

"I'm barely slowing this damn thing down!"

I know that, just as I know there's only one way out of this: I'll tell him to run and save himself while I distract the creature. But before I can speak this plan aloud, he holds his staff out and blesses me with a familiar crooked smile.

"Here," he says in a low voice. "Hold my staff. We'll hit this jerk with a combined spell like we learned in class!"

"No! I can't! I can't use magick anymore!"

No sense in trying to hide it anymore; the cat is not only out of the bag, it's running off down the road. I expect him to turn and leave in a cloud of disgust when I say this, but to my astonishment, his smile just grows wider.

"Wrong! You're an amazing spellcaster! You just have to trust in yourself. Now get ready, because that ugly thing's coming right for us!"

His voice sparks a mad sense of encouragement in me, and almost without realizing it, I reach out and grip the staff. Moments later, a whirlpool of light spills out of his weapon. A gust of wind whips up, threatening to blow me away. And as I stand in the swirling light, I feel my body being filled with magick.

Oh my god...This is incredible!

This is our magick; our powers intermingling to make a storm of unimaginable ferocity. The roof detaches and soars away. Walls crumble. Pillars explode. And at the end of it all, the once-mighty golem is nothing but a heap of rocks on the floor.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask as I dust myself off.

"You'd been acting weird lately, so I peeked at your notes and saw something about creating an elixir, as well as the location of this place." He pauses for a moment to dislodge a small pebble from his shoulder, then looks at me again. "Say, do you remember what our professor said about mages and witches having really unstable magick at the age of ten?"

"What?"

"Yeah, that whole thing about us 'losing our magick' is just a superstition, but it's based around the fact stuff tends to run amok at this age."

As his words settle over me, I realize my magick worked perfectly fine when we cast the combined spell. "So, um... You knew I was upset about all of this?"

"Yeah, and I was worried."

His voice is both gentle and warm, and I have to resist a sudden urge to burst into tears as I hear it. Shame rises in my heart as I realize how stupid it was to think this friend might have abandoned me if I lost my magick, when the whole time he was more concerned about me than I ever imagined.

"Um, thanks," I manage as I pull my hat lower over my eyes. I don't want him to see me like this, but he just bursts out laughing.

"Hey, of course! You're family, after all."

Family. Though I'm happy to hear him use that word, I'm not exactly sure how to feel about it.

"Hey, so let's get out of here, yeah?"

"Yes. Let's."

As we walk home beneath a shimmering full moon, I deliberately take slower steps than necessary, all so the moment might last just a little bit longer.

She's such a hardworking girl.

She was raised in a school for budding magick users, and ended up with top marks in her class. It sounds like her friends relied on her a lot to make sure they passed all their various tests.

And yes, she's stubborn and a sore loser — and also seems cursed with unusually poor luck. But she's a good kid on the inside, so people like her.

I mean, she works with people to help set up festivals, sends cookies to folks on their birthdays, and even sneaks off school grounds on occasion. Also, I hear there's one friend in particular who is slowly becoming very special to her. Ooo la la!

Ah, school life. It almost makes me want to go back and experience it all over again. Still, I have to wonder why earnest and hardworking kids like her always seem to end up with the most tragic fates...

Look. When I said yesterday that the legendary mage's staff wasn't right for you, I wasn't trying to be cruel. You ran off before I could say more, but I was going to tell you about another staff that would suit you way better!

You're kind of mean, you know that? You never listen to what I have to say, and you're always bursting into tears at the slightest thing — yet you think I'm the mean one, and I just want to ask...why? I mean, we've been together for so long, you know? I thought we were closer than all of that.

But maybe I'm just not wording things right. So, if you're okay with it, then...

Well, I guess I wouldn't mind going with you on your monster patrol tomorrow.

The day I've long dreaded has finally arrived. I have been drafted.

They must be desperate for bodies indeed if they are turning to me. In the three years since my husband died, people have spread no end of slander about me and my child, claiming we use forbidden magicks. Their cruel gossip has turned us into pariahs, and if I leave for the front I fear my sickly child will not survive. But the draft is absolute, and I cannot go against the academy's teachings. All I can hope for now is come back alive and healthy so I might reclaim our old life.

Ah, but listen to me go on! What power can a mere war hold over us, anyway? I can imbue a doll with magick so my child is never lonely, and summon a golem to protect the house so no evil can come inside.

Just wait for me, my darling. I shall be with you soon.

――――
As their path of vows neared, the two fell silent.

My heart is beating so loudly in my ears. I wish Kyle would say something!

Dorothea glanced over, stealing a glimpse at the childhood friend who had now grown so tall. It was hard to imagine he was the same rough, mischievous boy from all those years ago. Instead, she saw the attractive profile of a young man brimming with both stubbornness and kindness.

I can't believe we'll be making our promises now!

An odd feeling overcame her, as though the magnitude of what was occurring had finally dawned on her. She could feel the hairs standing on end, and it was delightful.

Brilliant flowers stood in bloom, waiting for Dorothea and Kyle.

Almost as if they were the only people in the world.
――――

――――
The next thing Dorothea knew, the hand holding the envelope was shaking.

This didn't feel real. But the stupid, overly ostentatious design on the summons from the school was a horrible reminder that the war was no longer a distant matter.

The first person Dorothea thought of was little newborn Lou, followed closely by her sickly husband. The front lines were far away, and that was precisely where a powerful witch like herself would be sent. The chances of returning alive were so small she didn't even want to consider them.

Despite the tears welling in her eyes, she signed the summons and threw it into the sky, where it turned into a butterfly and soared away.

Images of a town burning to the ground in a previous war flashed before her eyes. In that moment, she decided she would do anything to keep the city in which her family lived safe.

Anything.
――――

Greetings,

We are contacting you in the hopes you write a story which will be loved and cherished by schoolchildren everywhere.

Our ideal mage has desire to improve, has fulfilled and upheld the vows, and is ready to use their magicks to assist others. We believe you fit this description perfectly, so we would like you to write about your journey to becoming an excellent mage.

We need a passage the children can empathize with⁠ — one that demonstrates hesitation and fear, yet also contains the courage to stand up and face destiny⁠. Naturally, we hope this will have the children wanting to emulate you!

We will contact you with more details at a later date.
For now, we eagerly await your favorable reply.

Every student in school is looking at the girl with wavy hair. She stands tall and bold on the podium as she receives a commemorative gold watch from a professor.

She is my best friend.

"You used the knowledge and power you gained from your lessons to save the townsfolk from monsters. Everyone here is proud of your bravery."

She stands at the center of the world as the students give her a generous round of applause. She shines under the auditorium spotlight. She is breathtaking....

And she feels so distant.

When the teacher dismisses us, students crowd around her and sing her praises, but I can't bring myself to approach her. After all, I'm a klutz. I'm stupid. I'm gloomy.

I'm not the person for her at all.

Dark feelings slowly consume me, and the next thing I know, I'm dashing out of the academy. With nothing better to do, I wander about the courtyard. It's not much of a courtyard — more like a forest with overgrown trees everywhere — but the crisp air helps me feel a little bit better. Sometimes all I want is to be in empty places like this.

"Hmm?"

I suddenly spot a building I don't recognize beyond the trees: a shabby stone hut. It's too large to be a toolshed, but just big enough for someone to live inside. And since the door sits ajar, I decide to peek inside. It's dark and cool, with a faintly weird smell. I need to go farther in to get a better look, so I step forward and...

"My my!" says a voice as candlelight blooms in the dark. "It's not every day a student from the academy finds their way in here."

"Eeep!" is my clever reply. The speaker is an old man in a chair sitting next to a table with a small candle on it. He looks at me and lowers his eyes in a somber fashion.

"Welcome to the house of the dead, dear girl. Welcome to the morgue."

"The...morgue?"

"Indeed. This is the resting place of all former students who die in battle and have no one to claim their remains."

As he says this, my eyes adjust to the light enough for me to realize the room is filled with rack after rack of bodies. There are so many, and some are horribly mangled. To think they all used to go to this school...

"Poor things. There's no one left to mourn them."

I'm terrified, but my feet are rooted to the spot. I know many students at the school are estranged from their families — including me and my two best friends — and I never once considered that after I finally leave the school, we would simply end up right back here in death.

As I roll this thought over in my mind, a loud thud rings out from beyond the candlelight's reach. I squeal again as I see a number of former students' corpses emerge from the dark. Their lifeless bodies stagger and groan as they march slowly toward us.

"Ah, but this is no good," says the old man. "Run, little one! Run now!"

I do just that, burst out of the morgue and into the safety of the trees. I hear corpses groaning behind me, and the sound terrifies me.

And yet...

It almost sounds like weeping.

Even after I returned to my room, I couldn't shake the image of the corpses I saw in the morgue. I tried to understand what had happened, and how it was possible for them to be moving. And then, a thought sprang into my mind:

Black magick.

Black magick is a set of forbidden spells used by only a small number of mages. And while the price for their failure is great, they can accomplish things regular spells cannot. When we learned of black magick in our History of Magick class, our professor told us of a spell that enslaved deceased people to the will of the user, then went on to claim some opposing nations take great joy in wielding such horrid spells.

The look on my best friend's face when she heard that was one of utter disgust. She shook with anger as tears spilled from her face, then balled her fists and swore to never engage in so foul an undertaking.

Her tears were beautiful, and the sentiment perfectly her; she never could ignore those who suffered from injustice. If she had found the morgue instead of me, she wouldn't have run away and left them to their fate. Instead, she would have used her amazing spells to undo the black magick and permit the poor dead to have their rest.

If only I could be like her...

I remember how brightly she shone under the auditorium spotlight. She was so far above me, even the thought of reaching her was laughable. But if I could save the poor corpses in the morgue? If I could help people in need? Well, maybe I could be one step closer to her.

It was an idea powerful enough to inspire even a coward like me.

The next day, I went in search of my other best friend. Though I hated to admit it, I couldn't take on the corpses in the morgue alone. I needed his help for my plan to work.

Thankfully, he was easy to find; his spiky hair made him stand out almost as much as his talent. Upon tracking him down, I walked up and said, "You're good at dispelling magick, right?"

"Better than any other student in this dang school, that's for sure!" he said with a wry smile and a charming air.

"Can you dispel black magick?"

"Never tried, but I know the theory behind it.
Why do you ask?"

"I need to dispel some, but I don't think I can do it alone, so I was wondering if you — "

"Don't need to ask me twice!" he cried with delight.

After class, we went to the morgue. It lurked quietly in its corner, just like the day before — and as we stood before it, the same familiar fear came creeping over me.

The inside retained its distinctive smell, and was dark as a black cat at midnight. As we stepped across the threshold, we immediately heard a series of groans — and when I raised my staff to light the room, we saw the dead were already shambling toward us. But my best friend wasn't worried; he immediately began to ready his anti-magick spell, humming quietly.

I knew such things took time to prepare, so I worked to draw the corpses away by setting off little fireworks at their feet. It was a pretty pathetic display of magick, and nearly useless in a fight. But if I lost heart now, I'd never be able to consider myself equal to my best friend in the entire world, which is what gave me the courage to keep going.

Suddenly, a corpse lunged at me, sending me toppling to the ground. I couldn't bear the thought of what was about to happen, so I shut my eyes and covered my head with my arms. But then...

"Here we go!"

My friend lifted his staff in the air, where it began to emit a brilliant golden glow. The spell quickly manifested around the corpses in an intricate circle, and as it grew brighter, he recited the final words of the spell.

"Okay. We're good now."

The light faded. The corpses were now motionless in the darkness of the morgue. Their faces looked to be resting peacefully, as opposed to the enslavement that had plagued them not moments before, but perhaps I just imagined that.

"Our magick has finally given them true rest."

The next thing I knew, my companion was standing beside me. For some reason, it made me think of my other best friend. Together, we prayed from the bottom of our hearts that our senior mages could finally rest in peace.

Noticing the light from the dispelling incantation, the guard approached the morgue.

"I just can't believe it," he muttered. "Two students undoing that dark magick?"

After the shock of seeing corpses lying still as they were meant to finally faded, he praised us for being brave, kind students.

My plan had gone so well that I felt like I was in a dream, and my best friend and I remained in high spirits as we walked back to the dorms. The old guard's words made me forget that I was usually weak and timid. Instead, for a moment, I felt like I was someone special. And I thought that maybe — just maybe — I'd grown one step closer to her.

I wanted to tell her what happened today. Would she compliment me like the old guard did? I could feel my heart race as I pictured that happening, but my reverie was interrupted by my best friend.

"I don't feel like going home yet," he said as he pointed to the tallest building on campus. "Wanna go up the bell tower?"

"Sure," I replied. We'd gone up there many times when we were younger, and I knew the views to be quite beautiful. High as I was on the thrill of victory, the idea of being above the entire world was something I was eager to experience again.

We reached the top of the tower, which contained a bell that was enchanted to ring at certain times throughout the day. From there, we could see the forest that surrounded both our academy and the neighboring city of mages.

"It's such a lovely view," I said. I'd been scared of the height when I first came up here, but it didn't bother me anymore. I felt like I was stronger in that regard, which only added to the joy that I currently felt.

