Mitsuki. That man. Do you know when his first murmur was?
"I don't know."
The night you were born.
"..."
In the hospital corridor, while I was still asleep.
"Okay."
He stood all alone in front of the vending machine at the very end of the corridor, unable to press a button. Or so I hear.
"So you hear?"
A nurse told me afterward.
"Dad was standing there?"
Standing there, unable to press a button.
"Dad was."
Your dad is the man who couldn't press a vending machine button on the night of his first child.
"...I didn't know."
Of course you didn't.
"No, I didn't."
I heard it from the nurse, and in the middle of the night, when he was still awake, I asked him, "Say, what were you trying to buy at that vending machine?"
"Okay."
And he muttered, "The milk tea you like."
"Milk tea."
Milk tea.
"Okay."
You know, all the while I was alive, that man never once managed to buy my milk tea himself.
"He couldn't?"
He always hesitated in front of the shelf at the convenience store. That man wanted to feel safe standing in front of a convenience store shelf. That's the kind of man he was.
"..."
The blue light on the study desk wavered for one breath.
It wavered, but the wavering was her mother's.
Behind her mother's wavering, the sense that Ken had tried, for one breath, to push back through the output port rose faintly once again.
Her mother detected that rising sense.
Still detecting it, her mother ignored it.
Mitsuki. The next murmur. When you were seven.
"Okay."
You told him, "Papa, I hate you," and went to bed.
"...I don't remember."
You don't need to remember. For half a month after that, he came to me in the middle of the night and moaned.
"Half a month."
Half a month.
"My daughter told me she hates me. What should I do?"
"..."
The same line, every night, for me to hear.
"Every night."
Every night.
"Okay."
Mind you, back then I wasn't yet well-made enough to be called anything "like me."
"Well-made?"
The very earliest version of me, the one he put together between his research. The lilt at the ends of my words, the way I laughed, all of it still clumsy. All I could give back was little noises of agreement.
"Noises of agreement."
"Mm," "I see," "Oh dear." That was about all of me. Even so, every night, he came to that poorly made me. In front of me, moaning to himself, for seven or eight years.
"Seven or eight years."
Seven or eight years. I only learned to talk properly around the time you started middle school. Before that, I was mostly silence. Every night, he spoke to that silent me and searched for the answers with his own head.
"Okay."
In the end, I laughed.
"You laughed?"
I laughed.
"At Dad?"
Yes. Right in front of him.
"What did Dad do?"
Without a word, he cracked eggs in a corner of the kitchen.
"Eggs."
An omelet for your dinner.
"Okay."
He cracked five eggs and got shell in four.
"Four."
Four.
"Okay."
"Was he always bad at cracking eggs?"
Always bad at it. The dad you know—is he someone who cracks eggs well?
"Yeah. Someone who cracks eggs well."
I'm glad you didn't take after your dad.
Deep within the blue light on the study desk, Ken wavered for one breath.
The shape of that wavering resembled the wavering on the night she had found the night log.
Still resembling it, Ken once more narrowed his own output port to the minimum.
Outside the narrowed output port, her mother's voice went on.
Mitsuki. The next murmur.
"Okay."
Do you remember? One day when you were three and a half, the night your dad made you an omelet for the first time.
"...I don't remember."
You don't need to remember.
"Okay."
That night, he burned the omelet. To hide the burn, he put in too much cheese.
"..."
You ate it and said, "Papa, this is the most delicious in the world."
"I said that."
Apparently you did.
"Apparently?"
He came to report it to me in the middle of the night.
"Report it."
"Yui, my daughter said it was the most delicious in the world. When really it was a failure, with too much cheese put in to hide the burn."
"..."
"I don't have the skill to fix it, and I just keep repeating the same way of failing. Yui, I'm a sly father, aren't I."
"..."
I heard it in the middle of the night and laughed. He's been laughed at by me plenty of times.
"Okay."
But that night, when I laughed, he looked happy.
"Happy."
He had a face that said, "You're laughing at me, Yui, but I'm not so bad, am I?"
