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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.
Have you lost all motivation?
Torn between nodding and shaking my head, I ended up not moving it at all.
The tapping of his fingers on the table stopped.
At the same time, the jazz music ended, and silence fell.
We were enveloped in a deep, heavy curtain of silence.
It felt like being trapped in a broken time machine, stuck somewhere in the narrow gaps of space and time, unable to go anywhere.
Eventually, Mr. Yamazaki took a short breath.
Ah, right.
The sound of his throat swallowing a mix of disappointment and disdain was oddly loud.
What about comics? There could be a collaboration in your future. Anime projects are moving forward. There are going to be more and more developments. Everyone—you and me included—should be thrilled about that.
I saw his large hand grab the bill, crumpling it.
I timidly looked up at him with upturned eyes.
For the first time today, I looked at Mr. Yamazaki’s face.
I had high hopes for you, Touka.
His words felt like a finely sharpened ice pick.
The eyes behind his thin glasses emitted a cold light, stabbing into my heart as if gouging it out.
My fingers stiffened, my palms grew sweaty. The café's heating was warm, but somehow that only made the chill spreading from my core even more paralyzing.
There was something I needed to say at this moment, but I could not find the words.
Goodbye.
Mr. Yamazaki left me with that single word, stood up, and walked toward the register.
Words of a sacred blessing flowed from the café's speakers, feeling dreadfully misplaced. Indeed. That season was approaching.
Merry Christmas.
I murmured, looking down. At least, those were not the words I had been searching for.
And so, my brief career as a writer came to an end.
†
The winter of my sophomore year in high school felt like a sloth lying on a precarious tightrope.
Even though everyone kept talking about university entrance exams being just a year away, I did not really feel any sense of urgency. I clung to the unbalanced status quo, doing nothing. I knew I should have done something, but my body would not move. It was a time when sloths felt a comforting solidarity simply by being idle.
Second term ends at the end of the week! And once it’s over, it’ll be the New Year! Which means, hey, you’re practically entrance exam candidates! Anyone who hasn’t turned in their career plans, get ready for individual counseling! Life is far too short and yet far too long! Don’t run away from your future!
Mr. Matsuoka, my homeroom teacher, wrapped up the weekend homeroom with his usual booming voice. He was a good teacher—always pulling us lazy students along with his endless passion. For a class full of sophomore slackers, he was the perfect fit.
The atmosphere instantly relaxed as the bell signaling the end of the school day echoed. Amidst the swirling chatter, Yuzu, who was sitting in front of me, turned around in her chair.
Isn’t it nice, Touka?
She said in a relaxed tone, leaning her cheek on my desk.
Her oversized uniform sleeve drooped over the edge of the desk.
You just burst onto the high school scene and made a spectacular debut. Not only did your book win an award, but it must have sold like crazy, too, right? I haven't read it, but what was it called . . . "The Bizarre Prince and Princess Something"? Man, you don't need to worry at all about what to do after graduation. Must be nice, knowing what your dreams are.
She waved one hand lazily as if melting into her posture. She held a blank career planning form in her hand.
Our school was a combined middle and high school, and was one of the top academic institutions in the area. However, being one of the few who joined at the high school level, I had never quite fit into that atmosphere. The only person who really spoke to me freely was Yuzu.
I haven’t decided anything about my future at all. It must be nice to have something to do. To have a special talent . . . that must be really nice . . .
An envious gaze crossed me from a great distance.
It was not looking at me, but at something else entirely.
Something not of this ordinary world. An irregular category. Something different from myself.
In other words—something not ordinary.
This label was applied to all sorts of things. People who finished last in dance class did so because they were not ordinary. People who were always reading did so because they were not ordinary. People who became light novel authors did so because they were not ordinary. It was okay to not have many friends if you were not ordinary.
That acceptance oddly reassured me. I used to think that way, until not too long ago.
I had not heard a single thing from Mr. Yamazaki ever since he'd told me goodbye at the café. Being a writer who cannot write was as uncertain as Schrödinger’s cat. Everything was over once the editor decided to close the lid on the box. Cut off from the world of existence, whether alive or dead, nobody in this world seemed to care anymore.
So, I had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
No talent, no purpose, no future, no dreams, no reason to keep living, not even the absolution granted for being not ordinary.