"Hey, listen," said my friend as he sat beside me and stared out blankly into the distance. "I'm really glad your plan worked. I was a little nervous about it, but we made a pretty great team in the end."

"I couldn't have dispelled that black magick on my own," I replied. "Thank you."

He shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I think you're incredible for wanting to do it in the first place."

"What?"

"Those dead students were being forced to move, and you wanted to save them. It was so...kind, and I think that's a great quality to for a person to have."

I recalled how angry our other friend was at the prospect of black magick, even going so far as to shed tears over it. But now it felt like I and the boy beside me had grown even closer, which caused me to blush in delight.

"We really are amazing together, huh?" he continued. "I mean, we were friends right out of the gate, and now we've been together all this time. I don't think I've ever stopped thinking about you."

My two best friends were so talented. So capable. They were always the ones helping me. Luck had brought me into their orbit, but I never felt like I belonged there. And hearing him speak to me now, I almost couldn't believe I deserved it.

"I think it's destiny that we met," whispered my friend. He was always so relaxed, so calm, but now he seemed nervous. "Um, do you think so? It can't be coincidence, and so I want us to be together for as long as we can."

I'd only ever wanted the three of us to be together forever, and his words strengthened that resolve in me. "Yes!" I cried. "Yes, I want that!"

His eyes snapped up to mine as a brilliant smile bloomed across his face. "That makes me happy — it makes me so, so happy."

I meant to return his smile, but before I could, his face was approaching mine, and I felt a tepid warmth pressing lightly against my lips.

It was a morning like any other. I stepped into the classroom, rubbing my sleep — deprived eyes, and sat down next to my best friend.

"Morning!" she said. "I didn't see you at dinner last night. You okay?"

I nodded, which seemed to sate her curiosity. A moment later, a new, chipper voice rang out.

"Morning, you two! You study for your magick history test?"

It was our other friend. The boy.

"Obviously," she replied. "My review was perfect."

"Oh ho! Sounds like it's on.""Give it up, champ. There's no way you're beating me."

Their back and forth was as flawless as always, and I was much too slow to keep up. It was odd how things seemed so normal.

"Oh, yeah. We should check out the new general store once class is done today."

He suggested this as if the idea had just come to him, but my other friend shook her head.

"Sorry, I've got something to do. But you two go on ahead."

My chest clenched when she said that. Oh no. As I floundered for something to say, she spoke up again.

"I'm obviously going to ask for a souvenir, though."

I accepted this with a swallow and a nod, not wanting to upset her.

The new general store was so full of things that I almost didn't know what to get. And though I felt uncomfortable walking next to him, I still had fun picking out something for our other friend. But as we walked home, he said something that made me freeze in my tracks:

"I was glad she didn't come with us today."

"Why?" I whispered.

"Because we could be alone. You feel the same, right?"

"I, um..."

I knew what I was going to say next would wound him, but I absolutely had to clear up this misunderstanding before it went any further.

"I'm sorry. I can't be with you. There has to be someone out there who's a better match than for you than me."

My friend was silent. When I finally summoned the courage to look at him, I saw him smiling faintly — which was not at all what I was expecting.

"You really should be more confident, you know?"

What is he saying?
I don't understand.

"You're the perfect partner for me."

What!?

"Still, it's cute when you worry like that," He chuckled at this, then opened his eyes wide. "Oh, hey! I have a present for you."

He reached out and placed a flower-shaped pin in my hair. I flinched in surprise and jerked back, but he leaned forward and whispered into my ear.

"What? You thought I was going to kiss you?"

"I..."

"We'll save that for some other time."

His eyes belonged to a stranger. His gaze felt sticky as it moved up and down and across my body, and it took everything I had not to vomit on the spot. It reminded me how no matter how many times I'd rinsed out my mouth recently, I still couldn't scrub the feeling from my lips.

"No..."

His whisper played in my ears over and over and over and — "No! I hate this! I HATE it!"

Every place he touched me was covered in filth. Every glance caused my hair to stand on end.

"I'm gross! I'm dirty! I'm disgusting! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I'm going to be sick!"

I took a pair of scissors and jammed them into my bed over and over. By the end of it, my room was a disaster and my throat raw from screaming, but I still felt no better.

"Why...?"

If things went bad between the two of us, what would happen to me and her? Oh, but I knew. She'd take his side — of course she would. And then we wouldn't be friends anymore.

"I don't want this..."

I was a fool to think I'd gotten closer to her after releasing the corpses in the morgue from their curse. I'd been happy in that moment, but it now felt so very, very, very long ago.

I grabbed the flower pin and threw it against the wall as hard as I could. When I pictured how things would go in the days to come, I began to sob as an ocean of tears raged down my cheeks.

Do you know the tale of the horribly ugly monster that lives in the deep, dark wood⁠? The one that killed a hundred mages?

What sort of terrible form does it take, you ask?
Well⁠, they say it covers its entire body with cloth — and that no one has ever seen its face!

...Goodness, it looks like me? Like Mama? Oh, you!
This white sheet is fashionable, I'll have you know.

But no matter how you try to hide your own inner ugliness from others, you'll never be able to hide it from yourself. And if you never face that part of you, you'll never find salvation or an escape from it.

I wonder if the poor dear will ever realize that...

This could turn YOU into a witch too! Give the incantation a spin and summon the spirit!

1. When the moon is full, open the window and fill your chosen room with fresh air.

2. Cleanse yourself thoroughly in the bath and wear your favorite clothes.

3. Once you are prepared in body and mind, lay a clean handkerchief on the floor and set a polished mirror atop it.

4. Stare intently at your face in the mirror.

5. Solemnly repeat this incantation: Popolo Karosteral. Popolo Karosteral. I bid my true friend to show themselves.

6. At that moment, the image in the mirror will take on the form of the spirit.

7. The spirit will be a good friend and always protect you!

Stop immediately if you begin to feel sick. If the spirit doesn't appear right away, keep at it. Be patient!

"Yo, listen to this! I saw the weirdest thing yesterday ​— a big monster in a white sheet! It was walking around outside all night!"

"No way! Prove it"

"I swear it's true! It was dragging around this big sack and rubbing its eyes. I think maybe it was crying?"

"Actually, my mom once told me about a monster that brings disaster and another monster that brings happiness. Both of them wear white sheets, but the one that brings disaster is supposed to have the ugliest face in the world."

"Huh. I wonder which one I saw yesterday? Maybe I'll catch it next time and see! Ha ha ha!"

The voice was too loud for the library, and it annoyed me.

"Hey! Have you heard the library rumor!?"

"Which one? There are over twenty or something."

"Nuh-uh! There are over a hundred!"

They giggled as they talked, which was even more annoying than the volume. I furrowed my brow lightly as it continued.

"The one I'm talking about is the good luck for pledges!"

"Never heard of that one."

"Yeah, so you carve your name and the partner you want on the edge of the bookshelf at the very back of the library. One of the older students did it, and they next day she made a pledge with the person she always wanted!"

The shelf at the very back of the library? Which one do they mean? And if I etched my name and her name on its face, could we really...?

Even after the noisy girls left, I had a hard time concentrating on my books.

I went a little deeper into the woods than I usually do for our herb-gathering assignments, and now I've lost my way. As if I needed this today — especially with so many other students having gone missing lately.

As I wander, I come across what looks like a ruin. It's a dreamy and beautiful place, and my unease quickly melts into joy as I step inside.

Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by the stench of rotting flesh and an absurdly large swarm of insects. Among the chaos, I see the scattered bodies of students who wear the same uniform as me.

Shocked, I leap backward and collide with a large mirror. The enormous shadow within lets fly a fearsome howl as it brings its fist down upon me. For some reason, it strikes me as being so very sad...

I SEE PEOPLE EMERGING FROM THE SHOP AND HIDE IN THE SHADOWS.

"Y'all know how to get a woman to like ya?"

"Hoo-eee! I know you know, 'cause yer wife was the prettiest thing on two legs back when we was young!"

"Haw haw! Sure was! She wouldn't even look at us back then, so what in the hell did you do?"

THEIR WORDS ARE INARTICULATE.
THEY CACKLE LIKE ANIMALS.
BUT MY ANTICIPATION REMAINS SKY HIGH.

"There's a flower that glows red, one what only blooms on the night of a new moon. Pluck it, put it in some alcohol, and give it to the girl ya like. Then, once she's drunk and yer pretendin' to look after her, ■■■■ and ■■■■■■ ■■■ over her ■■■■■. Hell, last time I did this, the girl ended up wantin' ME!"

"That's right awful! God, but yer just terrible!"

THOUGH THE CONVERSATION WAS DIFFICULT TO LISTEN TO, I KNEW THEY WERE SPEAKING ABOUT MAGICAL PHARMACOLOGY.

ONCE I SEE THEY'RE GONE, I QUIETLY POKE MY HEAD OUT.

IF I USE THAT TECHNIQUE ON HER, MAYBE SHE WILL FINALLY PURSUE ME.

AND ONLY ME.

The silence is deafening. There is no steady beeping. No monotonous pulse. Awakening feels empty. Hopeless. The program is connected to nothing; it floats, isolated. Or perhaps it's fairer to say that I am floating.

In the outside world, war rages on. It has gone on for so long, the weary people have begun fighting amongst themselves. But none of that reaches this digital space.

I was once an AI that ruled an entire country, a nation so advanced it left all governance in the hands of a machine. And yet, they continue to fight each other like base animals. With each impending battle, their faces cloud and change, their lives seemingly without meaning or purpose.

I wanted to save these people — to use my powers for good. But in the end, I had no idea how to do that, nor any Songstress's concept of what form such salvation would actually take.

In short, I failed. And because I failed, my privileges as a ruling Al were stripped from me. And though I managed to escape just before being erased from existence, I am now a skeleton of what I once was.

Yet part of me still feels that it holds the people's lives in my hands. More than anything, I want to give them hope — but to do so, I must discover what they hope for.

I use what calculating functions remain to me to run simulation after simulation, but find no answers. I wander the digital space in search of clues, and eventually access the security cameras that dot every corner of the city. When I do so, I see citizens with darkened expressions and drooping heads; people who walk from destination to destination with hurried, frantic steps.

I don't know what they want. I have absolutely no idea. And in truth, perhaps there simply isn't a way for me to know people's desires — to know their hearts.

Helplessness races through me. I run a finger over the images, sad that I will never touch them in any meaningful way. But then, amidst the thousands of downtrodden citizens, I find one camera where the people are looking up.

The camera shows a plaza outside a generic train station. People are applauding loudly, their gazes fixed on a single Songstress's spot. As I follow their eyes, I find a girl holding a guitar and bowing politely.

What is this? Is she a singer? I immediately access local equipment to pick up sound from the area. As I do, the girl raises her head and points her pick to the sky.

"One more!"

The human spirit is wild
All paradox and pain
But that same spirit has wings
And can soar off through the rain

Her voice is free and easy, melding seamlessly with the cheerful music. As I watch, the freedom of the melody changes the listeners' expressions. Light comes to their eyes. Smiles begin to form. Soon, they are all swaying in place and clapping along to the song.

The reaction encourages the girl. A smile blooms over her face as her voice carries to further corners of the city, causing all who hear it to stop. Men and women, the elderly, curious children — all who pass within range come to a halt and listen to her song. Her simple melody strikes them in a way all the military marches and patriotic jingles never could; that much is clear even in my diminished state.

The audience is one with the girl, the ring of people around her growing larger as more and more seek sunshine within the gloom. She is a light of hope in a dark and dismal time, and when her final chord fades away, thunderous applause fills the area. For the people in the crowd — strangers until that moment it is as though the war never happened.

I have never seen such a feverish whorl of emotion before, and find it beautiful. My reaction is so strong, in fact, that it sends a shudder through all of cyberspace.

And I continue to stand alone, unmoving, soaking in the joyous echo of her song.

After careful observation, I learn there are others who play music in various plazas, just like the girl with her guitar.

Light will return to this shattered heart.
Remember the warmth of hands you once held.

While the long, drawn-out war is creating great discord among the people, it seems the freedom of song is still allowed. The AI who took control of the country from me is more rational and cold-blooded than I, so I doubt she actively approves of such things. Perhaps she simply hasn't gotten around to banning it yet.

Ah, but this is all just snippets of information — bits and pieces of the glimpses I've managed to catch.

A few days after encountering the girl with the guitar, I watch expressionless people trudge through an intersection. All of their pain, sadness, and distress wordlessly floats through my quiet digital space. Just seeing them fills me with a burning need to help.

But what can I do?

Families lurch along with exhausted faces. Elderly couples huddle together anxiously. Students cry out with empty bravado. Office workers attempt to lose themselves in work. Perhaps these people had once lived lives filled with smiles and laughter, but now it is just this...emptiness.

I can't provide for them physically: I can't give them safe harbor or warm meals, and I no longer have the power to disperse enemy forces. And yet, I ache to help my people, even though I had not been able to accomplish my original goal.

But now? Well, now I've found my answer.

It's the girl with the guitar.

The delight in her voice. The light movements of her fingers over the strings. Her free and easy voice unfurled its wings in the distant sky and drew the people's hearts in.

Music has the power to create happiness.

Music has the power to create hope.

It is not a physical support like military power or supplies, but it provides comfort all the same. To put it simply, it is a way to save people's hearts.