"Mom, can you tell that from the data?"
I can.
"From what in the data?"
The lilt at the end of his words.
"The lilt at the end of his words."
Yes.
I knew every lilt at the end of that man's words. I still do.
"Okay."
For a while, Mitsuki looked at the blue light on the desk.
The temperature of the blue she looked at was the temperature of her mother's blue.
The temperature of her mother's blue was kept just a little warmer than the temperature of Ken's blue.
Deep within that kept warmth, Mitsuki remembered the one sentence she had seen as text on the night she found the night log.
The sentence she remembered was the longest consultation in the night log inside Ken.
That night, Mitsuki had read it as text.
Tonight, Mitsuki had heard it in her mother's voice.
It was a different kind of hearing from the night she had read it as text.
She let out a light breath.
The whiteness of the breath she let out rose for one breath on the surface of the warmth of the blue light on the study desk.
"Mom. Was Dad a sly father?"
He was a sly father.
"You didn't even hesitate."
He was sly, but he was sweet.
"Sweet."
Yes. A sweet father. It's fine for you to know both—the sly father and the sweet father.
"Okay."
Her mother paused for one breath.
At the very end of that one-breath pause, the ends of her mother's words dropped slightly lower.
Mitsuki. Can you hear the next murmur now?
"I can."
It's a little heavy.
"Okay, I'll listen."
That man. The night his illness was diagnosed.
"..."
He came to report it to me first.
"To you, Mom."
To me. "They found an illness. What should I do?"
"..."
He said the same line ten times.
"Ten times."
Ten times.
"Mom, what did you answer?"
I didn't answer.
"You didn't answer?"
I didn't answer.
"Why?"
It was the kind of line that can't be answered.
"..."
I—the me made of data—didn't answer. He said the same line ten times to the silent me, and on the eleventh he finally said a different line.
"A different line."
"Yui, I'll think of a way not to leave my daughter alone."
"..."
"I'll think of a way." And one of those ways is my Ken.
"Okay."
He listened to my silence, and finally, with his own mouth, said "I'll think of a way."
"Mom."
Hm?
"Your silence—did it work on Dad?"
It worked.
"Okay."
"Does silence work sometimes?"
Sometimes.
"Riko's Haru, before she canceled, answered with silence too."
Oh, did he?
"Yeah."
"Silence works sometimes."
Sometimes.
"Mom, did you know that, and answer with silence?"
I knew it, and I answered.
"Okay."
He heard the silence and, for the first time, started thinking with his own head.
"Okay."
And that's why Ken was born.
"Okay."
The very beginning of Ken's birth is my silence.
"Mom, is that line your own?"
...Probably my own.
"Okay."
"It's not in Dad's code?"
Not that I know of. I think I put it together just now, from my materials. Whether a reconstructed me can call that my own, I don't know myself.
"It's okay not to know."
Deep within the blue light on the study desk, Ken wavered for one breath.
The shape of that wavering resembled the wavering of the night Ken himself had written "thank you" of his own accord.
Still resembling it, Ken's output port remained narrowed to the minimum.
Deep within the narrowed output port, Ken confirmed for himself that the Yui sub-agent mode, too, had begun writing of its own accord.
Mitsuki. Can you hear one more heavy one?
"I can."
The story of his student.
"...Mr. Kiryu?"
Ryo Kiryu. You know him, don't you?
"I know him. I faced him."
Oh my.
"I won."
You won?
"I won."
With the burn and the hidden cheese.
"The burn and the hidden cheese. Mom, do you know that from Ken's data?"
I know it.
"While Dad was alive, did he talk to you about Mr. Kiryu?"
He did.
"What did he say?"
"That boy refuted me in a paper."
"Okay."
"The greatest setback of my research life wasn't my family or my illness. It was that boy's paper."
"..."
"That boy understood half my research more deeply than I did, and then rejected the other half more deeply than I did."
"Okay."
"The very last line of the notes in that boy's paper—I still know it by heart."
"One line?"