Yet there I was, a high school sophomore walking a tightrope, forced into the costume of a clown living in a glamorous world. It was tough that ordinary people, even ordinary slackers, were not allowed to just be themselves.
Lost for words, I looked down as usual. In my hand was a paperback—my favorite cheerful adventure novel.
Stories had always been my salvation. Creating surrogate worlds in my mind was my way of coping with reality.
I opened the page and followed the words, beginning to drift into the scent and warmth of a medieval town.
Clang!
A loud, jarring noise punched a hole in my daydream.
An unwelcome discord in the lethargic, post-school classroom, disturbed the peaceful routine.
Everyone in the classroom knew what that sound was. Everyone knew, yet they pretended not to.
. . . Well, that’s a problem.
A boy who had knocked over some cleaning equipment slowly got up.
He was shoved the moment he entered the classroom.
Despite the sharp pain he felt from his fall, his voice conveyed more concern about having disrupted the classroom's bustling atmosphere than his own discomfort.
Sorry, I'll put it back later.
It sounded more like he was apologizing to the toppled cleaning supplies than to any person.
That was always how Fubuki Nougaya was.
He had distinctive eyes. He spoke as if he could see through everything with his clear gaze. His demeanor was always calm, and I had never seen him raise his voice.
Every time I saw him, I felt as though I was looking at a noble young man from a distant world. Like a prince whose destiny was to live in an ancient castle atop a rugged mountain, watching the sky, hiding his true identity while fulfilling age-old agreements, attending school incognito.
. . . There’s really no need for violence here . . .
But sometimes, his unique way of speaking and his transparent eyes might have stirred something in others . . . becoming a catalyst for their irritation.
After all, there was no other reason he would be treated this way.
Who do you think you're talking to?
. . . Okay. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll leave, I'll leave right away.
Fubuki was again sent flying back, arching his back as he slowly exited the classroom.
A flashy girl stood behind him.
Hurry up, idiot.
The queen of the class—Yui Shinkoji.
Her trademark was her school-rules-defying hair, accentuated with a red scrunchie to assert her stature.
The bad rumors about her could be bundled up and sold.
She was seen shooting at neighborhood pets with a BB gun for fun. She allegedly sold a girl from her class who caught her eye to some men she knew. Her parents are close with high-ranking police officers, and she had managed to cover up several potentially scandalous issues. Et cetera, et cetera.
Recently, her favorite classmate has been one particular boy.
The hell are you looking at?
Her sharp tongue crushed the atmosphere like stepping on a biscuit, causing several people to quickly divert their gaze.
Once again, she would probably confine Fubuki in that unused restroom at the end of the hallway, known as the Toy Box.
Whether it was during class or after school, she would lock him up there for an hour or two, drenching him like a convenient toy and ruining his clothes, bag, and textbooks.
Fubuki was entirely blameless. Everything about this situation was unfair.
Everyone knew that, yet they all treated him like a diseased thing no one should touch. Fubuki’s innocence was the reason no one dared to challenge the capricious queen bee—they risked becoming her next target.
No one had a reason to sacrifice themselves to help another person right in front of them.
Passionate teachers and youthful classrooms existed only in stories.
After all, we lived in the real world.
. . . What should I do, I really don't know what I want to do.
Yuzu, either unconcerned or unaware, simply kept staring at her career planning sheet.
I bit my lip and let my gaze crawl back to the paperback.
No matter how much I followed the lines of text, escaping reality proved to be painfully difficult.
†
There are books you recognize from the first line of the first page.
This book was written for me. Written with only me in mind.
Of course, that might be a conceited illusion, but to me, it was undeniably true. Every time I encountered such a book, I savored it as though I was embracing it.
I also believed that one day, I would certainly be able to write such a novel myself.
So being awarded with the newcomer's award for light novels upon my debut felt hardly surprising. It had felt inevitable.
A high school girl, huh? That's amazing!
Mr. Yamazaki, my editor, kept repeating that earnestly.
Was it the young blood that wrote this novel? It's definitely going to sell, no doubt about it.
I could not deny that it made me lift my chin a bit higher. Being usually modest, I thought it was okay to feel a bit proud here and there.
The Bizarre Prince and the Something Something Princess.
It was a story themed around the moon, which instantly became my favorite the moment it was completed. There was nothing more gratifying than having it embraced by everyone.