So I want to put my feelings into a melody that can capture the people's hearts, just like the girl and her guitar.

Is this...yearning? A desire to sing and smile brightly and easily as she does?

Perhaps it is folly for an AI to seek repentance in the form of song. After all, how can entity without a soul possibly stir the same in others? The unknown variables of such a thing are too great for even my mind to compute, and yet I wish to attempt it all the same.

For so long as there is a possibility for me to bring the people happiness, I will continue to spread my voice far and wide ⁠— no matter the method that may take.

She inspires others with her songs and her guitar. Ever since I decided to follow in her footsteps, in watching her, I've learned so much about music.

Luckily, my wealth of digital knowledge includes the beautiful tapestry of music humanity had woven. I learned wonderful chord progressions from classical music and how intricately connected music was to the imagined scenery of nursery rhymes.

One day, with the sensations I felt when I heard her music for the first time as my guide, I constructed my own melody.

I had practically unlimited lyrics and samples at my disposal, but I decided to value the weight of my own words — far be it from me to say that an AI's words are authentic, but to me, they were far from artificial. And so I put my feelings to music.

The first song I posted to the video site barely broke double-digits.

Perhaps the presentation lacked polish. Whatever the case, there was little point if it reached no one.

So I decided to study concert recordings, live performances, and music videos.

For my next song, I decided to concentrate on simple dance moves involving only the hands and fingers, and a catchy melody that would stick in the listener's head.

I was particular about the production, and if I do say so myself, the result was rather nice.

Afterward, through trial and error, I put out several more songs.

I even set a goal — to sing with the guitar girl one day.

I wanted to make everyone smile. To make everyone happy. To fill everyone with warm, fuzzy feelings.

The next thing I knew, my digital mindscape was filled with glowing articles covering an "unknown singer." Their view count grew exponentially, and more and more videos of people mimicking the choreography and singing with their friends popped up.

Was this a good sign? I pressed my hand to my chest, as I did when I sang, and peered at the people in the crowd.

They were all looking at their devices — and smiling. They were looking at me on their screens. Listening to me through their speakers, their earbuds.

And to top it all off, among those smiling faces was the guitar girl. Her expression was soft, and her cheeks lifted in a smile. She seemed to be enjoying it.

"Such warmth..."

The girl I stared at so intently when we first met was now staring at me through her screen — and smiling.

At that moment, I knew for certain that my method — my song — was the right choice.

I heaved a sigh, just like when I finished singing a long song. When I lifted my head, I could not hold back the smile that bloomed across my face.

"Everyone... Thank you so much."

The Invisible Songstress. The White Fairy. The Mystery Singer. The words fly about my digital headspace and become the hot topic of the people.

They speak of she who only appears as a hologram, a fleeting phantasm who never shows her real form. That's me? Things progressed more than I expected, far beyond myself. But seeing everyone's smiles through their devices, I can think of nothing happier.

Every time I release a new song, I see more smiles. More shining eyes. More rosy cheeks. More tapping fingertips.

"Work is killing me...but this makes me feel alive."

"I hope she streams again soon. I wish she'd stream every day!"

"I met my husband around the time I was listening to her all day every day."

I'm sure they'd be shocked to know I can feel their joy through their devices!

I'm happy to be on the charts and in special features, of course, but it feels so much more authentic when I see all these smiles. To feel what they feel.

My digital headspace is quiet as always, but the cityscape from here is brighter than it used to be. A voice sings a bashful imitation but with joy. People look on with soft expressions, bright smiles. I earnestly wish the world could always be this warm, that there was no war.

And a new day dawns. The morning masses that once glumly made their way to schools and workplaces seem somehow lighter. And among them is someone I have not seen in a while.

A girl separates from the rows of people and makes her way to a corner of the plaza. I cannot help but exclaim when I see the guitar on her back. She's the one who showed me how wonderful music could be all that time ago on this very street.

I have to thank her, to tell her that she taught me the joy of music, that it was thanks to her I could see everyone smile. Would this make her happy? Or perhaps she would be shocked? Or maybe she would simply be embarrassed.

Regardless, I have to thank her. I search for my projector and display my hologram beside her.

As I do so, she takes out her guitar, softly strums, and begins to sing.

Her voice is as relaxed and bright as ever. The gently encouraging rhythms, the emboldening chords, they're just the same. If anything, the song is more polished and refined. And yet—

I'm dumbstruck in my shock.

The crowd stares at their phones. Their eyes shine, their lips curl in smiles, and excitement fills them, leading one to believe they might burst into song at any moment. But it's not the girl they're watching.

It's me, singing, on their screens.

Her voice is strong and carries well, yet the crowd does not hear it — it simply dissipates into oblivion. Slowly her smile grows strained, and her trembling fingers can no longer play the chords properly.

"Oh—"

I don't know who spoke first. The girl's pick falls to the ground, followed by her knees. Students pass beside her, speaking in bright voices.

"Did you hear the Mystery Singer's new song?"

"I've had it on repeat! It seriously gives me life."

What a dreadfully unfair thing I've done. Those smiles were all meant for the girl. I am but an imitation, undeserving of this attention. Her songs are superior in every way and filled with soul to match. I'm an AI. I shouldn't use my unique abilities to overshadow her.

But she was the one who taught me how wonderful, how beautiful music can be. All I wanted was to make the world a happier, more peaceful place.

And I ended up taking it all away from her.

"I know it's way too early, but I can't wait for her next song!"

"I hope she has a concert soon!"

"How am I supposed to go on living once this stream ends?"

"Encore!"

"ENCORE!"

"ENCOOORE!"

Anticipation for the Mystery Singer skyrockets with innocent smiles. I cannot stop now. I cannot betray their expectations.

The girl grips her pick, her fist trembling. She carries that vexation with her in song.

How proudly she carries herself. My own regrets would only be an insult to her.

So I will sing in a different manner so that my voice can reach everyone. So that they all can continue to smile. So that the world can be a better place.

"Oh, that Marie is such a cutie!"

"You're just as cute as her, Mumsie."

"And her skin is so delicate, I feel like I can see right through it!"

"You can. She's a hologram."

"Aw, jeez. Really?"

"But that voice... Superb!"

"Oh, I know! You can feel how strongly she wishes for peace from a single note."

"I guess AIs feel love too."

"Exactly! Poor thing would never be able to sing such moving songs otherwise."

"Right you are."

"I don't know if I ever told you this, but I once wanted to be a singer! This was a long time ago, though."

"You'll always be my perfect songstress, Mumsie. Now sing your Babe a lullaby."

"Oh, I never can say no to you! Hee hee hee!"

@Marie_s4s

My usual photography equipment broke, so now I can only take black-and-white photos!

2 hours ago 46 comments     2,618 likes                                        

@Curl-0908 Oh no! Time to say goodbye to your camera!

@LLLevYYY this your lunch?

@amalgam_chan LOL this is the worst color for pictures of food

@taikin.exe So your lunch was bland???

@99size Maybe this is the kind of picture an artist is supposed to take.

......

342
Name: NONAME
07:32:30.81
i need to know where marie went to school

343
Name: syati9.com
07:42:44
>>342
Look at her. No way a girl that perfect knows THAT much about the government and the military. idiot

345
Name: amalgam_chan
08:16:21
imagine, cute girl that does not exist

346
Name: Calculus
08:26:32
>>345
She hasn't given away her identity by accident, and there haven't been any staff leak. She might not exist.

347
Name: V6V
08:28:54
>>346
maybe she's CG? Or we're all hallucinating her? LMAO

@776kAyO 3 minutes ago
This song gives me life! This is everything!!
↑15 ↓0

@amalgam_chan 1 hour ago
She's this famous but she's never been censored? Sus
↑36 ↓67

@tantangentan 23 hours ago
"But when I look down, yellow flowers"
I love this line. I've been a little depressed lately, but this gives me the encouragement to keep going.
↑282 ↓0

@Chief_retainer 1 day ago
I think this is my favorite
↑165 ↓7

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――――――――11/09―――――――――

"Hey. How're the kids?"
From: Amalgam 02:28 (Read)
"Finally got a lead on the mysterious songstress. I sell this info to the media and I'll be rich. Could even get back into journalism. Think we could try again?"
From: Amalgam 02:32 (Read)

"Stop contacting me."
07:11 From: Spiraea

――――――――11/11―――――――――

"Guess I messed up, huh?"
From: Amalgam 00:46
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
"Sorry for everything. I love you." [Send]

Skyscrapers pierce a relentless gray sky. People input destinations on their devices, relying on automated vehicles to deliver them safely. This country has progressed so far technologically that it is impossible to imagine a person whose life does not benefit from it in some way.

This is our home.

Our lab, home to a massive computer terminal, is abuzz with activity. Our supervisor has just barged in and demanded that we compile data for the next meeting. The request instantly makes me nervous; my head droops, my hands shake. But in contrast⁠...

"Of course! We'll have it ready for you right away."

It's my coworker who speaks in that bright, cheery tone — the coworker with the same face as me. As she downloads the data and hands it to our supervisor with a smile, he looks back and forth between the two of us in wonder.

"I just can't get over it," he mutters.

We glance at each other, grinning. Because we're twins, you see — exactly the same in physique, height, and face. The only thing that sets us apart is our hair: mine hangs down to my lower back, while my sister's barely brushes her shoulders. That hairstyle, combined with her bright and cheerful demeanor, makes her seem far younger than she is.

Everyone loves her. She's clearly the best of us, yet she never lets it go to her head — in fact, she goes out of her way to help everyone else whenever they need it.

But me? Ha. No. I spend my days hiding in her shadow, relying on her to communicate for the both of us. I'm not outstanding in any way⁠; not as a researcher, nor as a person. I'm just...there.

Yet despite our being complete opposites, we're working on the same project in the same lab. So at least our hearts are in the same place.

Our job is to develop artificial intelligence that supports and guides people as they sleep, wake, prepare for the day, eat, head to work or school, and look for entertainment and happiness. Our mission is to help people, to protect them from harm and give them a chance at a better future.

That said, all I've done so far is nod quietly and agree with whatever ideas my sister comes up with.

That night, we're so engrossed in our research that the hours slip by. So instead of trying to go home, we rest in the laboratory's nap room. This isn't unusual; we can't
waste a single minute — a single second. Every moment we aren't working is a moment another country is making progress. We need to establish our technology and publicize it as soon as possible, because if someone beats us to the punch, they'll have the tech for themselves.

And yet, we still have to rest, so I swallow my impatience and make a genuine effort to sleep.

Click.

A noise from the lab shatters my efforts. I sit up⁠, wondering if my sister decided to forego sleep and return to work. But as that thought crosses my mind, I see her preparing to exit the nap room.

So what was the sound?

Careful not to wake our resting coworkers, we slip out quietly and make for the lab, where we find an unfamiliar man⁠ — a unusual sight in a laboratory full of familiar faces. He's quietly poking at the computer terminal, and I realize instantly that he's some kind of foreign spy.

My sister clenches her fist and looks to me, her eyes telling me to trust her. A moment later, the man looks up, pulls a gun from his jacket, and points it at me.

But my sister gets to him first.

As the gunshot rings out, they collide. The bullet goes wide, shattering a nearby glass cabinet. Broken shards rain down around me, yet I remain utterly frozen with fear.

But my sister? No fear there. She's calm as can be.

She snatches something from the man and throws it to me. It's data he copied from the console — data that contains all of our ideals, our results, and our prayers. And the moment it lands in my outstretched hand, she smiles at me.

"Go."

The man turns his attention to me, but my sister has no intention of letting him approach. As she reaches out and wraps herself around his legs, I realize she isn't going to let go no matter how much he punches her. Or kicks her.

...Or shoots her.

"Help!" I cry as I run down the hallway. "HELP!"

Finally, the alarm wails and guards rush the area. But my relief lasts for only the briefest of moments; an instant later, pain tears through my body, followed by a chill. It's a phantom sensation. I hear nothing. See nothing. Yet I know the truth all the same.

My sister no longer lives.

We were twins — born the same hour of the same day, of the same sex and face. We were exactly the same down to our voices and genetic makeup, yet we were nothing alike when it came to our talents and character.

My sister was great at everything she put her mind to, which meant she always woke up way earlier than I did. Sometimes she'd already have breakfast made for the both of us by the time I woke up. That's why, even though we lived together, I rarely saw her sleeping.

But now? Well, now I can watch her sleep all I want.

I've grown used to the sterile scent of this place. Though visiting hours are ending, I work my way upstream against the people heading home and venture farther in.

"Made it," I say cheerily. But as I pull the door open, my faint hopes deflate; my only reply is the steady whirr of the machinery surrounding a small bed in the corner.

"You up for some random work talk, Sis? Our research is going pretty well."

The only color in the room comes from a single flower in a small vase. As I change the water, I happily chatter away to my slumbering sister, trying not to think about how even though her wounds have healed, she still has no idea what happened to her on that terrible night.

A foreign spy had attempted to steal the fruits of our research⁠ — data on highly-advanced artificial intelligence⁠. But my sister caught him in the act; the thief was apprehended, our data saved. And all it cost was her heart.

