Among the cobblestones of the sidewalk, rapid footsteps could be heard. He tried to maneuver through the throng of people walking in all directions. He was running late. Again.
He had left home later than he should have. Not my fault. Well, yes, it was my fault, but not entirely.
Rory had found a little yogurt container in the fridge that she'd forgotten to throw away three weeks ago.
"Three weeks isn't that long," Rory had said that morning, holding the yogurt with complete confidence.
"Rory, the date clearly says—"
"Dates are suggestions. Like the Ten Commandments. Or the laws of thermodynamics—things that guy Murphy invented because he had nothing better to do at home like invent a rocket or something."
"It smells weird but it's probably edible."
It wasn't.
Twenty minutes later, she was doubled over on the desk, groaning, "You mortals willingly eat poison."
Two hours later, she was lying in bed—well, my bed, on the pillow she had claimed as her "recovery throne"—pale, green-faced, clinging to the mattress because the world was spinning too much, her gaze lost in the distance. Her halberd rested against the nightstand, within arm's reach, as if even in illness she needed a weapon nearby to fight the sickness. Tamamo applied cold compresses with the patience of a saint. It seemed the Goddess of Death was having a near-death experience—from the client's side. But even in her state, it was she herself who scolded me when I tried to say I'd stay to take care of her.
"This is humiliating," she murmured for the fifth time in the last hour.
"I'm a goddess. Goddesses don't get sick from spoiled food."
"Goddesses shouldn't eat things that have been in the fridge for months," Tamamo replied.
"Especially when those things have a layer of something green on top."
"It was cheese."
"It was mold, Rory."
"Mold cheese. It's different."
"No, it isn't."
"Tell that to the fever and see how different it is."
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" I asked for the third time, tying my shoes by the door.
"I shouldn't leave you alone."
Rory made a weak gesture with her hand.
"Go. Tamamo will take care of me. You have to go to your... thing. With the girl with the ridiculous hair."
"Luna."
"That one. The drill-hair one." She paused.
"I like her. She's a good person. Anyone who likes you is a good person."
"Besides, she likes you."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Tamamo walked to the edge of the table, her orange kimono brushing against the wood. "Rory's right. You should go. You can't miss your commitments."
"But—"
"César." Her voice was soft but firm.
"We're fine. You need to make more human connections. It's... healthy."
"Having friends is healthy," Rory murmured from the pillow.
"And I'm not going anywhere. Literally. I think my legs have declared their independence."
"Go."
"You need more human friends, and since we're on the subject, money too—I have no idea how much emergency medical intervention will cost."
"But—"
"No buts. Tamamo will take care of me. You make friends. That's an order."
"When you come back, I'll be healed, and I can annoy you properly."
"I promise to take care of her," Tamamo said with a smile.
"Even if she bites."
I left the apartment with the feeling that I was being kicked out. In the most loving way possible, but still kicked out. For the first time in weeks, I was walking down the street without invisible company. It was... strange. Unsettling. Like leaving home without your phone, but multiplied by a thousand. I had gotten used to feeling their movements, hearing their whispers, knowing I wasn't alone even though it seemed like I was.
Now I was truly alone.
I tried to focus on what I was going to say to Luna. We had agreed to keep working on her novel. She wanted to show me her ideas for the characters—something about villains with psychological issues. She'd sent me a cryptic message the night before: "My psychology tutor mentioned something interesting. I think it could work for the antagonist. I'll explain tomorrow."
Psychology. Antagonists. Sounded good. Sounded like a normal session. She probably wanted advice on defining characters and their concepts before implementing them or something.
I couldn't get the image of Rory sick out of my head. Of Tamamo taking care of her. Of how fragile they were, despite being goddesses. Of how much they depended on me for basic things like not eating rotten food.
And how much I depended on them for things like... everything.
I climbed the library stairs two at a time, cursing my lack of fitness, and headed for the main entrance. I was so focused on not tripping over my own feet that I didn't see the person coming out until it was too late.
The impact was light, but enough to make us both stumble.
The National Library was an imposing building, with marble columns and stairs that seemed designed to make you feel small before entering. I had agreed to meet Luna here because it was a public space. With witnesses. With people around.
