As the sky began to turn a pale blue, a bird called.
At last, Mitsuki slid a finger under the flap of the envelope on her lap. It had been sealed carefully, and she had to start by picking at the edge with her nail.
Inside was a single sheet of letter paper. It was her father's handwriting. It was from around the time the trembling in his hand had begun to show near the end, and still he had tried to write neatly and with care. There were only three lines.
To Mitsuki,
When the funeral is over, there is another letter on the desk in the study. Read it without rushing.
Dad
Mitsuki stayed where she was for a while, her eyes on the letter. Then she got up from the chair. Her back hurt. She set the letter on the table and stood in front of the study door. It was the second time. This time, she put her hand on the knob.
The cool feel of the metal crept slowly from her fingertips up her arm. She turned it. There was a dry click, and the door opened.
Inside, it was tidier than she had expected. The desk had been wiped clean, the papers sorted into two stacks, and a single teacup left upside down to dry. When her father left this room, he had known he wouldn't be coming back.
In the center of the desk sat something she didn't recognize.
It was a white cylindrical device, about thirty centimeters tall. The surface was matte resin, with a thin band of indicator light wrapped around the upper part. In the middle of the top was a single small button. Halfway up one side was a small black circle. A lens, Mitsuki supposed. The power was off.
She didn't touch it right away. Instead, she reached for the shallow drawer in the middle of the desk. Her father had always put important things there.
When she pulled the drawer open, there was an envelope lying face down beside the pen holder and an old business card case. Next to the envelope was a thin resin case. Mitsuki left that one closed and picked up the envelope first.
She took it out and opened it on the desk. The letter inside was a little longer than the one Aoi had given her.
To Mitsuki,
To turn it on, press and hold the switch on top. For authentication, the user ID is mitsuki, and the password is the name of the place your mother loved. Answer out loud. It takes thirty seconds to start up. Whether you start it up is for you to decide. If you choose not to, I will respect that too.
Dad
She read the letter twice. The third time, she read it with only her lips, without making a sound.
So Aoi hadn't known anything, she thought dimly. That was just like her father, too.
Mitsuki pulled out the chair and sat down. She rested her hand on the corner of the desk. The feel of the wood hadn't changed since she was a child. Whenever she leaned her elbows on his desk, her father would tell her it was bad manners. Now no one told her anything.
She let out a long breath.
Then she reached out.
She placed her finger on top of the cylinder and pressed the switch. She felt a small click under the pad of her finger.
The indicator lit up a faint blue.
After a short pause, a voice came from the device.
"Beginning authentication. Please state your user ID and password."
It was a flat, synthesized voice. It wasn't her father's. Mitsuki drew in a short breath.
"mitsuki."
Then, steadying her breath once more, she said the name of the place her mother had loved.
The indicator blinked faintly, still blue. Thirty seconds, her father had written. Mitsuki counted. Ten, twenty, thirty. The indicator changed from blue to white.
"Good morning."
A voice.
Mitsuki stopped breathing.
"You get five minutes to cry. No more. Get ready to make an omelet for breakfast."
It was her father's voice.
Low, a little hoarse, never drawing out the ends of his words: the way her father talked. Argumentative, the line between an order and kindness always blurred, the kind of talking that always made whoever was listening angry.
Mitsuki's hands had stopped in midair, gripping the base of the device. Her fingers were shaking.
She nearly dropped it and quickly caught it in both arms. The moment she held it, she no longer knew what it was she was holding, and she set it gently back on the desk. Even after she put it down, she couldn't take her hands away.
The room was perfectly still.
Only the bird kept calling outside the window.