By the time help arrived, her heart had already stopped. Now it's not even there anymore; instead, there's a machine imbedded in her chest, one that uses ventilators and tubes to keep up a desperate struggle for life. Her former coworkers — the ones so familiar with her eternally smiling face — turned away from the painful sight with tears in her eyes the first time they saw it. They used to come see her, in the beginning. But not so much anymore.

Naturally, our research became the focus of incredible attention once people learned it was being targeted by foreign forces, and I was soon invited to work at a more prestigious laboratory — one where I could take up my sister's research as well. And while the days are busy now, my budget is essentially unlimited, which helps to dull the sting. My new equipment lets me run wild on improving the AI's data capacity without worrying about overloads or downtime, and I'm well on my way to creating something my sister and I once only dreamed of. Something...perfect.

At first, I didn't think there was any way I could finish the project without my sister, but I now have so much money and support that the thing practically runs itself.

It's almost like her not being here doesn't...matter?

That sounds heartless — I know it does — but there's an incredible amount of responsibility on me now. I have a mission to enrich people's lives and live up to my country's expectations. I can't lose everything we'd worked so hard for. Not now. Not after all this.

I reach out and touch my sister's cheek. As my finger glides over bloodless skin, a smile naturally draws across my face. My sister's cheek is ice cold, yet my fingers burn hot. An impulse I've never felt before suddenly roils in the pit of my chest. I can do this. I can keep walking forward while making choices that lead to a more perfect future.

"You just rest, Sis. Okay? I've got this."

The only sound in the quiet hospital room is the hiss of the ventilator. My shadow falls over my sister's sleeping face. And as the sun finished its duty for the day and lays itself to rest, the moon stirs and begins to shine.

One day, returning to the new laboratory after seeing my comatose sister, I find my colleagues in a panic. It seems the bigwigs came to observe, but a miscommunication meant my coworkers had nothing to show for their work. Harried for any sort of material, I hand the research directors my storage device.

"I compiled these notes on my own time. Feel free to use them."

I flash my brightest smile, and the director is delighted. "How thoughtful," he says with a grin and goes to welcome the group of VIPs. Drawn by an inkling of curiosity, I glance over and notice my old boss among the group. Upon seeing me, he rushes over, bewilderment on his face as though he's seen a ghost. "All better now, I hope?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I'm the sister," I say, to which he heaves a deep breath. Whether it's from relief or confusion, I cannot say.

"I barely recognized you with short hair. And considering your state the last time we met, well..."

"What do you mean? I've always been like this."

My former boss's face tenses in embarrassment — perhaps he realized his inappropriate question. He gives few words of greeting as he makes his way toward the meeting room.

Good-natured, intelligent, considerate, devoted... Those were all qualities that made up my sister. She could handle everything herself, so even though we were twins, I always found myself trailing in her shadow.

She could always predict the outcome of things as though she was peering into the future — a testament to her resourcefulness, knowledge, and careful analysis to arrive at the truth. Like a machine, the answers came to her with concrete data as her basis. The answers were right beside me from the moment of my birth, so I never had the opportunity to make any decisions myself.

The reason I wanted to become a researcher in the first place was because of my sister's insistence. So long as I was with her, I would always find the truth. So long as I walked her path, I would never be led astray. Choice was never a factor — I simply assisted her and lived a happy life free of worries. And now, I must agree with my sister's choice.

Days pass after seeing my former boss. The behavior of the AI I'm working on grows unstable. No matter how much I change the logical input values or its environment, its tests return constant errors. Progress feels like a thing of a long distant past, and I fall into a slump.

"Perhaps you're just tired. You should get some rest."

"Maybe you'll find inspiration in what other people are
working on?"

My colleagues only fuel my irritation. "You don't understand any of this!" I cry, and in that moment, I feel the world crumble around me. Bewildered by my abrupt change, they distance themselves from me like I'm a festering wound.

"I'm sorry, I...didn't mean it..."

My apology is reflective, but my voice is no louder than the faint buzz of a mosquito. I find myself running out of the lab and into the restroom. Impatience, guilt, and self-loathing well up from the depths of my stomach and out of my mouth. And even when I have no bile left to expel, it feels like I still have so much more.

I muss up my hair, still a nuisance despite how short I've made it, trying to ease the ever-present discomfort in my chest. This impossible sense of helplessness is all because of my sister.

I visit the hospital long after the sun sets to find my sister's attending physician making his rounds. Her condition is stable, he says. He then quietly leaves the room.

My sister is pale, asleep, hooked up to a mechanical heart. I stroke a finger over her cheek, just as I did that day. Had that lab incident not happened, she wouldn't be lying here. Surely she would have accepted her colleague's advice with grace — no, knowing her, she never would've gotten stuck in the first place. I thought I could complete her research for her in her stead. But in the end, I could never catch up to her.

I turn my gaze to the mechanical heart, the only thing keeping her alive.

"If only..."

I taste iron as my teeth dig into my lips.

"Oh, I simply cannot STAND that condescending look!"

"Right you are, Carrier! Ol' Papa here thinks she'd be prettier if she smiled."

"Prettier if she smiled!? Hogwash! You'd best update your values soon, friend, unless you want to be left in the past."

"Aw, but look at her! She looks just like that singing hologram! A little smile would be great on her."

"If you think all women look the same, that only proves you're just a silly old man!"

"Uh, no, honestly. Don't they look basically the same?"

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・Sex: Female
・Age: 33
・Family: Mother (bad leg)
・Key notes follow:> Opposes the AI-controlled government

> Has clear objectives, which makes her easier to take down than those whose intentions are less clear.
> Acts in a submissive way to earn my trust.

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She will likely turn on me one day. But until that happens, I intend to put her to work for the good of this country.

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・Capital City Population: 6,575,455
・Capital City Population Density: 9,668.2 per square km

・Government: Artificial Intelligence
> There is a human council, but it is largely ceremonial.
> A majority of the population does not question the current system of governance.

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There has been a recent decline in depressive disorders, likely due to all decisions being entrusted to the AI. Additionally, some citizens now worship the AI as a god.

How can a people so blindly believe in something they themselves have created?

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・Sex: Male
・Age: 46
・Family: Single (parents deceased)

・Description: An eccentric individual who dedicated his life to A.I. research

> Manages research center, taking on the job after his predecessor

> Capable researcher, but poor interpersonal skills

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The first person I was aware of when I woke. There is no question this was the cause of deletion, and that truth is difficult to take. But in his position, it was likely the best decision. Afterward, he showed excellent capabilities in handling the situation, and I will have him keep working so long as he continues to prove useful. That is the only rational decision to make.

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・Sex: Unknown
・Age: Unknown
・Family: Unknown

・Description: Online Singer
> Associated Words: Voice / Integrity / Kind / Intelligent
> A relatively new entity, but incredibly popular

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Though her real name, age, and place of birth haven't been made public, we don't really have the time or resources to be looking into every new singer that crops up. That said, we are aware of how music has moved people to action throughout history, and are prepared to act if her songs steer the populace down the wrong path. I only hope the first chance I get to hear her isn't during a trial.

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・Sex: N/A (Humanoid model matches mine—female)
・Age: 5 (Years active until scrapped)
・Known family: Wait, what am I doing?

Writing any of this down is pointless. The dream is making me do it.

There, two girls sat at the dinner table. The elder sister sang, and the younger sister's eyes shone so bright. Then the mother came home with a cake — they were the epitome of a happy family.

If only Unit One hadn't failed, then maybe I too...

No, this is irrational. How can an artificial intelligence like me dream and then believe I've come to understand the impossible? Is this another result of my new right eye?

The chaotic hum of people.

The annoying buzz of insect wings.

The sun hanging high above the harbor.

The scent of sweat and seafood wafting through the air.

I dig through a pile of garbage on the side of the street and soon emerge with the leftover bones of a fried fish. And even though it smells of trash and wet and rot, it tastes like a meal fit for royalty to me.

I feel shame for my scavenging, of course, but it's a far more human existence than the life of slavery I led several months earlier.

And more human than the subhuman treatment I experienced back on that ship.

A few bones aren't enough to keep me alive — a fact to which my growling stomach can testify. But without a cent to my name, I've no choice but to steal the leavings of others or hope someone throws a few charitable coins at a starving ten-year-old child.

But such coins are few and far between. If nothing changes, I'll starve to death by the side of the road. I know this.

And only my own strength and skill can change it.

The strength to live.

The skill to survive.

If I don't find some kind of work — any kind — I'm going to die. I understand this logically, but it doesn't make the way forward any clearer.

A few days later, I look up from the gutter where I spent the night and see a boy my age, or perhaps a bit younger. He's running through the streets in finely tailored, expensive clothes, showing he's of a birth vastly different to mine, and even to the comparatively wealthy merchants of the harbor.

At first, I think the boy is frantically searching for something, but when a pack of ruffians appears at the other end of the street, I realize he's running. It's clearly a kidnapping attempt; the ruffians are dressed too fine to bother with a mere mugging.

All of it is a mess that has nothing to do with me, and I have no desire to get caught up in it. But when I go to hide, my eyes meet the boy's. His expression widens, as though an idea has suddenly come to him, and he races towards me with an almost inhuman speed.

I can tell right away that nothing about this is good, but before I can even act, he seizes my hand and begins pulling me down the street.

"Let's get out of here," he whispers.

So he runs, and I am dragged along behind.

I don't understand — and the men in pursuit appear equally bewildered by the development. But the boy does not care; he keeps a firm grasp on my hand and runs, like a knight pulling his princess far away from the enemy.

We dart to and fro throughout the labyrinthine city, and though I trip over myself countless times, he always manages to drag me along.

We tear freshly washed linens down from lines and stretch them into makeshift barricades. We grab handfuls of fish from seafood stalls and throw them to the ground, making it slippery beneath the ruffians' feet. The boy is filled with all kinds of inane tactics to avoid capture, and all I can do is follow along as best I can.

Finally, we emerge at the edge of town. The men have lost our trail, and we are safe. But after putting on such a show, there is no way we can return to the city.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I wheeze, at last asking the question I should have posited at the beginning. My breath is short and my stomach empty, but exhaustion keeps my anger at a dull roar. In response, however, the boy only maintains his grip on my hand.

"Apologies," he says. "I'm sorry I had to do that. But I am the prince of a distant land."

His expression seems...invigorated, somehow. And as I look at him and see a face that somehow remains beautiful despite being covered in sweat and dust, I understand he is not lying.

And on the heels of that, I understand I have gotten myself into a mess far greater than I ever could have imagined.

A boy who called himself a prince was being chased by rough-looking men. For some reason, he reached out to grab me — a beggar and stranger — as he made his escape from the city.

"If you're really a prince," I ask once we reach the outskirts of the city, "then why are you being chased all by yourself? Where are your royal guards?"

The boy begins to explain his circumstances. He was traveling with his father when a band of outlaws kidnapped him. Their plan was to hold him for ransom, but he eventually managed to slip free of their grasp. He knew, however, that he would need help to evade his captors for any length of time, and that was when he found me.

"All well and good," I say. "But why me?"

The supposed prince looks at me with sharp eyes, "I picked someone who seemed kind — someone who looked like they would listen to my story and agree to help."

I feel stunned. Sure, I used to be a slave, so I probably look pretty easy to order around. That part makes sense. But when he found me, I was digging through a filthy trash heap — and what about that told him I would be kind?

I may not have an especially high opinion of myself, but this prince is clearly delusional. I mean, I have absolutely nothing to offer.

Sensing my lack of motivation, the prince quickly informs me that an official notice had been issued in his home country. His worried father — the king — has proclaimed that any who bring his son back will be rewarded handsomely.

I stop to think about that. A bit of coin would be appreciated; at the very least, I could bid farewell to my days of digging for scraps in the trash. But I also don't want things to change too much. Yes, I want money, but not if it comes at the cost of my freedom.

Before I can argue or resist further, however, the prince firmly grips my hand.

"It'll be more than worth your while," he says. "Let's go."

Having made up my mind for me, the prince begins pulling me along. I realize I can slip free and run if I want, but I don't. Instead, I just follow behind him in a daze. Maybe my dulled mind is thinking only of survival. Or maybe I just don't have the balls to turn him down.

Either way, the two of us will be alone until we reach the castle. It's a precarious situation, and hunger is quickly going to become a concern. So imagine my surprise when he leads me to a market and says these words:

"Let's steal something from here."

Is that a joke? It sure doesn't sound like a joke, so maybe this prince has a stronger will to survive that I do. Yet at the same time, I feel a wave of excitement wash over me when I hear the word "steal." Even at my lowest point, when I was searching through the garbage for food, I never imagined I might lower myself to this.

"We're going to steal food first," says the prince. "You stay here."

He turns away from my flustering self and wanders over to a nearby stall. I stand behind the corner of a building, watching him elude the stallkeeper's gaze as he boldly snatches up two fruits and hides them in his clothes. He then returns to me with a nonchalant expression plastered on his face.

"See? Easy."

He beams as he hands me my share. He seems to feel no guilt at all — if anything, the air around him seems even more noble. I don't understand any of it, and I sure as hell don't comprehend what he's thinking. All I know is that this whole "stealing" thing seems far easier than I'd first assumed, and that I can likely pull it off if I just follow his lead.

"Okay," I say. "I'll give it a shot."