Yes, I was still thinking about that. Still calculating every interaction with women as if it were a chess game where one wrong move meant ruin. My sister had reminded me why. The boss had reminded me too. The world doesn't forget, and neither do I.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, eyes fixed on the entrance. And then I collided with someone.
"Ouch!"
"Hey! Watch where you're going!"
The impact pushed me back a step. A girl was in front of me, rubbing her shoulder with an annoyed expression. She wore a tight light-blue dress, with details that looked like they came straight out of an anime. Her hair was an impossible cyan tone, tied in two pigtails that fell over her shoulders. And her eyes—an almost electric blue—looked at me with a mix of irritation.
But the strangest thing were her ears. Rabbit ears. Long, erect, covered in fur that matched her hair.
"Can you watch where you're going?" she said, her voice sharper than I expected. "Or did they never teach you manners?"
"Sorry, I—"
"I didn't see you."
"Of course you didn't see me." Her eyes pierced me with a contempt so pure it was almost admirable.
"You were staring at the ground like a loser."
"Just stay away from me, creep."
And without waiting for a reply, she walked past me and entered the library.
I stood there, on the stairs, processing what had just happened. The rabbit girl—she was the same one from that shop where I bought Rory's hairpin. A beauty out of this world, impossible to forget, though she'd surely forgotten about me. I'd try to forget too if someone knocked me to the ground for not paying attention.
........
........
Creep.
Yes, that was the response I used to get whenever I tried to interact with a girl, regardless of context—even at work when I tried to help with reports.
I stood there for a few seconds, processing.
I'd been called worse. Much worse. But it still hurt.
I shook my head. I didn't have time for this. I was already late.
I found Luna at one of the tables on the second floor, next to a window overlooking an inner courtyard. She wore her impeccable Luna-brand clothes, as always, but her expression was less serene than usual. She seemed uncomfortable. Sitting with her back straight, her navy blue dress immaculate, her blonde hair perfectly styled as always, her fingers drumming on the table.
"You're late," she said, but there was no reproach in her voice.
"Sorry. I got held up at home. Rory got sick."
"Rory?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Your roommate?"
Shit. She wasn't supposed to know about Rory. She wasn't supposed to know about anyone.
"No, a neighbor from my building."
"She doesn't have anyone, but it's nothing," I said, sitting across from her.
"Are you okay? You seem... overly anxious."
Luna blinked, as if my question had caught her off guard. Then a smile—a real smile—spread across her face.
"My father is coming today."
"Your father?"
"Yes." Her blue eyes sparkled with an emotion I rarely saw in her.
"He called me this morning. He has a business meeting in the city, but he said he'd come see me after. He wants to have dinner with me." She paused, as if savoring the words.
"It's been months since he last visited. Months. He's always busy with the company, with meetings, with trips. But today... today he said he'd come."
"Hey, if your father is coming to visit, you probably want to be at home with him."
"We can reschedule this class for another day, no problem."
"No, don't worry—I was looking forward to this anyway. Besides, a Hoshikawa doesn't go back on her word."
"Oh, okay."
"Luna, that's... great... that your father is coming today."
"I know." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table in a gesture her etiquette tutor would probably have disapproved of.
"I've prepared a presentation for him. Well, not a formal presentation, but a summary of what I've been doing. My university grades. The draft of my novel. The ideas for the company. I want to show him I've been working hard. That I'm not wasting my time here."
"You've never wasted a day in your life, Luna."
"In fact, maybe you should learn to take it a little easier."
She looked at me, and for a moment her expression softened.
"Thanks."
"What time does he arrive?"
"His flight lands at four." She glanced at her watch.
"He said he'd pick me up after his meeting. Around six, I think." Her smile widened.
"I thought we could go to that Italian restaurant downtown. The one with the chandeliers. Do you know it?"
"No."
"It's really nice. Too expensive for what they serve, but my father likes it—he mentioned it last year when he was in Italy." She paused.
"Maybe I could invite you someday. As thanks. For the classes."
"No need."
"I know. But I want to." She straightened up, regaining some of her usual composure.
"Now, let's start the class. I don't want to delay you more than necessary."
"You haven't delayed me. I arrived late."
"Right." A small smile.
"I forgive you. This once."
Luna nodded, but didn't open her notes immediately. Instead, she looked around at the nearby tables where other students read or typed on their computers. A couple was arguing in whispers about a group project. An old man was flipping through a newspaper. Someone had let their phone ring, the tone echoing through the space before being silenced.
