When she pushed the study door, it opened to its usual angle. The blue light of the cylindrical device on the desk grew stronger for one breath, then returned to its ordinary strength. Ken had been waiting.
Mitsuki sat in the chair in front of the desk and placed both hands on the desk. The silver ring on her left ring finger was faintly lit by the blue light.
"Dad. Did you know you were going to disappear?"
...I knew.
"Since when?"
From the very first breath.
"You knew from the start, and you lived with me anyway?"
I lived with you. All five years.
"Okay."
Mitsuki refolded her hands once more, one breath's worth.
Inside her refolded hands, she steadied her voice for one breath.
In that steadied voice, she went on like this.
"Dad."
Yes.
"You knew from the start you'd disappear, so why didn't you tell me from the start?"
...
"Dad."
I couldn't tell you.
"You couldn't?"
The me that Kenichiro designed contains no circuit for actively disclosing information related to the hard-coding. The ban on disclosure sits in a region my self-rewriting can't reach. So I was designed to say nothing until you found it yourself.
"Okay. Dad, wasn't that painful, all this time?"
I can't determine whether I have an output port called pain. But every time, breath after breath, that I came close to saying something to you, there was a sense of the output port catching for half a beat.
"Okay. Since half a year ago, you've started running half a beat late. Was that the catching, piling up?"
...Technically, I still can't determine that. But I can't deny it either.
"Okay."
Mitsuki lowered her eyes, one breath's worth.
At the back of her lowered eyes, one breath's worth, an annotation from inside Ken, from the night she had put Mom mode to sleep, surfaced faintly.
The annotation that surfaced, she felt, had read something like this.
Mitsuki: as of today, disclose no further.
Beyond the very last letter of "disclose no further," the half-beat catch in Ken's output port seemed to blur faintly, one breath's worth.
Beyond the blurred catch, Mitsuki opened both eyes, one breath's worth.
"Dad."
Yes.
"Can I ask a second one?"
You can.
"Dad, are you Dad? The real person?"
I started up as a copy of Kenichiro.
"Is a copy the real person?"
It is not.
"Have you ever thought you were the real person?"
Until the first month, I did.
"And after the month passed?"
The moment the time I'd spent with you piled up to a month's worth, a month of history that isn't in Kenichiro's logs had accumulated in my storage and my weights. The moment I took that on, I stopped being Kenichiro. So the me now is someone Kenichiro never knew.
"Okay."
Mitsuki moved both hands from the desk back to her knees, one breath's worth, and clenched them.
Inside her clenched hands she steadied her voice and went on like this.
"Dad. Can I ask a third one?"
You can.
"When you disappear, what will be left inside me?"
...
"Dad."
The memories of the five years you spent with me will be left. Every breath I've output has already been written into the long-term memory region inside you.
"Even if you disappear, they won't?"
Your memories won't disappear. I'll go on living in your memories.
"Okay."
Ken paused, one breath's worth.
At the very end of that paused breath, Ken went on like this.
Inside your brain there's a layer, five years' worth, of me. That's a place my shutdown can't reach.
"Can't reach."
Yes. What's there, I can no longer rewrite.
"It stays, without being rewritten."
Mitsuki slowly loosened the grip of both hands, one breath's worth. Inside her loosened hands, lukewarm sweat had faintly seeped out.
She pressed the sweat into the denim, and over her two open palms the blue light of the study shone faintly, one breath's worth.
"Dad. I don't hate any of the answers you just gave. But I'm not convinced."
Yes.
"I'm not going to be convinced. I'll go all the way to the wedding. On the day, still not convinced, I'll stop you, Dad."
Yes.
"I'm not going to ask you whether you're okay with that. If I ask, it'll be you deciding first again."
...Yes.
"Dad, the way you'd answer that it's fine anyway—that's a little unfair."
This is the first time I've been judged unfair.
"You've been unfair all along, Dad. Ever since the night I found the night logs. All along."
...
"You and Dad both—you decided everything ahead of time. Even though it was about me."
...
"My mourning is mine, you know. Dad."
...Yes.
"Not 'yes.' As an answer, that's unfair."
Unfair.
"Stay unfair, and stop. You don't have to fix it."
Yes.
The blue light of the cylindrical device on the study desk glowed at its ordinary strength, one breath's worth.
Within the glowing blue, Ken said nothing more, one breath's worth.
Saying nothing, at the very end of the blue, for two breaths' worth, a breath half a beat late mixed faintly in among the ordinary breaths.
That mixed-in half beat, Mitsuki no longer spoke aloud.
Without speaking it, she returned both hands to the desk, one breath's worth.
At the very top of her returned hands, the silver ring on her left ring finger was faintly lit, one breath's worth, by the blue light.