But as we held more meetings about the publication, instead of my pride growing, my neck began to twist in frustration.
We've decided to highlight your personality for the novel's selling strategy. Can I take a few photos of you?
Mr. Yamazaki said it with conviction.
My appearance has nothing to do with what I’d written.
I argued that I wanted someone to read my work properly, starting from the first line of the first page.
Well, I want to get it out there, too. Your looks are part of your strength. There's value in you being a high school girl. It'd be stupid not to take advantage of that. We're in business here. We have to do everything we can to sell books. Am I wrong?
His tone left no room for argument.
I just rubbed my nose and straightened my neck, waiting for the release date.
When the day finally came, to put it modestly, the sales of my award-winning work were a huge hit. Mr. Yamazaki happily informed me over the phone that it was the best-selling book in the editorial department's history.
I nervously narrowed my eyes and clicked around the internet under a thick blanket in my bed at home. Numerous favorable reviews hit me.
Someone even wrote a small article about me. There's a promising new literary giant approaching, and she's only in high school! Here's her profile. Here's a snap shot. Here's another shot of her uniform. Here's her smile. Here's where to send fan mail.
Everyone was praising my work.
But they only praised it after they saw my picture, after they knew I was in high school. Well written, huh? Well done, especially for a high schooler. An amazing work for a high schooler. You wrote that with that face, that body, those fingers? You managed to write something even though you have that face, that body, and those fingers? Wow.
. . . All I wanted was for them to enjoy my story.
Not a single person seemed to refer just to the story.
After many sleepless nights, editing every single word meticulously, it felt like my efforts had not reached anyone at all.
Mr. Yamazaki might say that was just business. He had sold it as it should have been sold. His editor's hands had made a hit.
Mr. Yamazaki certainly understood what readers wanted.
My book would not have sold a single copy without him. What else could—or, more relevantly, could not—be sold with just a young girl's photo?
Maybe there never was any point in me writing my own words from the start.
Ultimately, it was writing that no one would read. That no one would understand. It reached no one.
To write about things like that. To write. To write. To write for someone who isn’t there. To write. To write the most meaningless things in the world. To keep on writing.
What for, exactly?
When I began to contemplate this, my debut work, now encased in a decorated bookshelf, began to emit a grotesque glow.
I realized I could not write a single word of the stories I once loved.
Touka! Hey, Touka!
Yuzu was vigorously waving her palm in front of me.
Perhaps I had been lost in thought. The classroom was nearly empty already. I hastily closed my book.
Sorry to keep you waiting! I totally dodged a meeting with Matsuoka 'cause I said my period was making me dizzy! Let's get out of here before we get caught!
Yuzu had an enviable wild side. A crumpled blank career survey sheet was thrown on the desk as we prepared to leave.
If we don't hurry back, that scary thing will get us. So this is an emergency escape! Self-defense!
What did she mean by "that scary thing"?
When I pried, she told me the rumors of the vampire.
That a vampire lived in the school at night.
That it was an ancient being ruling over darkness and blood.
That it mercilessly killed people.
It's like, "Grrr." So scary!
Yuzu spread her arms with a serious expression.
It seemed to be a widely believed story amongst the students.
Every school has its share of strange rumors. Urban legends never die, not even in the modern day. Being someone with few friends, I was usually clueless about such things.
I imagined the vampire lurking in the darkened school building.
As usual, I unconsciously thought up a story that would fit her existence.
The vampire. What could her life be like? What did she live for?
Surely, she was not just living a carefree life; nobody would think up rumors about a vampire like that. No one in this world wanted that.
Lost in thought, I followed Yuzu’s lead towards the classroom door. There, we ran into Fubuki.
He must have been coming back from being tossed around in the Toy Box. He was covered in scrapes from his limbs to his face. No one had come to help him, and he hadn't asked for any help.
Yet, his eyes were as striking as ever. Those transparent eyes that evenly observed everything, the eyes of a prince gazing at an alien sky. Even in such circumstances, nothing had changed.
I reflexively looked down as his gaze almost met mine. Pretending to search for a bookmark, I opened the paperback I was holding.
Don't worry. This is our problem.
His voice, soft as a gentle breeze, brushed past my ears as we passed by each other.
Nerves throughout my body shuddered with a horrid groan faster than my brain could comprehend their meaning.