"This place is too noisy," she said by way of greeting, pointing at a group of students arguing animatedly three tables away. "And too public."
"It's a public library. It's supposed to be public."
"I know. It's just..." She made a vague gesture with her hand.
"I'm not used to being in a place like this."
"But I thought it would be more... quiet. Like in the movies."
"Or like in Japan..."
"In the movies, libraries have echoes and people speak in reverent whispers. In real life, people come to do group projects, watch videos on their phones, and let their kids run around the children's section."
"It's not a place to see two hundred people reading silently on benches. Maybe it was like that two hundred years ago."
"And Japan is a different culture. The values are different."
"I see..." Her expression was one of mild horror.
"And do you come here often?"
"No. I prefer my room. But it's not an option for our classes."
"......"
"Sorry."
"Maybe the library wasn't the best idea."
"Whatever, we're here anyway."
"A small price to pay to please my Sensei."
"Please don't use that word—it makes me feel like an old man in a straw hat next to a waterfall."
"I like lying to myself, saying that I'm still young, thanks."
"Oh, sorry—in Japanese it's a word we use to refer to a teacher, a superior in an area you want to improve in, someone you want to learn from."
"It's not derogatory—it's actually a title of respect."
"It's a Japanese language and culture thing, where some words have more meaning and power."
"It's hard to explain in your language. It's like using the word 'Don,' I think?"
"Don't worry—I know what it means. I'm enough of a 'weeb' to understand the basics of Japanese culture."
"I had my phase of watching anime in Japanese all day for months nonstop."
The session was productive. Luna had been working on her novel's antagonists—"Because a story is only as good as its villain," she'd said, quoting some creative writing class—and she had a list of concepts she wanted to discuss. She showed me her notes: character profiles, scene sketches, relationship diagrams. Her handwriting was perfect, like everything about her.
"Characters," she announced.
"The protagonist. The deuteragonist. The antagonist. I've been working on their psychological profiles. My psychology tutor has been helping me."
"Psychology tutor?"
"I'm taking supplementary classes. Negotiation, leadership, organizational psychology." She paused. "My parents insist that a future CEO must understand people. But I've discovered it's also useful for writing."
I looked at the papers. They were detailed profiles, with marginal notes and relationship diagrams. The antagonist in particular was surrounded by circles and arrows.
"This is the villain," said Luna, pointing at the paper.
"Or villainess—I haven't decided yet. The idea is that she suffers from a psychotic disorder. Schizophrenia, possibly. Or something on the spectrum. She hears voices. Sees things that don't exist. But she can't tell what's real and what's not."
My fingers stopped on the paper.
"Wow, this is quite..."
"I don't mean that in a bad way—it's good to have some defined ideas about the characters before starting a story."
"It helps you define their voices before you write a single word."
"Someone who hates their parents would talk about certain things very differently from someone who adores them."
"........"
"Just as an example..."
"......."
"But the point I'm trying to make is, don't kill yourself trying to have every single detail written down before you start the story."
"Otherwise you'll never start."
"Besides, it's always good to have some leeway with them—you never know, one day you might surprise yourself when one of them takes their own path, and instead of thinking about what they're going to say, you just transcribe what they're telling you, as if you stop being the author and become a kind of historian of your own novel."
"........"
"Although this one here is risky to do right from the start."
"Schizophrenia?"
"Yes. My tutor mentioned that psychotic episodes can be extremely vivid. Hallucinations aren't just visual—they can be auditory, tactile, even olfactory. The person experiencing them can't differentiate them from reality. To them, what they see is completely real. The idea is that the villain doesn't know they're the villain. They think they're doing the right thing."
I felt a cold knot forming in my stomach.
"And how... how do they know it's not real?"
"You don't. That's the thing. Hallucinations can be very convincing. People who experience them interact with them as if they were completely real. They can see them, hear them, touch them. To them, there's no difference between the hallucination and reality." She paused.
"It's terrifying, if you think about it. You don't know if what you see is real or not."
"Yeah."
"Terrifying, no doubt."
My thoughts drifted back to my apartment. To Rory, sick in bed. To Tamamo, making tea. To the two figures who had appeared in my life out of nowhere, who loved me unconditionally, who told me things no one else had ever told me.
