Before I knew it, a black car was parked in front of the park. It hadn't been there a moment ago.
How many months of rent on my apartment would that be? The driver got out without a sound and opened the back door for us.
"Please, my god."
Before I could even be urged, the driver had unfolded a large towel and was holding it out to me. A dry towel, faintly warm. As if this car had known I was wet before I did.
"You may change in the apartment."
When Kisaragi added that, I took the towel and got in. I couldn't come up with a good way to refuse. Before I even had time to worry about my wet tracksuit staining the leather seat, another white towel had already been spread across it. Every worry I had was being headed off in advance.
The car pulled up at a tower condo rising in the middle of the city. Even looking up, I couldn't see the top; it melted into the night sky. The entrance was like a hotel lobby. My wet sneakers let out a pathetic squeak on the polished marble floor.
In the elevator, she pressed the button for the top floor. The numbers climbed and climbed. It felt like my everyday life was being left farther and farther behind on the ground.
When the doors opened, I stood frozen at the sight of the apartment.
One whole wall of windows was night view. All the lights of the city spread out below my feet. Big enough to fit dozens of my six-mat rooms whole. It had no smell of anyone living there at all.
"First, a bath."
She said it as though sealing off my excuses along with the fact that I was wet. Again, I couldn't find a reason to resist.
The bathroom she showed me to already had the tub filled. When I got out, the tracksuit I had taken off was nowhere to be seen. In its place, neatly folded, were loungewear I had never worn, yet which looked tailored to my body.
"Your wet clothes will be washed, dried, and returned to you."
Kisaragi's voice came from outside the changing room. The misery of half-dried clothes, a single change of clothes—before I could say a word, all of it had been prepared.
Once I was refreshed, she led me straight to the next room.
"This way."
It was a study.
A chair with a deep backrest that looked plainly expensive. A computer with a large screen. On the shelves covering an entire wall were books I'd likely use for research, assembled as if someone had peered into my head. On the desk, a brand-new notebook and a fountain pen.
It was a perfect room for writing.
When I sat in the chair, I could feel my lower back sink in and my body be gently supported. The kind of chair a professional would use, designed so you wouldn't tire no matter how many hours you wrote. Everything about it was different from the wobbly folding chair I had always used.
What's more—all of this had been made to order, for me.
"So that you may write whenever you wish," Kisaragi said quietly.
"When your fingers are cold, the writing does not flow, does it? It was in your author's note. That in winter your fingers go numb, and it is hard to type."
Kisaragi took a pair of fingerless gloves from the desk drawer.
"This room is air-conditioned. Even in summer, if you sit for a long time, the cold starts at your fingertips. If you feel cold, please use these."
I could tell without looking that they had been fitted exactly to the size of my hands. Soft-looking, high-quality fabric. Only the fingertips left bare, so they wouldn't get in the way of typing.
When had I ever written that? A single line in an author's note that I had long since forgotten myself. She had remembered it, and given it shape like this.
A teacup was set down, steaming. Placed precisely just beyond my dominant hand, where I could pick it up just by reaching out while seated. Inside was the cheap bancha tea I always drank. Why would she know even that?
A shiver went through me. Not at the kindness. At how high-resolution it was.
She knew every corner of my life, down to the last detail. Small habits I hadn't even noticed in myself, each little moment of weakness I'd let slip in an author's note. It felt less like being loved—and closer to being observed down to the last detail.
"Kisaragi... this is—"
I backed away.
"This is way more than I deserve."
I meant it. This chair, this room, this consideration—all of it was far too big for someone like me. It wasn't a place a guy with single-digit PVs should be sitting. Kindness you don't deserve is frightening in exact proportion to how kind it is.
Someday I wouldn't be able to repay it. If I accepted something like this, I'd never be able to give her anything back. The gap was too big.
No. More than that, what frightened me most was that I still had no idea why she would go this far.
Kisaragi quietly took in my fear. And then she smiled, with a face that looked a little close to tears.
"It is not more than you deserve."
Kisaragi's voice grew a little stronger.
"To me, what you write is more precious than anything in this world. And the person who writes it, in a place like that, with his fingers going numb, going hungry... I cannot allow that."
She stood in the center of the study as if to spread her arms wide.
"This is simply how it should be. A god needs a place worthy of him. ...This is your room, my god."
Something cold ran down my back.
Your room, she had said. As if it had already been decided that I would live here.
"...Let me go home."
At last, that was all I could squeeze out.