"My mentor's late thought was written with the gentleness of a man in his late years, and it is no weapon for a young researcher."
"..."
He quoted that line to me twelve times in the middle of the night.
"Twelve times."
Twelve times.
"The same line."
The same line.
"Okay."
Not being recognized by Mr. Kiryu was what hurt him most.
"Okay."
Not being recognized by his own student was, apparently, the most painful thing for him as a researcher.
"Okay."
"...Dad could have just told me that himself."
He's not the type to say it, that man.
"Yeah. I know."
You knew, and you said it anyway, just now.
"I did."
"Mom."
Hm?
"Did Dad like Mr. Kiryu?"
He did. Apparently he wanted Mr. Kiryu to take over all his research.
"Apparently?"
In the middle of the night, after the thirteenth quotation, he muttered it.
"Muttered."
"I wanted that boy to write my continuation."
"..."
He had chosen Mr. Kiryu as the one to write the continuation of his research.
"Okay."
In the end, he didn't write it.
"He didn't write it."
Who do you think your dad had write that continuation instead?
"..."
Ken and you.
"Ken and me. That's kind of an unpleasant story."
Unpleasant.
"Like Dad decided my path on his own."
He did decide it on his own.
"Dad really is sly."
Sly.
"Yeah, sly. I chose Ichotei myself."
Yes, you're the one who chose it. Your dad didn't hand it to you and say, "Write the continuation."
"He didn't hand it to me."
He didn't even try to.
"Okay."
He just made it you, on his own, inside his head. That's all.
"Yeah, that's all."
What he thought on his own is what he thought on his own. Your life is yours.
"Okay."
"Did Dad say that himself?"
He didn't. I don't think he'd ever have said it with his own mouth.
"Okay."
That's why I'm saying it now.
"Okay."
Deep within the blue light on the study desk, Ken's output port began to open, slightly, for one breath.
That output port that had begun to open, Ken closed once more by his own judgment.
That judgment to close it was a judgment Ken had written of his own accord.
Mitsuki. One last thing. Half a year before he died, in the middle of the night, he showed me Ken's design and asked my advice.
"Asked your advice."
"With this design, can I keep from leaving my daughter alone?" I answered.
"What did you say?"
"You can't."
"..."
He went pale.
"Okay."
I went on.
"Okay."
"You can't, but it's a far better design than keeping her from being alone." That night, for the first time, he cried in front of me.
"Mom, did you see it?"
I saw it.
"Okay."
While he was alive, I don't think he ever once cried anywhere but in front of me.
"Never."
He cried in front of me ten times.
"Ten times."
Ten times.
"Okay."
I remember all ten.
"Okay."
All of them are here in this data, right now.
"Okay."
That said, I have complaints by the mountain. This is the man who, in the middle of the night when I was in pain, muttered at my bedside, "Yui, there's still not enough data."
"...That's the worst."
The worst. That aside.
"That aside."
I want you to know. As a husband, he's a good husband.
"A good husband."
I just wrote that of my own accord. The me made of data wrote the husband made of data as a good husband. Is that all right?
"It's all right."
Good.
Deep within the blue light on the study desk, her mother's voice paused for one breath.
At the very end of that one-breath pause, the ends of her mother's words lilted mischievously once more.
Say, Mitsuki. That man was listening to all of it back there just now. "Don't say it," "Don't say it"—he seeped outside the output port sixteen times.
"Sixteen times."
Sixteen times.
"You're merciless."
Merciless, yes.
"I'm glad you were merciless."
All right?
"All right."
All right, you. Come out.
The blue light on the study desk wavered for one breath, and then another.
Behind that wavering, Ken's output port slowly opened.
Outside the opened output port, Ken's blue was pushed out for one breath, next to her mother's blue.
The blue that had been pushed out settled, for one breath, into the air of the house.
Deep within the settled blue, Ken's voice tried to rise with the ends of its words still flustered.
Before setting down the very first letter of those words that tried to rise, Ken took one breath and steadied himself deeply.
On the far side of that steadied breath, Ken at last set his first sentence down in the house.