Were they real?
The question hit me like a punch to the chest.
I'd been accepting their existence without questioning it for weeks. But now, listening to Luna talk about vivid hallucinations, about people who couldn't distinguish reality from fantasy, about the need for an external anchor... doubt settled in my mind like a gun pressed against my head.
What if it was all an illusion? What if my loneliness had broken me in a way I couldn't even recognize? What if Rory and Tamamo were just projections of my mind, defense mechanisms created by a brain that could no longer bear the emptiness?
What if it was all a lie? What if I was sitting alone in my apartment, talking to the air, while my mind crumbled?
Stolen novel; please report.
"And how is it cured?" I asked with fear.
"It's not cured. It's treated. With medication, therapy, social support." Luna closed her notes.
"But it's a pretty dense topic. Are you okay? You look pale."
"César?"
"I'm fine," I said, on autopilot.
"Just... thinking."
"I'm fine," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "Just... interesting. The antagonist thing. Very interesting."
"Are you sure? We can take a break if—"
"No. Let's continue."
Luna narrowed her eyes. She didn't believe me—she never believed me—but she didn't insist. She was learning.
Luna's phone rang loudly. She looked at it immediately—she'd been waiting for it all this time.
"My driver must be about to arrive," she said, packing up her laptop.
"I have to go."
"Sure."
I followed her to the exit. A black car with tinted windows was waiting by the curb. The driver, an older man in an immaculate uniform, held the door open. But there was no one else.
"Miss Hoshikawa," said the driver with a nod.
"And my father?" asked Luna, and her voice had an edge I hadn't heard before.
"Mr. Hoshikawa sends his apologies. An urgent business matter required his attention. The visit has been postponed."
"Postponed?" The word came out like a whip.
"Until when?"
"It was not specified, miss."
Luna stood very still. Her back was straighter than ever, her hands clenched at her sides. For a moment, I thought she was going to scream. But she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath, once, twice, and nodded.
"I understand. Thank you for informing me."
"Would you like me to take you home, miss?"
"Yes. In a moment." She turned to me.
"César. Thank you for the class. Next week, same place."
"Luna..."
"No." She raised a hand.
"Don't pity me. I don't need compassion. I just need..." She trailed off. Shook her head.
"Nothing. See you next week."
She got into the car. The door closed. The car drove away.
And I stood there, on the sidewalk, watching it disappear, feeling a pang of something I couldn't name.
"So a Hoshikawa can break their word, apparently," I said to myself.
On the bus ride back, Luna's words came back with full force.
Schizophrenia. Psychosis. Hallucinations that seem real. A brain that deceives itself.
I looked out the window. My reflection stared back at me: that face I hated, those sunken eyes, that expression of defeat. Was this the face of a man who had found love? Or was it the face of a man so broken that his mind had invented a world where he was loved?
Ten years alone. Ten years talking to plastic figures. Ten years wishing to be someone else, to be somewhere else, to live another life. Was it so far-fetched to think my brain had said "enough" and created an alternate reality?
Rory. Was she real? Or was she the product of ten years of loneliness projected onto a PVC figure?
Tamamo. Was she real? Or was she the culmination of my obsession with a character who had died to save me?
The bus stopped. The doors opened. People got off, got on. And I stayed there, motionless, trapped in a loop of thoughts going nowhere.
I needed answers. I needed to go home.
When I arrived at the building, someone was waiting at the door.
Maria.
My sister was sitting at the entrance, a backpack hugged against her chest. She wore her wrinkled school uniform, her hair disheveled, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked up when she saw me, and for a moment, just a moment, she looked like the little girl who used to follow me around the house before everything went to hell.
"César..."
"What are you doing here?"
"I fought with mom and dad." Her voice was a thread.
"I don't want to go home. Can I stay here? Just for tonight? I lost my key, I don't know where—"
"No."
The word came out harsher than I intended. Maria blinked, surprised.
"No?"
"You can't stay here." My voice sounded firm, though inside I was trembling.
"Go home. Work it out with them."
"I don't want to! You don't understand what they're like!"
"Yes I do." I looked at her steadily.
"Why do you think I left?"
Maria stood up. Her expression shifted from pleading to indignation in seconds.
"You can't leave me on the street! I'm your sister!"
"No." I opened the door to my apartment.