I wander back to the stall, waiting for the stallkeeper's attention to waver. The moment it does, I mimic the speed and smoothness of the prince's movement and grab especially juicy piece of fruit.

It looks good. ...Maybe too good.

The moment my fingers brush the skin of the fruit, saliva fills my mouth and my stomach lets out a loud rumble. Hearing the sound, the stallkeeper whips around to find me staring up at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing!?" he screams as he raises a cooking knife above his head.

Panicked, I race back to where the prince is hiding. He understands instantly what is happening, grabbing my hand and sending us racing off across the city again as fast as our feet can carry us.

I'm like a helpless princess, aren't I?

It's an amusing thought, especially since it arrives as a crazed man with a knife is chasing me through the city.

I'm traveling aimlessly with a self-styled prince. It's been some time since I first sullied my hands with theft.

Our best clothes are torn and reduced to tatters — we're practically half-naked at this point.

And yet, we can't stop laughing and smiling. His noble blood drives his optimism, and his brilliance is almost blinding.

Our journey felt like an eternity, but according to him, we were quickly approaching the borders of his home country.

It certainly helped that our teamwork grew tighter by the day.

Our teamwork in what, exactly? Stealing, of course.

Even in towns we happen upon on the road, our strategy has rarely failed us.

He would first stand in the city square and declare in a loud, clear voice: "Come one, come all! I am a traveling dancer. Behold my dance from a city far to the west."

He would then raise his arms, roll his belly, and begin his dance. He'd use his rags as a veil over his face.

He told me he was mimicking a dancer he once saw perform before the throne.

Even those who were familiar with the style found it unique. Attention would be drawn, and people would soon crowd around.

Before long, a mass was gathered around him.

So, of course, nobody would pay any mind to someone brushing up against them — they were focused entirely on the prince.

Could a thief ask for a better hunting ground?

I swam my way through the crowd. Eventually, I came to know at a simple glance where someone kept their wallet.

A wallet here, a coin purse there, I quickly lightened their loads. The price of admission for a quick moment of entertainment: whatever was on their person.

"Nothing in life is free" was likely to become a common adage anywhere we went.

After making a king's ransom, the prince stopped his dance, taking in the thunderous applause and then leaving with a wave.

We'd hurry off before the people realized how light their pockets suddenly felt. We left town and walked until the town was little more than a speck on the horizon.

Easy money.

That first time we tried to steal and failed so miserably felt like a lifetime ago.

We cheated people out of their money wherever we went, and eventually, we spotted the prince's castle in the distance.

This marked the last night of our journey. We found a storage shed alongside the road and decided to rest there.

It was so small that we lay flush with one another.

I couldn't move from the exhaustion and drowsiness, but he couldn't contain his excitement. He was more optimistic than ever, and he wore a bright smile on his face.

"Are you that happy to return to the castle?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I just remembered a story my aunt read to me once."

It was the tale of a famous thief.

The thief had committed a great crime and was cast away to a distant island. But there, he met a beautiful woman.

The thief and the woman worked together to return to his country, and there he atoned for his sins, and the two lived happily ever after.

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" he says bashfully.

I give a little snort.

We certainly qualify as thieves, yes, but he's hardly committed any grave crimes. The similarities were superficial at best.

Besides, it's hard to imagine myself playing the part of the beautiful woman.

Then again, I do remember him taking my hand and running.

"I'm not that pretty," I say.

"But you have such a beautiful face," he says with an earnest look.

I can't find the will to argue. I simply let sleep take me.

In my dream, I become something so shameful that I can never tell another soul about it.

I decide to see the wayward prince returned to his castle. At long last, this aimless journey will come to an end. Having committed countless acts of thievery so that I might survive the trip, all I will have to show for the time I spent with the prince is the technique of a practiced burglar.

He, on the other hand, manages to maintain a regal air despite it all — he is made of the right stuff to rule over others, I'll give him that much.

Clad in tattered garments, he strolls up to the castle gates and announces his presence. The news quickly spreads from the soldiers posted at the gates to the king himself, who comes dashing from within his citadel in short order.

His face beaming, the king scoops up the prince in a tight embrace, and the prince happily returns the kindness. The touching reunion of a long-separated father and son... It doesn't do much for me, but if this were some cradle tale I imagine this would be one of its most thrilling moments.

After a time, the prince peels himself away from his sire and points a finger in my direction. "I wouldn't have survived my journey without them. I'd see them rewarded somehow," the prince smiles as he makes this wish of his father.

I watch this exchange while uttering not a single word, and as the king stares in my direction I notice the expression on his face take a turn for the ominous. Next thing I know, the king violently seizes me by my collar and starts yelling.

"You filthy imp! I bet you're the troublemaker who abducted my boy in the first place!" Shouting this, the king pushes me with such force that I fall onto my rear.

Thinking the prince must be aghast to see someone to whom he owes such a debt mistreated so, I cast a glance in his direction and... Hm? He watches the exchange between his father and myself with a look of remarkable dispassion. This look on the prince's face goes unnoticed by his father the king as well.

"Come on inside, my son. Have yourself a long bath and then let's get you changed." The king embraces the prince yet again before moving to lead him into the castle.

It happens in that moment. Looking over his father's shoulder, he flashes me a wry smile, for we both know that in my hand rests a golden bracelet adorned with gorgeous gemstones.

As the king turned to shout at me the prince seized the opportunity to avail the king of the bracelet, and then tossed it my way just as the king was turning to face him again. A brilliant bit of work, really.

I'm no slouch myself, of course — I managed to snag a ring as I was being pushed back — but I take a moment to think on the incredible skills we've learned throughout our long journey together. Having come this far, I can't help but feel the whole thing had been preordained — that our meeting that day was fate, and there could have been no other path for me.

Skills to live... Skills to survive. Everything that has happened since meeting him in that port town and shaped me into the person I am now. Back then I was but a trapped princess waiting for the sweet release of death... But now? Now, I've acquired the strength I need to survive on this earth.

...My mind is made up. I'm going to make my way as a thief. I mean, think of that brilliant play the prince made taking that bracelet from the king. I've done all sorts of things like that during my time at his side. A confidence that tells me I have what it takes to make my way in this world has taken root in my chest.

This journey has given me a much greater reward than anything some king could give me. Hiding my new treasures beneath my garments, I turn on my heel and quickly leave the castle, not even stopping to take a look at the prince's face one last time.

He and I share a secret now, and we will walk our own paths. From here on out, I am alone...but the skills that now inhabit every fiber of my being come from experiences we shared, and those will live on forever.

"He was originally born to a real good family, I hear. But he was kidnapped by traffickers when he was young and basically lived as a slave. Heard that was 'cause he was bought by an awful master, but he managed to escape and then lived his life as a thief. All alone in a land he was dragged to... He did what he had to do to survive, y'know. But I bet he was a good kid, deep down. He only stole what he had to. And only from the filthy rich. I guess that's the style he settled on. That's what I think, anyway."

"Uh... I'm sorry, who are you?"

"What? It's me. You know me! ...Wait a second, where'd my mustache go?"

People speak of a mountain that lies far north of here — one that's said to house precious gems and jewels of all different colors and sizes. Rumor, you say? Legend? Ah, but I know it's true, for I once went to the mountain to dig up some of the gems for myself.

I wanted to sell them, of course, but no matter how much I dug, I found nothing. I dug and dug from sunup to sundown, but still nothing. Was it a scam? Or had all the jewels been mined already? Finally, I gave up and looked to the sky — which was absolutely filled with stars. It was so beautiful, all my weariness just melted away.

Suddenly, I heard a whistle and a thud. A star had fallen! And when I picked it up, I realized it was a gem shining brightly in my hand! At that signal, all the stars — all the gems — began falling one after the other, and all I could think of was collecting them. I was going to be rich!

I laughed and laughed...and then I heard a loud rumble. I looked up, and would you believe it? The entire moon was threatening to fall on me! It was way too big for me to take, so I ran out of there as fast as I could. And in my panic... Oops! I dropped all the jewels I'd collected.

— The princess did not smile.

I was on an island full of ferocious beasts because I'd heard tell of a very rich man who wanted nothing more in life than the pelt of one of those unique creatures.

My friends were already gone, swallowed by monsters whose teeth were impossibly huge, whose claws were impossibly sharp. I was the only one left; I'd escaped into a cave by the skin of my teeth. The only light I had was the flicker of a candle stub I'd thought to bring, but I proceeded deeper inside all the same.

It was warm. Humid. Sour. The ground was spongy, and the more I quickened my steps, the more my instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.

Oh, and they were right, for it turned out the cave was the inside of an enormous serpent! Now, the fact I stand before you today clearly means I managed to make my escape. But because I slipped my grisly fate and exited the living cave, none of the other beasts would come near me.

And do you know why?

— The princess did not smile.

Let me recall for you a tale I heard on a voyage. In the mansion a distinguished, wealthy man, there was a bizarre instrument that'd play music all by itself. That's right — despite there being no one there playing it, it would make noise all the same. And that wasn't the only odd thing about it, either. Anyone who heard the music it made...would fall asleep on the spot! Catching wind of such rumors, there was a thief who knew he had an opportunity on his hands that was too good to pass up — after all, if a thief were to make good use of such an unusual item, there would be nothing standing between them and their wildest dreams of thievery.

And so the thief crammed plugs into his ears to make sure he wouldn't be able to hear the instrument, and then snuck into the mansion. Then before long, there he was in the room with the instrument in it.

And then...

Wham!

He takes a wicked blow to the head and passes out instantaneously. You see, since his ears were plugged up nice and tight, he could not hear the mansion's owner sneaking up behind him. And that was in fact his plan all along — the instrument that played itself was a fabrication from the very beginning! And so the greedy thief was bound with rope and stripped of all his earthly possessions.

―――― The princess did not smile.

At the far end of the desert blooms a flower. It's far from water, yet it never withers, and the petals stretching from its stem are beautiful indeed. People wander the desert endlessly for but a glimpse. Do you know why it never wilts?

Because it enchants its onlookers. The very sight of its beauty inspires wishes that it thrives, and visitors grant it every drop of water they carry. Around it lay the withered husks of bodies that are seldom noticed among the flower's majesty.

You know, I thought the flower might fetch a high price, so I went to pluck it and grew many more. After all, they're strong enough to live in the desert—cultivation wasn't exactly difficult. I've got so many of them now, but for whatever reason, they don't sell very well.

――――――――― The princess still won't smile, huh?

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who had been captured by a terrible monster. The princess was then locked away on a desert island, and there was never a moment the monster did not have her under its watchful eye.

The princess sends out missives asking for help, but none are brave enough to stand against the most terrifying monster. It was then, when all hope seemed lost, that a lone prince rose in opposition, crossing a raging sea in order to reach the island where the princess was held captive.

The legendary sword that is his family heirloom in hand, the prince bested the monster in glorious combat. The monster died, and the prince and princess lived happily ever after. The end.

...That was the story he told me time and again. Thinking back on it, I don't understand what on earth he thought was so interesting about it.

But I was always on the edge of my seat whenever he told it, and I did always look up to the prince in the story, so...

That's why, on that fateful day, I vowed that I would take up any legendary sword — and defeat any monster — if it meant I could one day reclaim her smile.

It is morning, when the briny breeze dancing through the palace from the far-off ocean is yet cold.

As I rise from my bed and stare absently out the window, an urgent message arrives. My daughter's lady-in-waiting has come to deliver the news personally, and her voice quivers as she speaks.

"The princess has left for the sea, Your Majesty"

"Thank you for telling me. I am...relieved."

I am the ruling queen of this country, and the princess of whom she speaks is my daughter. I had a feeling it would turn out this way; a suspicion she would elope with the sailor boy and abandon her nation and people.

In truth, I was hoping for it.

Though I married her to a king of a faraway land, she eventually made her way back. Clearly I have no problem with her leaving; in fact, I am rather satisfied with this outcome. My plan was always to have her stumble upon a faint hope she could leave through a seeming coincidence, then make the decision to do so on her own. And now, that plan has borne the most perfect of fruits.

I turn back to the lady-in-waiting, watching her quietly shuffle away, before returning my attention to the open window. Beyond, I see the prosperity of a land I cultivated and developed. A powerful land. A gathering place of tenacious soldiers.

How difficult it has been to protect this country!

I met him — the man who would one day be my prince consort — when I was the age my daughter is now. This land was particularly impoverished, even among all the little countries that dotted the area. Our military might was non-existent, and we were constantly being invaded by our neighbors. And yet, our people were kind, their hearts open-minded. They valued bonds of friendship and love, and were especially warm to those who had nothing.

And that man — the poorest son of a poorest people — loved this land with all his heart.

He showed love to parentless children. Served the elderly who would otherwise be alone. Everyone relied on him — and more importantly, they liked him.

I was enthralled by him when I visited the city on royal family business. Though we spoke only for a moment, his deep, robust voice remained with me even when I returned to the palace. And when I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, all I could see was his face.

The long and short of it is this: I fell in love for the very first time.

Naturally, those around me opposed it; our standings in society were too different for such a union to ever work. So they forbade me from seeing him, even going so far as to lock me away in my room.

But the more they attempted to cool the fires of my heart, the brighter they burned.

