However, at the very, very end—at the exact second the hero executed his special attack on the final boss—the game suddenly froze! The game window closed, and the text editor started up. Yamazaki apparently had left a letter that seemed like an excuse.

“There really isn’t any other way to destroy the huge, evil organization than to use your special attack. You can gain victory only if you choose death for yourself because the giant, evil organization actually is made up of our entire world. Because the second you choose death, the world disappears into nothingness, the evil organization, too, disappears into nothingness. Then, peace will come to you. Still, I didn’t blow my own head off with a bomb. That was my choice. No, it definitely isn’t that I just didn’t want to go through the pain of drawing the CG for the game ending or that I got downright tired of making a terrible game. Nothing like that…”

At first, I tried to smash the laptop. Then, I changed my mind. I had watched Yamazaki desperately work on this game, but the final shoddiness of it hit me pretty hard.

What in the world could he be doing right now? This question suddenly began to bother me, but I decided to try and forget it. I hadn’t heard any news from him since he left, and I didn’t feel like contacting him, either.

Those idiotic days from that period in my life had ended long ago.

Christmas came once again. The city lights twinkled.

The guide stick grasped in my right hand, too, lit up in the darkness. Tonight's work was traffic control in the parking lot of a new department store that had opened near the station. Because the entrances were equipped with fully automated ticket machines, I had absolutely nothing to do. When it got crowded, I tried helping out the machines; but each time, I just ended up swinging my stick back and forth.

There were no accidents, nothing happened, and Christmas Eve marched on in safety.

About an hour before the store closed, a car came by. The car itself was the sort of Japanese model found anywhere, with nothing special to note about it. However, because the interior lights were on, I recognized the girl sitting in the passenger seat. I saw her clearly.

Startled, I tried to push my cap down over my eyes as much as possible. The car passed me without hesitation, so there hadn’t been any recognition. But I felt that my high school acquaintance, sitting in the passenger seat, had looked my way, just for a second.

Of course, that, too, was just a delusion.

My shift ended, and I changed out of my uniform and put the guide stick and helmet into my bag. Swaying back and forth on one of the last trains of the night, I headed toward my apartment. On the way, I stopped by a convenience store to buy alcohol and the like.

I decided I should try getting into the Christmas spirit. Walking up the steep road that led to my apartment, I drank a beer. I hadn’t had alcohol in a while, so it took effect quickly. Somewhat shakily, I slowly hiked up the long, sloping path. In the distance, an ambulance’s siren pierced the otherwise quiet night. I finished my second beer.

Merry Christmas.

By the time I passed the park, my gait had been reduced to a drunken stumble. Walking carefully, I could avoid swaying drastically, but I figured I might as well just walk like a drunk. I increased my pace and wobbled from telephone pole to telephone pole. I tripped over a stone and almost fell. I staggered and was about to collapse in the middle of the road when, right in front of me, an ambulance rushed past.

I had almost been run over!

I thought perhaps I should complain in a loud, drunken voice, “You id-”

I stopped in mid-sentence.

The ambulance had pulled up in front of Misaki’s house. Her uncle dashed out of the front door. He yelled to one of the paramedics as they ran into the house, carrying a stretcher. A short while later, they carried the stretcher back through the front door. Misaki was limp.

I watched as Misaki, her aunt, and her uncle sped away in the ambulance at a breakneck speed.

Part Two

It was almost New Year’s Eve. One afternoon, I loitered in front of the large hospital at the edge of town. This was where Misaki had been admitted.

Earlier that morning, I had headed down to the manga cafe near the station and had gotten the information from her exhausted uncle.

“Anyway, I’m so sorry.” Her uncle apologized to me for no reason. "We thought she was doing better. She’d been much calmer since quitting school and had seemed really happy recently. I wonder if maybe that was because of what she’d planned. By the way, how do you know Misaki?”

“We’re sort of acquaintances”, I answered. I retreated from the manga cafe and had headed straight for the hospital, but…

I had been hanging out in the courtyard for nearly two hours. Among the visitors and patients out for strolls, I was pacing back and forth on the path from the main gate to the front entrance.

Misaki was in a private, fourth-floor room on the open psychiatric ward. Apparently, she’d swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills. It was nearly a fatal dose; had they arrived much later, it might have been too late.

It was uncertain where Misaki had obtained the sleeping pills, but they may have been from the neighborhood psychiatrist. But to have amassed enough pills for an effective suicide attempt, she must have been going there for quite for a while. That meant that this attempt clearly had been intentional. Misaki had planned her death for a long time.

What in the world did I intend to do, showing up unannounced? I couldn’t make anything better for her.

Should I try saying something like, “Don’t die!”… ?

Should I try yelling something like, “You still have tomorrow!”… ?

Misaki had written numerous, similar clichés in her secret notebook. But they hadn’t helped her, so she’d tried to overdose on sleeping pills.

In short, there was nothing I could do for her. It might even be better for me to avoid showing my face. She probably would feel even emptier, getting a hospital visit from a pathetic hikikomori.

When I thought about the situation that way, I’d decide to go home; but at the hospital gate, my feet would stop on their own. Once more, I turned back toward the front entrance and repeated the entire cycle.

My thoughts were looping around. If this kept up, it looked like I would just keep walking to and fro until nightfall. I couldn’t make up my mind.

Finally, screwing up my courage, I dashed into the hospital before I could change my mind again. I got a visitor’s badge at the front desk, pinned it to my chest, and headed up to the fourth floor.

The entire fourth floor was an open psychiatric ward. At first glance, it seemed no different from a normal hospital. I’d thought that a psychiatric ward would be full of straitjackets, electroshock equipment, and lobotomy laboratories. However, this open ward was clean and cheerful; it seemed like an ordinary part of the hospital.

Or so I thought. When I noticed that an older woman of around sixty, apparently a patient, had squatted down in the corner of the hallway, I quickly headed for room 401.

In the far corner of the fourth-floor hall, a nameplate identified Misaki’s room: “Misaki Nakahara”, it said.

There was no mistake. This was the room.

I knocked softly.

There was no answer.

I tried knocking again, a little harder; there was still no answer. However, my knocking seemed to have dislodged the door, though it might have been open partially to begin with.

“Misaki?” I peeked into the room.

She wasn’t there.

Well, if she’s not here, there’s nothing I can do. I’ll go home!

I decided to leave behind the fruit basket I had bought in the hospital gift shop. And I noticed someone had left a train schedule open on the shelf next to the bed. The schedule was annotated here and there in red ballpoint pen. Moving it aside, I put down the fruit basket.