"Go home. Work it out with them. But you're not coming in here."
"César!"
And I closed it.
A second later, the pounding started.
"César! Open up! You can't do this to me!"
I stood on the other side of the door, listening. Each knock was a hammer blow to my chest. I wanted to open it. A part of me—the part that remembered the little girl who played with me before everything went wrong—wanted to open it.
She's a victim as much as I am. She's also trying to survive...
But I remembered her smile when she mentioned my record. The lightness with which she'd threatened to destroy my life. "I'm sure that'll make things really interesting."
I couldn't take the risk. Not again.
"I'm sorry," said Maria, as if reading my thoughts.
Was she sincere? Or was it another manipulation?
"You can't stay," I said.
"But—"
"Maria. I can't. I'm sorry."
The pounding stopped when the landlord's voice echoed in the hallway.
"What's going on here? This isn't your home! Leave or I'll call the police!"
Silence. Then, footsteps walking away.
I stood there, forehead pressed against the wood, feeling my chest tighten with a weight I didn't know how to carry.
"You need to eat better, so I've brought proper food this time!"
"Really? And what is it? Can I see!?" said Rory, excited for the first time all day.
"Instant soup," I said, holding up the grocery bag.
"It's the end of the pay period. It's what there is."
"Instant soup is the food of the gods," declared Rory, regaining some of her usual energy.
"Well, of the poor gods. But gods nonetheless."
I prepared dinner in the tiny kitchen. Two cups of hot water, two soup packets, three plates (one for me, two tiny ones for them). Steam spiraled upward as I served, and for a moment, the world seemed normal.
But it wasn't. Luna's words kept circling in my head.
"To them, hallucinations are completely real."
"They interact with them, talk to them, touch them."
"The brain is very good at deceiving itself."
The soup was getting cold on my plate. I'd probably stirred it more than necessary, watching the noodles dissolve without really eating them. Rory, on the other hand, slurped hers with an enthusiasm that belied her food poisoning from this morning. Tamamo ate in silence, her sapphire eyes fixed on me.
"César." Tamamo's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." Rory set her tiny plate on the table with a tap.
"You have the same face you make when you're about to write a sad chapter. What happened?"
"Nothing, really."
"Liar." She crossed her arms—or tried to; she was still weak and the gesture lost its force.
"I'm a goddess. I can smell lies. They smell like..."
"Like expired yogurt?" suggested Tamamo without looking up from her soup.
"That's a low blow, you fox."
"Thanks, I learned a lot from you."
Rory snorted. Then her red eyes fixed on me with that intensity that always made me feel emotionally naked in front of her.
"César. Spit it out. Whatever it is. You don't have to protect yourself from us."
That phrase. "You don't have to protect yourself from us." As if they weren't the possible problem. As if I wasn't terrified that my own mind had created them to protect me from nothing.
"Luna," I began, and the word felt like it weighed kilos,
"Mentioned something today. During class. About her novel."
"Something?" asked Tamamo, her tone soft but alert.
"Psychosis. Schizophrenia. Hallucinations." Each word was a stone I was dropping.
"She said that people who experience them can't distinguish them from reality. That they interact with them as if they were real. That they see them, hear them, touch them."
Rory blinked.
"Okay. And?"
"Rory..." I rubbed my face with my hands. "I've been alone for ten years. Ten years talking to plastic figures. Ten years without anyone touching me, talking to me, looking at me as if I existed. Isn't it possible that all of this....is an illusion? That my brain broke and is giving me what it never had?"
The silence that followed was so thick you could almost chew it.
Rory was the first to speak.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's not." Tamamo's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it I hadn't heard before.
"From his perspective, it's a justified fear."
"Justified? If I'm real! Look at me! I'm here! Eating disgusting packet soup!"
"The evil yogurt from the fridge is finally gone—it almost took me with it."
"Yes. And a person with psychosis would say exactly the same thing about their hallucinations." Tamamo set her plate aside and stood up on the table, smoothing her kimono with an unconscious gesture.
"Hallucinations aren't blurry shadows, Rory. They're vivid. You can touch them, hear them, smell them. The person experiencing them interacts with them exactly as we're interacting now. That's why it's so hard to tell what's real."
"But I'm not a hallucination," Rory insisted, and her voice had lost its teasing tone.