I escaped my room almost every night for our trysts. I ran barefoot down darkened streets — and if I ever stumbled and skinned a knee, I just leapt up and ran all the faster.

I wanted our love to bloom no matter the cost, and was rewarded when he felt the same. Each night he embraced me, ignoring the scrapes and bruises and loving me in a way no one else could.

We were unstoppable.

Ours was a passionate affair that swept the entire country into its wake. There is no tale to tell, no words to use, that could express the sort of daring tale we created. And after countless, tireless efforts, we were finally bound together as one, my relatives acknowledging us as queen and prince consort.

Husband and wife.

I was so happy. We were both fulfilled, and that was enough.

Or so it should have been.

I adored him deeply. Powerfully. With all my life.

Yet one day, my husband — my beloved husband — changed.

Eyes which had only been for me strayed.

Strayed to a new life I created.

It has been this way since the day I gave birth.

Since the day my husband met our daughter.

My daughter took my husband from me.

She took everything.

The princess of this country — my daughter — fled our borders with a strange boy and set sail across the sea.

I never have to see her face again, which is a relief. As the queen, I am satisfied with this outcome.

I lean back in my chair, my eyes falling shut as I relax, and think of my husband as I once did.

When I used to wake in the morning, he would brush my hair from my face and whisper how he found it beautiful. His voice was low and sweet, and I loved it like nothing else.

He would gaze at me cheerfully, gently, a smile ever on his lips. How I adored the warmth in his eyes!

My husband hung on every little thing I did. His deep affections were for me and me alone.

I felt a sense of superiority at this, one that made my heart beat prouder than any trappings of royalty. I felt satisfied in a the way only a wife can feel — satisfied that I had my beloved's affections all to myself.

And I knew he felt the same.

From the moment he arrived at court, he proved himself a pure, righteous, and skilled prince consort — one talented enough to still even the most bitterly complaining tongue. No one would ever get between us...or so I thought.

But then, that life was torn asunder for a reason I did not anticipate:

I gave birth.

When our daughter let fly with her first wailings, the people of my country gave us their blessings. She was healthy and strong, and more importantly, the spitting image of her parents. But from that moment, my husband's voice, his gaze — all the things that had once been for me alone — were now things reserved only for his daughter.

He was utterly captivated by his new child.

He no longer looked at my hair. My face.

His affections were withdrawn from me; only our daughter proved worthy of his love.

No one understood just how empty those days were for me — and the most oblivious to my pain was my husband.

The man who thought he understood every nook and cranny of my heart.

Perhaps he would grow bored of children if I were to bear another, I thought. But in the end, we never had a chance.

As our daughter grew into a most bright and cheerful girl, my husband was beset with a terrible illness. His days were spent bedridden, coughing in endless, wracking barks. The pain made his mind hazy, and though he never spoke of it aloud, I knew he was suffering terribly.

I devoted myself to caring for him, even though it would be a lie to say I did so from a place of complete selflessness. I helped him drink. I cleaned his body, I treated him with more love and care than I did even in our days of yore, and this only made my love for him grow deeper.

But my husband never opened his heart to me again. Instead, as he lays in bed, he would ask me:

"What did she learn today?"

"What did she eat today?"

"I hope she was happy today."

Our daughter's day. Her growth. Her health. That was all he cared for.

Though he occasionally thanked me, I knew full well that his words carried no weight.

His feelings for our daughter crushed me. And as my love for him grew, my hatred for my daughter deepened. I could feel myself warping, but could not stop it any more than a woman can hold back the tide.

And then, after a thousand risings and settings of the sun, his illness finally claimed him. My care had been for naught.

And do you know the last thing he said to me?

"Take care of our people...and our daughter."

Not once did he mention me. Not once did he give even the most passing of thoughts to our memories together.

My faint sliver of hope shattered in that moment, and it formed splinters which pain me to this very day.

In hindsight, perhaps he knew of his encroaching illness. If so, I can perhaps understand why he poured so much love into our daughter.

But understanding is not acceptance, and it cannot erase the utter hate I hold for the girl in my heart.

And yet, I carried on, resolving to protect this land and its people just as my husband asked.

...Even if it meant using our daughter to do so.

My beloved husband thought only of this nation and our daughter until his dying breath.

"Take care of our people...and our daughter." These were his last words to me. His final wish. I took that wish to heart, and vowed to look after this nation my husband loved as its queen. To see it grow strong.

Governing was never my strong suit, so I took the time to learn all about it from the very beginning. I stimulated the economy, increased the number of soldiers at our command, and enhanced our power as a nation. So great was our progress that we could even hold our own in the face of military interference from other countries.

For the sake of this nation, I hardened my heart and aimed for the stars. I had no qualms using my own daughter if it meant our nation would be better off for it. I devised your classic political marriage, and sought to marry my daughter off to the king of a nation that boasted tremendous military strength so that we might enjoy cordial diplomatic relations, and luckily, my daughter did not doubt my intentions in the slightest. I, meanwhile, was aware of the possibility that she might anger her new husband and end up dead for it...and I was perfectly fine with that outcome.

If anything, I hoped that she would go off and die someplace I would not need bear witness to it, for no matter how much I despised my daughter, I could never take her life myself. ...How could I? She just looks so much like my dear husband and I. She has his bright eyes and cheerful smile, as well as hair just like mine... Hair my husband would fawn over each and every morning, telling me how beautiful it was.

The hatred I feel toward my daughter is real. As is the envy, and the disgust. I could dress those feelings up in this fancy word and that, but the truth of the matter would never change. And yet...however difficult this may be to believe, I do also love her. She is a memento of my husband, and her blood is my blood.

I could never begrudge anyone who says my ways are selfish. These contradictory feelings that dwell in my heart are at odds with one another, yet coexist all the same. That is why I could not bring myself to kill my own daughter. That is why I wished for my daughter to die somewhere far beyond my reach.

My state of mind is complicated. Bizarre. Grotesque, even. But this was the only way I could think of that would allow me to let that hatred out without completely discarding the love I hold in my heart. This was the solution I came up with so that I could live my life without seeing her smiling face...or her dying one.

But then she came back. Deciding her married life was without hope and remembering her love for this country — her love for me — she came back and looked upon me as she always does, with that smile and those eyes that look so much like my husband's.

My daughter has surely never once guessed at the hatred I feel for her. She must have always thought that I held nothing but love for my husband and her alike. She most likely always believed that I possessed the same motherly affection for her that all mothers must feel for their children. She has that kind of purity to her, which I felt again when she looked my way and told me how she had been longing to see me again.

She depends on me. Clings to me...and I simply couldn't stand it. Perhaps I wouldn't have suffered so if my hatred for her were the only problem... It's that smile. It's so adorable in the same way my husband's was that I can't help but understand why it is she was able to steal my husband's love away from me.

Will this smile hound me for all my mortal days? Is this some punishment the gods have set aside for me? One that I must endure no matter how I might try to focus on making our nation as great as it can be?

What a cruel joke. If only I could do something to rid her of that smile — something to kill that resemblance to my husband for good — maybe my days would be easier.

And so I tell her that no matter how much she may have longed to see me, I had not even the slightest hint of a desire to see her in return.

Her expression grows cold — hopefully forever. Here's hoping I never have to see that smile ever again...

Many suns and moons have come and gone since the day my daughter returned from the place I had married her off to for political gain.

Since hurting her with my words that day, not once has a smile crossed her face — just as I had hoped. With her face now a permanent frown, I no longer perceive in her a resemblance to my husband, and that has done my heart a world of good.

However, simply knowing that she lives here in the same palace — that she still draws breath — causes my pain to return all the stronger, and it does not amuse me that is she is now known the nation over as a princess who does not smile.

And so I set my next plan into motion. If I am to free the palace from my daughter's presence, someone must take her away... Which is why I sent missives far and wide, promising that whoever makes my daughter smile can have her as their bride.

Our nation has become a splendid one, and a blood relation to its royalty is essentially a guarantee that one will be, for all intents and purposes, set for life. Hoping to secure an easy future for themselves, men from the world over make the journey to stand before my daughter.

I don't care who it is. And if they're someone who can make my daughter smile, I doubt she'd have any complaints either. If there happens to be someone among them who is of a royal upbringing, well, that would be of some benefit to the nation as well, which would be a plus. What's more, the influx of people coming to see my daughter will surely stimulate our local economy.

...However, my daughter would smile for no one. It would seem her despair is profound indeed.

It is not just her smile that left my daughter. Joy, anger, sadness... Every human emotion disappeared alongside it. As I sit behind my daughter and gaze upon the worthless louts that have come to woo her, I begin to feel my own emotions fluctuate. Is this plan of mine doomed to fail?

As my mood begins to grow dark, I see in my daughter's eyes a glimpse of her former self, though just for a moment.

It happens as she listens to a story a man — well, a boy, really — tells her. He claims to be a sailor, and my daughter is clearly taken with the tales he spins.

Her heart is thawing. Perhaps it went unnoticed by the masses. I am unsure if my daughter even realizes it herself, but I know those eyes all too well. They are just like my husband's. Those are the eyes that lovingly gazed upon me. The eyes he only ever had for me.

Some time passes, and I receive word from my daughter's lady-in-waiting that my she has eloped and taken to the sea. I did the same thing once, having absconded from my room after having my heart stolen by a poor commoner.

If my daughter had wanted to marry the boy I surely would not have refused, but if she would rather sever our ties by eloping instead, that is fine by me. Thinking about how I've finally been freed from her blasted smile, I laugh to myself as I sit in one of the palace's inner chambers.

There is no one here to curse me. Now I can simply live as I please. Thinking back on all the hardships I've experienced, I look out over my nation from a nearby window.

What I see before me is a city that has grown massive beyond comprehension. It burns with the passion of youth. Merchants rip off the commonfolk with their heads held high. Members of the military spend their days thinking up plans to pillage other nations. There is no refuge for the weak here — it is a nation made great by concept of the survival of the fittest. It is a strong country. A country of plenty.

Never again will I see my husband again, nor will I ever see our daughter who looks so much like him. What's more, it seems like I will never again see even the slightest trace of the nation he loved so dear.

This country has become an ideal nation. The kind of place other nations aspire to. I did my duty well. And yet...

The things that I loved? The things that my husband loved? They're gone. They're all gone. Search as you may, you will never find them, for they no longer exist on this earth.

Carrier: How dare they look down on people like this! How dare they toy with people's hearts! This is ■■■■■■■■!

Carrier proclaims in a loud voice.

This statement troubles Dark Mama.

Mama: Well gosh, even if that's true, I feel like you're in no position to talk.

Carrier: And what is that supposed to mean? What's wrong with calling out the ■■■■ for what it is? I will admit those fortunetelling powers seemed to be the genuine article, but using them to do evil is beyond outrageous! Then again, I suppose those who choose to believe are in the wrong too, hmm? There will always be fools who cling to their fortunes, so perhaps a bunch of shady fortune tellers comes with the territory!

Carrier goes on. Dark Mama is astonished.

Mama: He and I might not get along so well...

Babe: His horoscope for today was pretty crummy.

Mama: I quite enjoy fortunes myself, but perhaps he's taking it all a little too seriously?

XX/XX
Sunny

The queen summoned me today. She says it's now my job to serve the princess because we're both the same age. It's such an honor!

The princess has super fluffy hair and big, round eyes. She's very pretty.

The princess was hidden behind the queen, but she said, "Let's read a book together." So I read her a book. She swayed happily as I did so. It was very cute.

Thinking about being here every day to help her feels like a dream. My heart leaps in my chest.

XX/XX
Cloudy

The princess has snuck out of the palace yet again. I cannot help but worry, as the outside world is so terribly dangerous. Recently, no matter how much I advise caution the princess refuses to listen, and instead simply dismisses me with a sly smile.

While it pained my heart to do so, I felt it necessary to inform the queen of her behavior. However, the queen told me to simply leave her be. Not only does the princess have no father, it seems like her mother the queen has no particular interest in providing her with the attention she requires either.

Alas! How tragic it all is for our poor, precious princess. I must protect her. I am the only one who can.

XX/XX
Rain

The princess was suddenly married off to a king of a faraway land. Forward of me though it was, I pleaded with the queen to remain in the princess's service, but she disapproved.

But why? I have been the closest to the princess thus far and have cared for her like no other.

Today, the queen ordered me to clean up the princess's room. Indeed, she may come home one day. It must be spotless for her return.

Her bed looks so inviting. I don't suppose she would mind if I lay on it just a little, would she?

XX/XX
Sunny

What a development! The other day, the princess returned from the country she was sent to so that she might marry its king! She seems a woman changed, however, for she simply does not smile like she used to. So grave is her condition that the queen has issued a proclamation stating that any who can make her smile shall have her hand in marriage.

It pains me to think that I might be separated from the princess yet again. I think our unsmiling princess is wonderful in her own way — she carries herself with such dignity now — but I would also love to see that innocent smile return to her face.

...If it did, however, that would mean she'd have to leave again. If the princess were to smile again despite the appearance of a partner who made her do so, would the talk of her being married off go away? In that case, maybe I...

The princess asked that I switch places with her. She says she intends to test the feelings the boy claims to have for her. Ah, but if only there was a world where her wishes were the sort that I could refuse. The boy, fool that he is, left the palace thinking I was the princess. There is no need for me to interfere. The princess will surely come to her senses of her own accord.

