Chapter 1
In the classroom, during a conversation, there were moments when a strange anxiety would suddenly grip me.
Why did everyone fall silent just now?
Was it because of the shouting from the next classroom, ushering in this silence—or perhaps, it was just me who felt that way, and really, the shouting had nothing to do with it.
Maybe that kid suddenly remembered the funeral from yesterday and fell silent.
Perhaps she closed her mouth because she saw a dinosaur outside the third-floor window.
They might claim they had not heard anyone's voice from the start.
I could not definitively say that that was not the case.
There are various forms of truth in the world and different ways of seeing things.
Even if two people were looking at the same crow, one might say its feathers were red, while another would insist it was half white.
Ultimately, communication fails when people speak of different things while looking at the same object.
In the end, this story is about that.
It is a tale about a peculiar vampire, a frightening novelist, robots made by aliens, and a boy who fancies himself a hero—a story of communication breakdowns.
Her, another her, and I—despite encountering the same incident in the same world, each speak of truths seen from completely different perspectives.
The real events are all lost in the swirl.
But even if there are as many truths as there are people, and each one is painted in chaotic colors, I have to make my truth heard.
. . . For her, because she is no longer here.
Maybe, just maybe, there are a few truths that everyone can acknowledge.
One, there was a vampire living in our school.
Two, this is a story of a vampire who kills people.
Three, we were supposed to have a happy ending.
The story begins on a winter day.
Aliens, vampires . . . these things don't define our times. You get what I mean?
Mr. Yamazaki spoke as if he were carefully chewing over each word.
The smell of cigarettes rose from Mr. Yamazaki’s words—the scent of a working man. It suited the winter café well.
Foreign jazz played softly in the café, soft flames flickering gently within an installed fireplace. Even the waitress's footsteps seemed to melt into the plush carpet.
Looking down, I felt as if I was inside a blissful time machine. The air conditioning was so well designed that warmth could be felt in every seat.
Somewhere not here, sometime not now. It seemed to take me to someplace different from the real world.
The café's owner must have undoubtedly been a kind person. The act of talking about nothing in particular seemed to warm my heart.
Look at the present. The Dystopian YA novel craze is over. Slice-of-Life is dead. Pretentious literature was never alive to begin with. No one wants to read about aliens and vampires just quietly living their lives. No one's asking for it, nobody wants it. So, writing those stories is utterly meaningless. You understand what I’m saying, Touka?
Mr. Yamazaki always spoke as though he were pressing his point—logical, rational, like laying bricks neatly on dry land.
Perhaps it was due to his profession as an editor, which involved him dealing with a variety of fuzzy personalities. Or maybe it was instilled in him by his upbringing.
I recalled hearing about Mr. Yamazaki's childhood, back when we were closer. He'd transferred schools over and over.
Perhaps, to cope with each new school, he deliberately adopted a tone that kept others at a distance. It might be considered a tragedy of sorts.
We're in the business of writing light novels. We aren't dabbling in high art for fun, and we aren't writing niche fanzines for university kids. We write what people want, the way they want it. We supply high-quality products where there is demand. Isn't that what work is about? Do you think I’m wrong, Touka?
Mr. Yamazaki tilted his coffee cup, probably realizing it was empty, and squinted his eyes. He snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray as if removing a distorted brick.
Would Mr. Yamazaki be different if he had been raised differently?
If, for example, Mr. Yamazaki had been born the child of this café's owner. Perhaps we would have met at a different time and interacted differently.
I idly imagined that story. I set the ending, pondered the opening. Crafted a story to fulfill the traditional structure of introduction, development, and climax.
Of course.
Such habitual acts of a supposed creator were no longer necessary for me.
This whole project is over. Do you get it? We don’t need aliens or vampires. There’s nothing usable here. Blank slate. It's not even worth discussing. Bottom line, there’s no one in this world who wants to read this story.
Mr. Yamazaki neatly folded the printed A4 paper down to a size that would fit in a restroom's trash can. He then deeply exhaled.
He stirred his teaspoon round and round inside his supposedly empty coffee cup as if searching for remnants of sugar.
Listen, Touka—It’s been a full year since your debut. I still remember how excited I felt when I first read your submission. I pushed hard for you to win the award because I wanted to read the sequel. I don’t want to say this, but I’ve had to fight a lot for you here—probably more than you imagine. I got a lot of promotion funds on your behalf. And I’ve been waiting all this time for the next book. Do you understand?
Unsure of how to respond, I dropped my gaze to my teacup.
It was filled to the brim with milky tea, but it had been sitting for quite some time now. It must have completely cooled off. It was hardly drinkable anymore.
Tea that no one likes might as well not exist.
If you can't keep up with what people want, then don't bother writing pointless things. At least try to write something people will enjoy. A cheerful boy and a cool girl in a slightly risqué romantic comedy. Your readers are waiting for the sequel to that award-winning work. You get that, right?
Perhaps because I remained silent, Mr. Yamazaki took a deep breath.
He tapped the table rhythmically with his fingers, like a commander giving a final ultimatum. He cleared his throat.
Remember that plot I drafted for the sequel the other day? What happened to that?
I shook my head.
You haven't written it? Not a chapter? Not a page? Not even a single character?
I nodded slowly.