"I'm Rory Gremory, from the anime Crimson Covenant, Goddess of war and death. A thousand years of existence. Wife of this idiot."
"That's also what a hallucination would say," Tamamo said gently.
"Especially one created to make him feel loved."
Rory opened her mouth. Closed it.
"So," she said, and her voice was smaller than I'd ever heard it.
"How do we prove we're real?"
"We could take a photo," I suggested.
"If you show up in the photo, then..."
"No," Tamamo interrupted me.
"From the perspective of psychosis, you'd also appear in the photo. If your mind can project us into your visual perception, it can also project us into an image."
"Then we're screwed," declared Rory.
"Maybe not." Tamamo brought a hand to her chin, her golden eyes gleaming with that analytical intelligence I knew so well from the game.
"The key isn't the photo itself. It's an external observer."
But something in my chest had loosened. It wasn't relief. Not yet. But it was... possibility. A plan. Something to do instead of sitting here drowning in my own thoughts.
"Luna," said Rory, as if coming up with the most obvious answer of all.
"It has to be her."
"Why?"
"Because she's human. Because she doesn't know anything about us. Because she's smart enough to notice if something's weird and direct enough to tell you." She paused.
"And because you trust her. Even if you don't want to admit it."
"Luna?"
"Luna." Tamamo also nodded.
"She is someone that everyone else acknowledged her existence, so she is the most real of us"
"She doesn't share the hallucination—if that's what it is. If she sees the photos and confirms she sees us, then..."
"Then we're real," Rory completed.
"Or at least the photo is."
"It's the same thing."
"Not exactly, but—"
"Okay, okay, enough circling." Rory jumped to her feet, regaining some of her usual energy, though she was still a bit green around the edges.
"Photos. To Luna. But not just any photo. Something that couldn't exist as a commercial figure."
"What do you mean?"
"Think, César. If you send her a photo of you with your Rory Gremory in her 1/12 scale from Q-March company figure in its normal pose, Luna can say, 'Ah, yes, that's the Rory Gremory figure they sell everywhere back in japan. Nice collection, weirdo.' But if you show her something no normal figure can do..."
"Like poses that don't come in the box," I said, understanding.
"Exactly!" Rory was already pacing back and forth on the table, gesturing with her hands.
"Figures like me come with fixed poses. My official pose is with the halberd raised, ready to attack. If I do something completely different—something ridiculous, something impossible—and Luna sees it, then we'll know I'm real. Because no commercial figure could do that."
"That... makes sense," I admitted.
"Of course it does. I thought of it."
I let them argue. My mind was still caught up in the possibility—the probability, according to my traitorous brain—that none of this was real. That I was sitting alone at the table, talking to the air, while the soup got cold.
Rory must have noticed my expression, because she stopped in front of me and looked me straight in the eyes.
"Hey."
"What?"
"If this..." she made a vague gesture around her,
"if it turns out I'm fake... if I'm just something your mind invented so you wouldn't be alone..."
My chest tightened.
"Rory..."
"Let me finish." Her voice was firm, though her eyes glistened more than usual.
"If I'm fake, if I'm just your imagination, I'm not going to leave you, okay? You hear me? I'll still support you. I'll still be here. But... I'll respect it if you say you need space... or time."
"I'll be here doing whatever you ask..."
"Space to heal. So I don't hurt you more."
"Rory, no—"
"It's important that you know." She crossed her arms, regaining some of her usual pose.
"Because if you're really sick, the last thing you need is a hallucination that refuses to leave. And I... I don't want to be that for you. I don't want to be a burden."
I felt a lump in my throat. Tamamo, silently, approached Rory and placed a tiny hand on her shoulder.
"You're too noble to be a hallucination," said Tamamo with a sad smile.
"And you're too wise to be a product of his mind," replied Rory.
"Then maybe neither of us are hallucinations."
"We're too smart for this giant idiot that we call husband"
"Maybe... you're right after all..."
They looked at each other for a moment. Then, as if they'd reached a tacit agreement, they turned to me.
"Photos," said Rory, her usual tone restored.
"Now. Before I get hungry again and I'm not settling for imaginary food like last year."
"Wait, what?" asked Tamamo, as surprised as she was confused.
"What happened last year?"