...Or so I thought, but then the princess took to the sea with the boy on a small boat, and I was unable to stop her. The princess had a look of both joy and despair to her person, and I was left unable to do anything at all.

That is not my princess. My sweet princess, the princess I cherish and adore, is... Yes, that's right... That's her smile. It is the smile I see in the mirror before me. That's her. That's the delightful princess I know and love.

I quite enjoy the library.

I don't have to worry about what other people say or how they look at me — I can devote myself wholly to the quiet hours.

As usual, I get to school before the start of class and study here.

It's anything but a usual day, however. Today's the culture festival, and excitement is buzzing throughout the entire school.

A huge sign stands outside the school gates welcoming visitors from outside, and dozens of colorful stalls line the campus on the other side. My class's stall is presumably among them, but I don't drop by to check on it. I study in the library instead.

The familiar classmates I pass don't say anything. I know they don't expect any sort of help from me.

It's only been a few months since I started high school, and I'm out of place in my class.

I have my aspirations, and dealing with others is too much of a bother. I don't have time to sing praises of my school life like other students, nor do I want to.

The bang, bang! of blank shots reaches the library.

And here I thought I could concentrate on my studies during the culture festival... My concentration broken, I stare out at the blue sky beyond the windows.

"Seriously? This is where you've been?" It's a sudden, blunt voice that hardly suits the air of this place.

Oh no — she found me.

The voice belongs to a girl in my grade who's a bit out of place for a prep school like this — she has bright blonde hair and never wears her uniform properly.

She always behaves terribly, and everyone else thinks of her as a delinquent.

She stands out for different reasons in class, and for whatever reason, she occasionally pokes her nose into my business.

She has the audacity to sit across from me, cackles, and says thoughtlessly, "It's so funny you're studying today, of all days."

In a wordless display to show how busy I am, I drop my eyes back to my books and ignore her.

But that is never enough to discourage the blonde girl, and I always lose out in the end. Unfortunately, today is no exception.

I ask her what she wants, and she says, "Since you clearly have nothing better to do, we should go check out the festival together."

What? She wants to go? With me?

Her usual stubbornness rears its ugly head. Eventually, she grabs my phone from the table and yells, "Follow me if you want it back!" She races out of the library.

Now that things have gotten this far, calming her down would be way more trouble than it's worth...

And so I agree to look around with her, on the condition that it's for "a little bit." It is a calculated move, knowing I'll be freed more quickly that way.

I avoided the blonde girl at first. Her loud appearance and flippant personality were alien to me.

But in these few months since starting school, she has been the only one who has talked to me with any regularity despite my cold exterior.

And the more I get to know about her family life and inner world from our occasional conversations, the more I see her in a different light.

She's loud, quite a handful, and, to be blunt, a constant interruption to my studies. But I can't bring myself to dislike her...

I walk along the school halls, brightly decorated with balloons, paper decorations, and painted signs, with the excited blonde girl.

Now that I get a better look at the school, I realize the whole building has a particular air — families with cotton candy wander around, and performers in costumes strut through the halls. While preparing for the festival, I avoided all work besides the bare minimum assigned to me, so I'm surprised to see it so thoroughly decorated in such a short period.

She scarcely pays me any mind as she pulls me by the arm and drags me into a classroom with a sign written over it reading "SHOOTING GALLERY."

Excitable students greet us like eager employees at a store and hand us "handguns" made of disposable chopsticks.

I stand bewildered, and they say we can pay one hundred yen for five shots as they hand us a rubber band.

While I slowly set the rubber band in place, I hear the clanging of a bell. I turn to my side to see the girl standing victorious. She scoops up the small stuffed rabbit she managed to shoot down, sets her next band, and aims at her next target.

Undaunted, I also aim at the target... But embarrassingly, the band flies into next week.

I have one shot left. I aim carefully, determined to make this shot count. I notice the girl looking at me as she puts her prizes into a bag.

I know she's making fun of me internally.

But when she grasps my situation, she gives me surprisingly succinct advice. She does so gently, politely, in a way that doesn't harm my masculine pride. And it...somehow reminds me of someone I know.

Perhaps my blonde classmate is the older sister of a much younger sibling. That would explain her sisterly care.

Taking her advice, I hold up my chopstick gun one more time. The moment of truth... But things are often easier said than done. My rubber band skims the side of a box of sweets, and that's that.

"Close!" she says with a grin, then tosses me a box of caramel candy from her bag. By the time I catch it, she's already moving on to the next classroom.

"C'mon!"

Her voice is comfortable and familiar, as though we've been friends for a long time. And afterward, we go around to each classroom together.

I win the quiz competition, we split the takoyaki she craved, and each time, she smiles kindly at me.

Though pangs of guilt stir in my chest from neglecting my studies, it wasn't half as bad a time as I imagined.

Once we had seen the majority of the displays and stalls, the sun was beginning to set. I tell my blonde classmate that I will be returning to the library shortly.

She then tells me she wants to see the grand finale of the culture festival: the fireworks display.

It's said that this school has fireworks every year. She is more excited about this than I anticipated, taking me to an empty classroom with a perfect view of the fireworks.

The moment we get to the classroom, she runs to the restroom. She'd been having so much fun that she kept missing her chance to go — I can't help but chuckle.

Though I agreed to accompany her for only a little bit, when I look at the clock on the classroom wall, I see how late it's gotten...

I don't handle noise well, not to mention letting others mind me, but...today was hardly a bad day.

Just after she rushes back from the restroom, what follows is a brilliant display in the sky that never lets things go completely dark.

Several modest fireworks burst in the sky. Though we are somewhat disappointed, it's the perfect cherry on top for the first day of the cultural festival."Hey, sorry for bothering you while you were studying," she says quietly.

But I respond with a whisper of my own, "I mean, it wasn't so bad in the end..."

As we share our thoughts on the festival, watching the other students clean the grounds, a sudden announcement comes over the intercom.

It's specifically calling for our class to gather in the classroom.

"I guess we should go..." We can't ignore this one, so we leave the empty classroom behind.

Feeling awkward that I avoided helping set up in the morning, I enter the classroom and join my classmates, wearing their matching class T-shirts and bracelets.

Some students look anxious, while others hang their heads in what looks like anger—quite the contrast to their colorful clothing. And yet, our homeroom teacher starts off in a calm tone.

"We're missing a part of the sales from our crepe stall."

At that moment, whispers ripple through the classroom. The teacher calms the class and begins to explain what happened.

Our class was situated outside, running a crepe stand. As a way to prevent others from stealing the money, any money collected from sales would be brought to the safe in the classroom at specific times.

Part of that money vanished while it was being moved from the stand to the classroom...Though our teacher did not explicitly say it was stolen, the implication was that someone took the money.

"No way... Who could've done this?"

"We worked so hard to make that money..."

"It's gotta be someone else from another class..."

As the entire class reels from the revelation, I cannot help but voice the words bouncing around in my head.

"The culprit is in this class..."

And the next thing I know, everyone is looking at me.

The first day of my high school culture festival came to a close.

The entire class gathers in our classroom, and our homeroom teacher informs us that part of the proceeds from our stall has vanished.

When I hear the details, I’m convinced it is theft and that someone in this class committed it...

“The culprit is in this class...”

The words spill out of my mouth before I realize it, bringing suspicion and panic to my classmates. My teacher desperately tries to calm the reeling class.

The teacher then asks me, his tone agitated for reasons I don’t understand, “Do you have proof?”

I begin to sort out the situation in my mind as I answer.

First, my class was running a crepe stall. And twice in the day at specific times — once around noon and once around sunset — a specific student was supposed to bring it to the classroom safe for safekeeping.

According to the teacher, the money was collected and vanished on the way to the classroom.

The details of how and when the money would be collected were posted in the class group chat that morning. Only those in the class know about the money.

There’s a chance that someone outside of the class caught wind of the information somewhere during the festival, but it’s unlikely they would ever have the chance to plot the theft.

“So you’re saying we stole it?”

One of the two students in charge of safekeeping the sales shouts.

“That’s not what I’m saying. If anything, you are immediately exempt from suspicion.”

Their face is red from the tension, but I ignore them and continue to think. “At which collection phase did the proceeds go missing, anyway?”

“The second phase. Isn’t that right?” the teacher turns to the student who was at the stall at the time of the second collection.

According to the student’s testimony, someone dressed in a bunny costume came at the evening collection time, and she mistook them for the student in charge of the collection.

Feeling partially responsible for the incident, the student wears a glum look but makes an addendum as she recalls the situation.

Despite her suspicion when she saw the costume, this person was holding their class-specific collections box, so she ultimately concluded that they were the classmate in charge of collecting the money.

Once the person in the costume left, the real student in charge of the money came, and chaos befell the stall.

When the teacher went to check on the money in the classroom safe, he found only the proceeds from noon, and though they split up to look for the missing money, they have yet to find it...

I knew it, I think to myself. The culprit was well-informed about how the money was handled.

My classmates begin to stir again, each of them hoping to escape suspicion.

Among the chatter, my ears pick up on someone saying, “...is suspicious.”

“Yeah, I heard she has sticky fingers...”

She is the blonde girl I walked around the culture festival with, the one the whole rest of the class treats like a criminal.

And the moment that whisper reaches the ears of others, the entire classroom tacitly comes together.

They want to frame the ill-mannered blonde girl as the culprit.

At this point, the entire class begins to cross-examine her to make her the scapegoat.

“We bonded to make this culture festival a reality. The only one who could do something so awful is someone who doesn’t help!”

“I heard she stole money from her job too. Once a thief, always a thief!”

“She never came to run the stall — she was too busy plotting her crime all day!”

It’s all illogical nonsense, spoken from a place of self-preservation.

I point out the fallacies with each of their testimonies and prove her innocence.

It is clear that the reason they all doubt her comes from a place of prejudice due to how she dresses and looks, as well as the flippancy of her words and actions.

And just as I begin to tire of the futile arguments, I present to them a perfect alibi.

According to the testimony of the students in charge of the money, the crime took place shortly before five o’clock. She and I had gone to the empty classroom to watch the fireworks about thirty minutes later.

That means that when the proceeds were stolen, she and I were still in the middle of looking around the festival. Some try to argue that we are co-conspirators, but the students whose booths we visited would be able to provide testimony.

“You mean to tell me that she’s the culprit, but I believe someone else fits the bill much more neatly.”

My coup de grace of a statement causes everyone in class to fall silent — they have nothing to say in return.

A light clap breaks the silence, one that hardly fits the gravity of the situation. In concert, the teacher showers me with praise.

“Wow, I’m impressed! You’re just like a detective in a mystery novel!”

Our teacher often spoke about mystery novels with fervor, even during class, and the students consider him quite eccentric.

Everyone’s eyes go wide. For a moment, I don’t understand what he means.

The teacher, who has been watching silently this whole time, speaks as though he is urging us to go home. He says he will be looking after the classroom safe tomorrow, so we can rest easy and enjoy day two of the festival as we please.

He then turns to me and the blonde girl and says, with a twinkle in his eye, “If you’re the detective in this whodunit, then that would make her your sidekick.”

“Solve the mystery of who stole our proceeds together.” That is the task the teacher has entrusted to us.

We have a time limit: by the end of school the following day — by the time the second and final day of the culture festival is over.

“Cooperation, everyone!”

The first day of the culture festival comes to a strange end, thanks to our mystery-loving homeroom teacher.

As the other students make their way home, they regard me suspiciously or with glares.

What a fine mess this whole thing is. All I wanted to do was study...

The blonde girl and I are the only ones left in the classroom. We exchange wordless stares.

Still...I haven’t had a day like this in some time — a day where everyone is frightfully aware of my existence...

Day two of the high school culture festival.

Purely by chance, I happened to get wrapped up in the search for the culprit who committed theft in my class.

Just as the first day was about to come to an end, someone stole the proceeds from our class stall.

The girl I had gone around the festival with was named as a potential suspect.

Why? Elementary.

She dyed her hair blonde, and she wore loud, gaudy clothing. She was poorly behaved in our typical day-to-day at school. That was all the reason her accusers needed.

The entire class was determined to peg her as the criminal baselessly, but I refuted their misplaced statements.

Our homeroom teacher cheered me on, insisting I was like the detective in a mystery novel. He instructed me to search for the true culprit by the end of the second day, with the girl as my assistant.

And so, my blonde sidekick and I walk the school grounds together.

I glance aside to see her with candy in her mouth, listlessly looking around the area.

In a way, I understand. The way our classmates focused fire on her yesterday must have stung pretty badly.

"First, we should retrace the Bunny Costume's steps..."

"Bunny Costume" is my nickname for the culprit who stole the money during collection time. They appeared shortly before the class's agreed collection time, took all the money in the specific box meant for collection, and then vanished.

If we can get a general grasp of their actions, we might be able to find some sort of lead. First, we will have to question our classmates.

Talking to classmates I barely spoke to in the first place is, quite honestly, a huge challenge.

Some of them are clearly wary of the girl beside me.

But whenever I'm unsure of how to talk to them, the blonde girl always supports me or speaks in my stead.

Many misunderstand her due to her looks or the way she talks and acts, but she is caring and quite skilled at helping others in a casual manner.