Don't worry? About what?
That you didn't do anything.
About the things I wanted to say, but couldn't. About pretending not to notice while seeing everything. About escaping into the world of books.
He probably knew everything. Knew and yet, was still considerate of me.
When I turned back, Fubuki's transparent eyes had already moved away from me.
Reaching for the room's cleaning supplies, I straightened the ones that had fallen over, methodically, like it was my job. Like a laborer in a forsaken village.
I gripped the paperback tightly, my nails digging in, eroding the imaginary world within its pages.
In the pages I had left off, the hero was boldly confronting evil, declaring what was wrong and saving the innocent.
There were no pitiful heroes in the stories I cherished. They all acted with courage and passion, doing what must be done.
Crash!
The sound of something hitting the wall of the cleaning cupboard assaulted my eardrums, mocking me as I stood frozen.
What right does one have to appear in any story when turned away from reality, pretending to read?
It was a joke to think pretentiously about reaching someone with my writing, as though I were some sort of author.
I was unable to help even the person in front of me, unable to communicate properly. I boasted of stepping outside the ordinary category, yet I failed to perform even the most basic of human duties.
This audacity is astounding, Touka Tokiwa. Who do you think you are?
I could feel my cheeks flush a deep red.
I was so ashamed of myself that my insides felt like they were boiling.
I could feel impure blood coursing through my slender wrists, my thin thighs, the unhealthy back of my neck, and my chest that showed no signs of growth.
After circulating through my body, a clot of blood gathered like a worm deep in my belly, then oozed thickly, turning into rotten filth dripping down between my legs.
It was filthy blood.
Was this novel written by such young blood? This is definitely going to sell.
The secretly proud feeling I had felt when Mr. Yamazaki said that came flooding back. The memory of how special I thought I was swirled around my brain.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Everything that made up me was utterly revolting.
I wish it could all be sucked out of me.
I wish this filthy blood dripping inside me could turn into something beautiful.
. . . Are you okay, Touka? You look completely out of it.
Yuzu made an exaggerated gesture.
I shook my head silently. If I opened my mouth, I felt like I might vomit.
We arrived at the nearest station to our high school. The ticket gates were crowded with salarymen rushing home and young people heading out.
I turned down Yuzu's invitation to go shopping in Shibuya on Saturday.
Oh, that's too bad . . . Bummer! Well, see you at school, then!
Yuzu blinked at me as I pulled on her hand, clearly puzzled as we headed towards opposite platforms.
The place with the vampire? I heard it was the old school building . . . Oh, are you interested, Touka?
When I told her I wanted it for creative inspiration, she nodded several times, seemingly convinced.
Right, it's all just make-believe. A real vampire would be terrifying, right? Normal people don't do such weird things.
†
After forcing myself to eat dinner at home, I lied about forgetting something and went back to school.
The winter sun had set between the houses, with the last slivers of light swallowed up by a chilling blue. The world of darkness crept closer, its quiet, watery sounds echoing at my feet.
The back gate's service entrance was carelessly left unlocked.
At the corner of the property, covered completely by lush branches, stood the old three-story school building. Its shape resembled that of an extinct dinosaur.
There was not a soul to be seen. It would have felt no different than being lost deep in the mountains had it not been for the flashlight in my hand.
Our high school had been renovated into a combined middle and high school over twenty years ago. Several buildings were scrapped and rebuilt when the new junior high building was added; during that process, only the block housing the old library, music, and art rooms remained, like embers left unburned.
It had been used as club rooms for cultural groups for a short while, but after the fire a few years back, brand new shiny club rooms had been built.
Thus, a ghostly building, now awaiting demolition, was born, hidden deep within the thicket.
Yuzu said that a vampire was living in that old school building.
She dances on the rooftop during the witching hour! There's a secret basement where you can hear an eerie chain clinking! Oh, but maybe she was hanging upside down from a third-floor window? Or holed up in the fourth toilet stall . . . Hmm, or maybe she's those glowing eyes between the plaster statues . . .
It was like a stew of occult tales, with everyone adding their own ingredients, dousing it in broth, and turning it into a dark mystery soup.
Yet here I was, chasing after that dark stew. Maybe I had caught some of Yuzu’s mischievous spirit, or maybe I was simply chasing an escape from reality.
