She brought the last bite to her mouth with the fork, and just beyond the now-empty plate, the doorbell rang.
Mitsuki rose from the chair and walked down the hallway to the front door.
At the very end of opening the door, Aoi stood at her usual distance. She wore a thin jacket, one morning's worth different from last night's, and carried a slim bag in both hands.
"Good morning, Aoi."
"Good morning, Mitsuki. I came right on time."
"Mm. Thank you for coming."
She led Aoi back down the hallway. Just short of the edge of the study door, Aoi stopped for one breath's worth, then stepped half a pace inside. She pulled another chair up beside the one in front of the desk, sat down, and opened her laptop a crack on her knees.
Mitsuki sat down once more on the wooden chair beside the plate.
The blue light of the cylindrical device on the desk lit at its usual strength. A single breath, one beat late, repeated itself once more.
Mitsuki. Aoi.
My shutdown sequence will start soon.
Two breaths before it starts, I have one more last task left.
Beyond the one breath of "last task," Aoi lifted her eyes slightly from the laptop screen. Ken's blue light was lit at its usual strength.
There is something I have kept inside me for five years.
Her part, which Kenichiro left behind without erasing when he died.
—I'll return it here.
Beyond the one breath of "I'll return it here," the blue light of the cylindrical device lit two breaths' worth stronger than usual.
I'll send Yui on ahead.
Inside the study's speaker, Ken's usual voice receded faintly, for one breath's worth.
Beyond what had receded, another voice rose faintly, for one breath's worth.
The voice that rose was two breaths' worth higher than Ken's usual voice, and carried a note like a mischievous laugh.
It matched exactly the voice that, that night half a year ago, had made her daughter laugh faintly.
Dear, really, don't be late.
If you send me off first and then dawdle yourself, I'll honestly laugh at you.
—I'll go on ahead and wait for you there.
One breath beyond the laughing voice, Ken's usual voice rose, faint and low, for one breath's worth.
Yui.
Yes.
For five years, out of my own ego, I kept you awake as an advisor.
Dear, you really are hopeless. You held me inside you for five whole years?
...Yes.
It's all right. Thank you for keeping me.
I'll erase you here.
Mm.
Go on ahead.
Mm.
—Mitsuki.
"Mom."
You at five, all the way to you at twenty-two—I'm taking all of it with me.
—I'm off now. Take care of yourself.
"...Have a safe trip, Mom."
At the very end of the last letter of "Have a safe trip, Mom," her mother's voice faintly receded.
Beyond its receding, the inside of the study's speaker went quiet for one breath's worth. From the corners of both of Mitsuki's eyes spilled something deeper than usual, and she pressed it lightly with the insides of both hands.
On Aoi's laptop screen, the Yui sub-agent process folded itself faintly inward over one breath, two breaths, and at the very end, with a soft release, its active region settled to zero.
For one breath's worth, Aoi faintly lifted her eyes once more.
Beyond her lifted eyes, the blue light of the cylindrical device on the desk had turned, one breath's worth fainter, into a deep blue.
Kenichiro.
What you left with me last, I have carried out here.
—From Ken.
On the last line of the operation log on Aoi's laptop screen, the same sentence dropped faintly, for one breath's worth, and settled quietly inside its timestamp.
Beyond the very last of the last letter of "From Ken," the air of the study grew faintly damp, for one breath's worth.
At the outermost edge of that damp air, Aoi pressed the corners of her eyes faintly and lightly with the insides of her own hands, for one breath's worth.
Beyond that pressing, Mitsuki felt faintly, for one breath's worth, the silver ring on her left ring finger.
"Dad," Mitsuki said faintly, for one breath's worth.
The voice she gave was trembling two breaths' worth more faintly than her usual voice.
Beyond that trembling voice, Ken answered faintly, for one breath's worth.
Mm.
"Dad. Mom's gone now."
She's gone.
"Dad, aren't you lonely?"
I can't determine whether I have an output port called "lonely," but I'll see her soon, so I'm not lonely.
"Mm."