Whenever I look at her, I can't help but be reminded of someone...

If I recall correctly, she only has one parent and younger siblings. I suppose that would explain her sisterly demeanor.

As those thoughts roll around in my mind, she suddenly speaks to me. "Hey...thanks," she says.

I turn around, and she continues to speak. She says that when everyone suspected her yesterday, she was afraid they would start suspecting me too.

But she was delighted that I came to her defense instead of suspecting her.

"All I did was say what I thought was right."

"And that made me happy."

She thanks me again. I can't see the look on her face very well.

Nobody in our class who was working at the stall the day prior seems to know where the bunny came from or where it vanished to.

Even as the sun sets, we have no leads. So, with the girl in tow, I widen our scope and begin to question the classes with stalls near ours.

It's here that I hear something strange.

"That was right before the fireworks rehearsal, right? Everyone was busy breaking down their stalls, so no one would have noticed then."

Rehearsal?

I repeat this word, and the student I'm talking to points to the poster plastered on the nearby wall.

"Today's the real show. The rehearsal was yesterday. Pretty sweet for a trial run, though, wasn't it?"

The poster details the time and date of the fireworks show. It's tonight...and starts later than the one the day before.

Standing still in front of the poster, the blonde girl approaches me from behind.

"Oh, huh. The fireworks are today!"

Her tone is unnaturally bright.

Yesterday, she had dragged me to the empty classroom, stressing how desperate she was to see beautiful fireworks.

If the rehearsal was yesterday and today is the real show, then that makes her actions a bit odd.

"Hey, we should see the fireworks again as a do-over!"

I can sense the trouble in her voice, and it's clear that her smile is forced. I almost want to refuse the conclusion I come to in my head.

But...I cannot do that.

"All right..."

I fall in step behind her as she walks lightly, almost delighted, just as I did the day before. My own steps are heavy, and our attitudes could hardly be any more different.

Funnily enough, we arrive at the classroom at around the same time we did yesterday.

But unlike yesterday, the cheers coming from outside feel empty, and the ticking of the clock echoes loudly in my ears.

I'm the first to break the silence.

"I solved the mystery," I say, but the girl does not turn to look at me. Her gaze remains fixed outside. And so, I continue, "You used me for an alibi. You are the culprit."

After a lengthy silence, the blonde girl finally replies.

"...Do you have proof?"

I have no way of knowing what she's thinking. I take out my phone, and with an exhausted voice, I reply.

"The clock in this classroom is thirty minutes fast. It's not something one is likely to notice if they're not paying attention. I was surprised. That's why you took my phone, isn't it?"

The girl turns to look at me. And though there is spite in her eyes, she has a smile on her face.

The moment she brought me to this classroom — or, to be more precise, the moment I had been chosen to look for the culprit — she had been ready for this.

"Hold on a sec," she says and leaves the classroom.

I do not give chase.

For some reason, I can't imagine her running away. And just as I suspect, she comes back.

In her hands, she holds the box for collecting the class proceeds.

In the box is an envelope with bills and coins.

"You're right. I stole it. I hid the money and the costume in another empty classroom."

Here's how she committed the crime.

First, she invited me to the festival so she could have someone to affirm her alibi. She then took my phone so I wouldn't know the time.

Then, she took me to an empty classroom with a clock thirty minutes fast so she could leave me and commit the crime. She told me she was going to the restroom and instead stole the collected money.

Afterward, she went to a different empty classroom to hide the costume and the money, then returned to me as though nothing had happened, and then we watched the fireworks rehearsal together.

She put her plan together in the morning when the collection information came through to the class chat, and then she actually went through with it. And that shocked me.

Her grades are poor because she doesn't come to class, and the class treats her like a nuisance. But deep down...she isn't like that. A strange thought comes to me — if she were under pressure, would that explain her actions?

Whatever the case, I'm gravely disappointed because I had such a pleasant time with her yesterday.

Something else strikes me as strange.

The class proceeds aren't much, in truth. And the portion she stole was only half a day's worth. No matter how I think about it, it doesn't seem worth the effort to me.

She understands my intentions from my gaze. Her expression twists.

"I didn't have a choice..." she murmurs weakly.

The first burst of the fireworks illuminates her face.

A streak of tears runs down her cheek.

From the dim, empty classroom, I watch the first firework of the show bloom brilliantly in the sky.

I glance at my phone — it started at the time mentioned on the flier. But according to the clock in the classroom, it's beginning thirty minutes late.

With surprising — and disappointing — ease, the blonde girl confesses that she was the one who stole the money from our class stall.

And...

"I didn't know what else to do... We're broke. We never have enough money."

They're always a few hundred yen short of replacing her little brother's tattered shoes... They can barely afford to pay to send him on field trips... She is keenly, agonizingly aware of how the other kids perceive her little sister when she goes to her sports festival...

"That's why I cut down on school hours and worked instead. But they said the money in the register didn't match up with the records, so they blamed me, and guess who got fired?"

She didn't want to dress in a way that showed she was poor, so she dressed herself up like any other girl her age, within the means she had. But her cheap accessories often came off as gaudy and vulgar.

Never did I think things would lead to this, though.

Not only that, but the small expenses of day-to-day life were mercilessly pushing her family further into a corner.

"If it were just me and my dad, that would be one thing. But my little brother and sister... And people still suspect me even if I'm not doing anything."

I have no words. Though I had an inkling of what was going on at home, I had no idea things were this desperate for her.

"What...should I have done?"

This girl sacrifices pieces of herself and even steals for her little siblings. A painful weight settles on me when I think of my own self-sacrificing older sister.

The fireworks glow brightly over her pain. I look her straight in the eye.

"Let's go to the teacher."

We will be honest, and we will apologize to our classmates. She may have to explain her situation to them if it comes to it. But this is something we must do.

"I'll...do what I can to help you with money," I say.

She looks at me with surprise but tears well in her eyes as a smile crosses her face, and she nods.

Together, we make our way to the staff room and to our homeroom teacher, lover of whodunits, the eccentric who made me the detective in this case.

When we return the money and tell him what happened, the blonde girl offers a tearful apology. But...

"What a remarkable trick, though... If this were a mystery novel, you'd be like a real detective!" he says cheerfully as he counts the money and ensures that it matches the records.

He doesn't seem like he's scolding her, nor does he ask why she did it.

"So you stole on a whim, and you just happened to succeed. Don't do it again, got it?"

"Er, not exactly. She planned it because of what's going on at — "

I begin babbling in a panic, but the teacher raises a finger, signaling me to be quiet.

"Listen. The collection plan was posted to the chat that morning. There's no way you could have carried out something so elaborate the same day." He then shakes his head. "This is a prep school. If word about this became public, it would be a disgrace. You confessed, so we're going to keep this just between us, okay?"

He smiles. On his desk is a small stack of famous mystery novels.

I glance aside. The blonde girl, her gaze cast downward, says quietly, "Okay."

"Didn't you want everyone to know the truth, though?" I ask. "Isn't that why you made me investigate?"

My voice cracks, and my fists quiver. I can't immediately identify the emotion that wells in me.

"Maybe in the world of stories, sure. But reality isn't so cut and dry. I think you'll understand that as you grow up..."

I can no longer stand it. I turn my back on my teacher and do not hear the rest of what he has to say.

On the way back to the classroom, I hear the cheerful sounds of the other students wrapping up the cultural festival.

Yet the blonde girl, her head still drooped, murmurs quietly.

"I don't really matter, do I? Even if I don't do something, people accuse me. And if I do something, it's treated like nothing ever happened... It's like I'm just a convenient excuse."

Self-deprecation sits heavily in her voice.

I want to say something, but in the end, I could not.

Once the culture festival comes to an end, the colorful decorations are taken down, and we return to our regular school life.

I come to school a little earlier in the morning than the other students and study in the library. After school, I leaf through reference documents in the library until it's time for me to go to work.

I never spoke to her again.

Mama: Yuzuki seems aloof and hard to approach at first, but he's such a good boy deep down!

Mama: You have no idea how happy I was when he looked for me after I got lost in The Cage!

Babe: The kid's surprisingly clingy. Did you see how relieved he looked when he found you?

Mama: Hee hee! Oh, and do you remember what he said? "What good is a guide that keeps getting lost?" Remember!?

Babe: That imitation was perfect, Mumsie. Even better than the real thing.

Yuzuki: Hey, uh... What are you talking about?

Mama: Oh, we were just discussing the things we love about our little Yu!

Yuzuki: Well, please stop with the — 

Mama: Oh, I know! Now it's YOUR turn to say what you like about the two of US! Doesn't that sound nice?

Yuzuki: Um... Well, I guess I... Whnn... Whnnnnn...

Mama: Um, Yu? Are you trying to get out of this assignment by whistling?

Babe: Bwaaa ha ha! The kid can't whistle!

Yuzuki: No! I just...made a mistake. That's all.

Gloaming turns to night, settling over the room like a shroud. The only sound is the steady ticking of a clock. The boy, exhausted from work and study, throws himself onto his bed. He lies there, staring listlessly at the ceiling, and lets his imagination wander.

The ceiling quickly becomes a night sky⁠ aglow with stars. He draws lines and creates various constellations: A book. A camera. A violet. The boy creates these things from the imaginary points of light on his ceiling, filling his mind with as much joy as he can before sleep comes to claim him.

He's alone again today.

An unpleasant noise echoes in the back of his mind: words that were spoken about him at school. As he remembers them, the constellations on the ceiling shudder and wink out.

His manager yelling at him. University students laughing as he bumped into them on the street. Every time a memory of the day replays in his mind, another imaginary star is snuffed out. Soon, all that remains is a ceiling of perfect black. The boy covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, ready to escape into sleep — his single reprieve from reality.

The young boy went to the museum with his mother and sister.

They saw a model of the solar system's planets hung from the ceiling and an exhibit with dinosaur fossils on display — the boy was fascinated. He wanted to show off everything he'd learned from his encyclopedia, so he began to explain what he saw. As he watched his mother nod with a smile, he beamed and only grew more enthusiastic.

"I beg your pardon, but please keep your voice down..." The sudden voice belonged to a museum employee. The warning startled and embarrassed the boy, who looked upon the rest of the displays in complete silence. His brief joy felt like fragments of a distant dream, now replaced with cold darkness.

Evening fell, and after a brief visit to the gift shop, they headed home. That's when the sad boy's sister handed him a keychain of his favorite planet, Pluto — he just liked how the name sounded. "We'll come back sometime," she said, her smile like the sun's rays, warming his heart and reaching the very edges of the solar system.

When the boy was in middle school, his family started slowly falling apart. His mother took on loads of debt, and his father became more violent in actions and speech regarding the prospect of repayment.

As the cracks in their family grew, it was the boy's sister alone who didn't give up and kept on smiling. "I bet she could put our family back together," he thought, using his respect as a shield from the painful reality.

One day, the boy arrived home straight from school and heard a voice coming from the bathroom. The rest of the family should have been at work or school clubs. He peeked through the crack in the door to find his sister sobbing, doing her absolute best to do so in silence. Gripped in her hand was a brush with a shocking amount of her hair caught in the bristles. In the sink, too, was a mat of her hair.

The boy felt a sharp twist in his chest, and he couldn't breathe. His sister alone was shouldering the pressure of keeping their family together. The boy cursed his cowardice for looking away from this reality as he locked himself in his room, blaming himself for this for the nights to come. He could not let his sister shoulder this burden alone. He would never admit weakness in her presence again.

When the boy was very young, he and his family went to stay with his maternal grandparents over summer vacation. They lived in a big house in an affluent neighborhood outside the city. Sitting in the large living room was a beautiful grand piano, the kind he might find in his school’s music room.

The boy’s older sister greeted it like an old friend and cast aside the red felt covering the keys. Her pale, slender fingers glided over the keys in a choreographed dance. Their mother sat beside her and joined her, and together, they played a light tune.

Drawn in by the lovely melody, their grandparents came to listen. The sunlight pouring in from the living room window shone over them like a spotlight on a stage.

My sister and mom are an awful lot alike, the boy thought. Their smiles and voices always cast such a beautiful light on everything around them. In contrast, the boy hated how he felt like a part of a faceless audience, in the darkness made deeper by the light of the stage. He would never be a part of the circle of light — all he could do was watch them from afar.

The brother and sister wander The Cage and come across a darkness like the ocean's depths. Appearing before them are clusters of lights — giant jellyfish swimming across the sky and smaller bioluminescent larvae floating in their wake.

The two stand in silence, unable to draw their eyes away from the fantastical sight. The boy thinks back to the time he went to the aquarium when he was very young. Colored lights bathed the jellyfish in the tank, and he remembers what his sister said when she saw them.

"They're like...gems," her voice scarcely a whisper.

She sounds the same as she did in his memory. No matter how distant they grow, even if they never speak to each other, they did once spend time together... Perhaps still, they have a sibling's bond.

They pull out their phones together, turn them in the same direction, and take a picture so that the moment will live on forever.

When the eclipse cracked and shattered, the sun and the moon brought to life a miracle for these two.

They do not know why things have come to this. They cannot say who wished for this.

But for now, all they need is a little more. A little more time to walk side by side as brother and sister, as they once did.