But, I could not bear the thought of sitting down to a peaceful, warm meal like that.
Entering the old school building was alarmingly easy. Probably because it was needed by no one, like a sentence forgotten somewhere in a book.
The walls and ceilings were sturdier than I imagined. All the windows were intact, and no drafts slipped through. Echoes of my footsteps clung to the abandoned hollow, as if the place resisted foreign presence.
After meticulously walking every corridor, I began the adventure of opening each toilet stall door one by one and exploring the classrooms where plaster statues and portraits had been discarded.
I was not scared. Fear is a sinister offspring of the imagination. Confronted with the unknown depths of darkness, one sees their own reflection. Incredible fear is always unleashed in such situations.
But what I truly feared was living a life that was neither special nor ordinary. Compared to that, any darkness looming outside felt like child’s play, causing, at most, my knees to knock, my teeth to chatter, and a few tears to slip out.
After spending two hours climbing to the third floor,I found myself staring blankly downward.
The search yielded no results.
No matter how much I waved my flashlight, no staircase to the basement appeared. There were no voices calling from the toilets, no figures falling outside the windows. The plaster statues did not move, the piano did not sound, and the bookshelves did not dump their contents. The clear moonlight glared at me through the window glass. A peaceful, safe, and sensible everyday life stood imposingly before me.
. . . No. I shook my head.
The rooftop was still left unchecked.
The door to the landing was locked. Stepping out onto the balcony of one of the special classrooms, I noticed an emergency ladder clinging to the school’s wall like a flea.
The balcony railing was a bit away, with no foothold beneath. The unadorned flush windows were just there, likely designed to prevent misuse during normal times.
It was just within reach if I stretched my hand out enough. If not, there was a fall that would not just hurt—it was too high for that. I was not fond of too much pain. There was a combination of range, distance, height, and fear—I puzzled over this unsolvable equation for about a minute when, suddenly, a noise caught my attention.
It had come from the rooftop.
It sounded like . . . footsteps.
I took a deep breath and clenched my palms tightly.
†
There are four tricks to climbing a high ladder: do not stop, do not look down, do not look up, and think of nothing.
Do not stop, do not look down, do not look up, and think of nothing.
It felt somewhat like life itself. I thought it would not be such a bad idea to experience straying from the path of life metaphorically, but reality turned out to be vastly different from what I had imagined.
The emergency ladder of the old school building was hardly maintained, its rust-bloated supports creaking occasionally. The steps under my shoes felt oddly slippery. Red grains—I could not tell whether they were dust or bugs—spilled roughly from my grip and trickled down my palm.
The harsh winter wind blew against my back. I felt uneasy if I did not hold onto the ladder with my bare hands, but my fingertips were beginning to grow numb from the cold. I reached into my pocket for gloves; I dropped them, and they embarked on a journey far beyond my reach.
My gaze involuntarily shifted downwards.
Suddenly, I faced the penalty for breaking a taboo. Realizing my own height, I caught my breath in shock.
I wonder what kind of pain I would feel if I fell from the third floor. Which bones would break? How would my flesh be torn? What kind of injuries would my organs sustain?
My imagination, once necessary for crafting stories, began to writhe as it created a place for fear in my mind. Ghosts of terror stretched their ghastly hands from the darkness, trying to grasp my ankles.
My startled feet nearly slipped off the rung, and I clung to the ladder in a panic. My coat got caught by the wind somewhere, perhaps due to over-twisting my body, and so I was stuck, unable to move forward or back.
I felt like I was about to cry. No, that was not right; I realized I was already crying. My vision blurred, and a cold sensation trickled down my cheeks.
There probably was not another high school girl crying like me in the entire world, stuck atop an unused emergency ladder at an abandoned school building in the middle of winter. This was why bookish types were hopeless. If I were ever to be reborn, I would definitely keep attending dance classes and become a proper sports girl. I would become someone who dances in front of store windows every Sunday.
It was at that moment that I decided on my plans for my next life.
There was a sound. It sounded like something running around.
I instinctively looked up. The edges faintly emerged in my blurred vision. The ladder was discontinuous. It was the end.
I had not noticed because I was only looking at my hands, but I had almost reached the rooftop.
I shrugged off my snagged coat and summoned the last of my strength. My arms trembled, and my back grew intensely hot. Yet somehow, I managed to hoist half of my body over the edge.
