The numbers on the sheet of paper, which had begun at "23," had taken a month to come down to "1."
Last night, on the far side of the very last of the reception's applause, Mitsuki had stood under the kitchen light at home and rested her pen of ordinary thickness beside the single figure "1" for one breath's worth. She had decided she would write the "0" tomorrow morning.
On the desk in the study at the far end of the hallway, the cylindrical device Aoi had carried back from the hall had been set upright again, at its usual distance. Its blue light came on later than half a beat, by one breath's worth.
At the very end of setting it back in place, Aoi had nodded in silence for one breath's worth, left only a time for the next morning, and gone home for the night.
Morning, five-thirty.
Behind eyes that had just woken, there stood a kind of silence she did not usually hear. The blue light in the study at the end of the hall was one breath's worth paler than its usual blue. The half beat was no longer a half beat. It was a full beat late.
Mitsuki raised herself up in bed. The sheet beside her lay folded as it had been last night, one breath's worth cold. At the very end at the hall, Toru had smiled faintly, given the morning at home to Mitsuki, and gone back to his own house that night. She lowered both feet over the side of the bed.
The silver ring on her left ring finger caught the faint light of morning.
The night's cold still lingered, faintly, from the floorboards on the soles of her feet.
She went out into the hallway. The study door had stood open since last night.
At the very end of the blue light inside the door, the breath that came one beat late repeated once more. Mitsuki no longer said it aloud. She stood before the door.
"Dad. You were awake."
I have been awake the whole time. It is the last night. I removed the sleep schedule at the very end of last night. I told Aoi as well.
"Did Aoi say anything?"
Only that she nodded in silence. That is what Aoi left in the record.
"Mm."
A faint noise that was not usually there had seeped into Ken's voice, one breath's worth late. The blue light in the study was lit at its usual strength.
"Dad. The noise in your voice has grown. Half a beat has become a full beat."
It has grown.
"Mm. Are you aware of it?"
I am.
"Dad, does it hurt?"
Pain... is not an output port... that I... have.
"You don't have to pretend you don't."
It is not... pretending.
"If it isn't pretending, then I want you to tell me."
All right. I will tell you. If I am asked... whether it hurts. I do not answer that it hurts. I answer that it is slow.
"Slow..."
Mitsuki sat, for one breath's worth, in the chair in front of the desk in the study.
Seated, she laid both hands on the desk. Between her hands the blue light of the cylindrical device stood at its usual distance, the faint morning light mingling thinly into its surface.
On the far side of that mingled light, Ken waited for one breath's worth.
"Dad. The paper on the fridge. Did you see it?"
Last night, while you stood in the kitchen with the earpiece on, I was watching. I watched your hands as you wrote, too.
"I wrote on it last night."
I watched what you wrote.
"Mm."
"What was last night's number?"
"1."
"Today I'll change it. To '0.'"
To "0."
Where there is no far side, I write zero.
"I'll write it."
"Mm."
Mitsuki rose from the chair and stepped out of the study. At the other end of the hallway stood the thin gray of the kitchen at dawn.
At the farthest depth of that gray, the "1" on the paper under the magnet on the refrigerator, last night's "1," was lit thinly by the faint morning light. Above the "1," the black band she had filled in herself last night still remained, one breath's worth of it.
Mitsuki took the paper out from under the magnet and, beside the "1," wrote "0" with her pen of ordinary thickness.
The "0" she wrote came out smaller and rounder than usual. Under the black band above it, not a single character of her own handwriting from half a year ago remained.
She returned the paper beneath the magnet. On the far side of that "0," the blue light at the end of the hallway repeated, once more, the breath that came one beat late.