On the night before her graduation ceremony, Mitsuki decided to become a cook.
The AI in the cylindrical device, which had taken his place when he died half a year earlier, lit its blue light and, in her father's voice, asked her why.
Mitsuki did not yet know that this night's decision was the doorway to her father's unfinished research, and to a bond of fate with a man named Kiryu, whose name she had not yet heard.
The ceremony was the next afternoon. She was borrowing a hakama from Riko's family, and her hair appointment was at twelve the next day. That night Riko had sent her a message with a sticker: Picking you up tomorrow morning. Don't go overboard with the hair. Mitsuki replied only: k.
She spent the three hours or so before bed packing her father's books into cardboard boxes. Aoi Murota, who had taken over her father's AI lab, had contacted her about passing his technical books on to the younger researchers, and she would come to collect them sometime during the week. Mitsuki thought packing in the living room would be too distracting, so she carried the boxes into the study.
On the desk, the device's blue light was still on.
Will you be ready in time?
The machine spoke. It spoke in her father's voice.
"Hair's at twelve tomorrow. The ceremony's at one."
The address runs fifteen minutes. For the presentation of diplomas, your class is fifth, which should put it at 1:32.
"You know that much?"
The program is posted on the school's website.
Mitsuki didn't stop working. From the middle shelf, she packed the technical books in order of their spines into the box her father had labeled For the students.
Mitsuki. When are we going to talk about your plans?
Mitsuki stopped. Two of the books were left half pulled out, resting on the edge of the shelf.
"We already did."
No. You reported your decision after the fact. We haven't talked about how you arrived at it.
"Isn't that the same thing?"
It isn't.
There was no warmth in the machine's voice.
You said that starting in April you'll live in as an apprentice at Ichotei, across the station. You haven't explained why.
"Do I have to explain?"
Dad would make you explain.
That was true. Her father had disliked being told about decisions after the fact. "You're quick to decide, but you're bad at putting your reasons into words," he had told her many times while he was alive.
Mitsuki pulled a book from the shelf and put it in the box. The spine read The Limits of Emotion Simulation. Her father's name was in the author's line.
"...Dad's book."
Part of the data I'm built on.
"Have you read it?"
All of Dad's writings were in my storage from the start. If by reading you mean looking through them, all I do is load the books into my context.
Mitsuki closed the book and put it back in the box.
About your plans, the machine said, returning to the subject.
Judging from your grades and your practice exam results, the optimal choice is a four-year university with a registered dietitian program. There's still time to apply for the late-round exams. I can prepare everything.
"I don't need that."
Why not?
"No reason."
There can't be no reason.
"There isn't. Even if there is, I can't put it into words."
The machine was silent for a while. Outside the study window, it was already dark. In the neighbors' garden, the plum blossoms floated white in the glow of the streetlight. There was no wind. And yet, somehow, the petals were falling.
Ichotei is an independent restaurant, sixty-two years in business. It has no successor. The hours of a live-in apprenticeship exceed anything you've endured so far.
"I know."
You chose it knowing that. Dad would stop you.
"Would he?"
Mitsuki closed the lid of the box. The sound of the tape tearing echoed long through the study.
"Dad wouldn't stop me."
Why do you think so?
"When I couldn't put my reasons into words, Dad always ended up saying, 'Do as you like.'"
The machine was silent again.
...The data shows that tendency.
"See?"
Mitsuki set the box down on the floor and reached for the next shelf. Several of her father's handwritten notes were tucked between the books. She pulled one out and looked down at it.
It was a scribble. Dated three years ago, in winter.
When there is a signal inside the noise, how do you teach the model to see it?
Beneath it, one more line had been added, with a different date.
Unfinished.
Mitsuki looked at the note for a while. She didn't understand what it meant. Her father had worked on all kinds of research. He had abandoned a lot of it partway through.
Mitsuki. What are you looking at?
"One of Dad's notes."
Will you read it to me?
"...No. It's nothing."
Mitsuki slipped the note back between the books. She checked the spine of the book it had been tucked into once more. It wasn't a cookbook. It was one of her father's technical books.
Why it had been tucked there, Mitsuki didn't know.
Only, she had a feeling that somewhere there was still a dish left that she would have to cook to completion. The reason, again, wouldn't become words.
Mitsuki. What was it about Ichotei that made you decide?
"I don't know."
Is it all right not to know?
Mitsuki rested her hand on top of the box and didn't move for a while.
"I'll go without knowing."
I see.
The machine said nothing more.
The clock in the study struck eleven. On the desk, her smartphone was still glowing faintly with Riko's message that she would come pick her up in the morning with the hakama.
Mitsuki lifted just one box and carried it out into the hallway.
The device in the study sat on the desk with its blue light on and said nothing.