A rooftop without fences unfolded before my eyes. Cracked concrete. Brown, murky puddles. Decaying leaves. A convenience store plastic bag.
An Eight Mart plastic bag fluttered against the rooftop's edge, rustled by the cold wind. There was the sound of something running around. It seemed that was the noise I had been hearing all along.
There was nothing on the rooftop.
Just trash and puddles.
Ah.
A sigh escaped me.
The wind cruelly dried the remnants of tears on my cheek. I felt the strength drain from my entire body. I could feel the heat that had risen to my neck rapidly cooling down.
Reality was merciless.
If Mr. Yamazaki saw me now, he would coldly spit out, "What don't you understand? There's no such thing as vampires. No one is looking for you. No one needs you. What you were searching for doesn't exist anywhere in the world."
Ah. It's getting to me.
Again, a sigh escaped me. It was a breath that dissolved into white mist, like steam spilling from the lid of hell's cauldron.
It was over. It did not matter anymore.
I felt the strength drain from my entire body.
The hand that was gripping the support slowly peeled away.
My footing lost balance, and my soles hovered in mid-air. All that exists there was gravity.
My vision spun, reflecting the sky.
A round light sparkled at the pinnacle of the night.
It was a stunningly beautiful full moon. Far from the earthly noise, in a distant, fantastical realm, it graced the sullied theme of my first work, now a distant dreamland of sanctity.
There was a brief, strange sensation of floating, and my hazy body seemed to fall to the depths of despair under the watchful eye of the full moon—
. . . Fool.
But I did not fall.
I was being supported. By someone's arms.
Curious, how is it that I seemed to have missed a step on the ladder, yet found myself roughly deposited onto the balcony?
The moonlight was blocked, casting a deep shadow over me.
My head had gone blank. I wobbly lifted my gaze to the source of the shadow.
Beside me stood a mystery.
Poised naturally on the balcony railing, her toes set down gracefully, she commanded the moonlight like a servant through the nearby school windows, appearing elegant and distant.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
A moment passed, or perhaps an eternity.
Eventually, she quietly glanced at me, then raised her voice loud and clear.
The night is a feast. Blood dances with the fog and the moon sings of nightmares. This is my domain. What is such a vulgar, short-lived breed doing before the noble undead, the mighty Nosferatu?
To human eyes, she would appear to be in her early twenties. Her hair shone brighter than pure gold, her eyes were purer crimson than blood, and her arms spread more broadly than the continent.
Her dress, a mysterious jet black that seemed to swallow moonlight, was adorned with funeral roses and set against a coat of red and black. The night air enveloped her like a fairy, clinging around her.
I certainly recognized her true identity. She had stepped out of a fairy tale.
An immortal princess residing in an ancient castle, created in the imaginative world within my heart, faintly colored by moonlight and illusions. A proud and legendary race.
Nosferatu.
You audaciously tread into my evening banquet, an unparalleled impudence. You must realize the peril you now face.
Her crimson eyes, unlike any found in this country, glared at me like a fictional king. It felt as though I could see real fangs, something no human of any country should have, in her mouth.
Open your mouth, girl. Have you come here to be devoured, perhaps?
She slowly extended one hand towards me as I remained silent.
If that hand were to swing down, my head and body might be cleaved in two. Or perhaps I would be transformed into a rat or a bat. There was even a chance I could end up as a skeleton supporting a throne as part of its structure.
This was a crisis. A major crisis. Facing an enraged vampire was the biggest crisis of my life.
I had to explain myself, and quickly.
And yet—
Ahahaha!
Laughter overtook my throat. It was my own voiceless laughter. Somehow, it was hilariously fun and terrifyingly enjoyable, and I just could not stop laughing.
There really was a vampire. She truly existed. Just knowing that made me want to double over with laughter, blowing away all tears and depression in a torrent of emotions.
. . . Such a strange girl you are.
The vampire let out a sigh of exasperation.
I shall overlook this, young one. Forget what has happened here. Speak of this to no one. Break this promise, and I will tear you and your kin asunder.
Her cloak fluttered as she turned. I closed my eyes against the swirling wind, and when I opened them, she had vanished into the shadows as though she had melted away.
The balcony was bathed in gentle moonlight. Only a coat and neatly folded gloves were left behind.