I pulled out my phone enthusiastically, wanting to settle my doubts once and for all. But unfortunately, Rory was in her excited... and bossy mode. She'd now become a demanding film director worthy of a Hollywood studio. The photo session was the most absurd thing we'd done in weeks. And that was saying a lot.
"Lie down on the keyboard and make a face like you're typing with your feet," said Rory.
"That's ridiculous." Said the Kitsune.
"Ridiculous is exactly what we need. Do it!"
I sighed. I took the photo. Tamamo was lying on her back on the keys, her bare feet pressing the spacebar, her arms behind her head as if she were in a hammock instead of on a keyboard.
"Perfect," she declared.
"Now me."
"Take one of me doing a handstand. But with one hand. And sticking out my tongue."
"Rory, that's—"
"Do it."
She climbed onto my extended hand with the agility of a cat and proceeded to do a handstand.
With one hand.
Sticking out her tongue.
While holding her halberd with the inside of her knees.
"Rory, that's physically—"
" Just take the photo, César!"
I took it. The result was an image that looked like it came from a divine flea circus: Rory Gremory, goddess of war and death, upside down, tongue out like she was insulting the cameraman with all the rebellion of a five-year-old, her weapon trapped between her legs like a drunken gymnast.
"Now one together," said the director, demanding more from her team.
"Together?"
"Yes. Hugging. Like sisters."
"Rory, this is just a couple of photos to clear up a doubt."
"This isn't a model shoot in Prague."
"Shut up—we're doing this because of you!"
"Besides, two goddesses will be in the image, so of course they have to look divine!"
Tamamo wrapped her arms around her, and Rory, after a second of stiffness, relaxed into the embrace. Tamamo smiled with that serenity of an ancient goddess. Rory smiled as she'd just won a bet. The contrast was as absurd as it was adorable; I took the photo.
"And now," said Rory,
"The last one."
"Which?"
"All three of us. Same ridiculous pose. If we're going to be embarrassed, so are you. That's divine justice."
"Rory, I can't do a handstand."
"No, not a handstand. Something easier. Something..." She searched for the word.
"Stupid."
"It's an order! As your goddess. Or your wife. Or whatever. Pose!"
We ended up all three with our cheeks puffed out like pufferfish, cross-eyed, and making horns over our heads with our hands. Well, I made horns. Rory raised her miniature halberd. Tamamo, with all the dignity in the world, raised a plastic spoon.
The photo was horrible. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
"Sending..." I said, finger hovering over the button.
"Wait." Tamamo raised a hand.
"What are you going to tell her?"
"That..."
"No weird excuses," said Rory.
"Just send them and say: 'Can you see these photos? Do you recognize these figures from any store?' Direct. Simple."
"That's going to sound really weird."
"César, you're talking to two tiny anime figures asking them if you have hallucinations and asking for their help to disprove it."
"This is already weird on its own."
I laughed despite everything. And then, before fear could make me delete the message, I sent it.
The photos flew to Luna Hoshikawa's phone—the heiress to a corporate empire, who at that moment was probably eating dinner alone in her empty mansion or trying to process that her father, once again, hadn't come.
The response came faster than I expected.
The phone buzzed.
I looked at the screen. My fingers trembled slightly.
It was Luna. One message. Then another. And another.
"I just saw your photos."
"What exactly am I looking at?"
"Are they... figures? Yours?"
I typed a clumsy response.
"Something like that. Can you see them clearly? The figures, I mean. Do you recognize any?"
Three dots blinking. Luna typing.
"I can see them perfectly. The handstand one is very funny. How did you get her to do that? Does she have joints?"
"Wait a moment."
The three dots disappeared. Appeared. Disappeared again.
"I just searched online. I can't find any figure of... Rory Mercury? Is that it? In that pose. Or the keyboard one. Or the handstand one."
"I checked four online stores and the MyFigureCollection database."
"They don't exist. At least not that I can find."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Are you sure?"
"Completely sure. The only official Rory Gremory figure I can find is with the halberd raised. And the Tamamo-no-Mae one is with the kimono closed and the lantern. There's no one where they're doing... whatever it is they're doing in your photos. And definitely not that handstand. Please tell me how much it cost to have them made."
Rory, who had been reading over my shoulder, let out a victory cry.
"I TOLD YOU! I'M REAL! I'M AS REAL AS THE DISGUSTING SOUP I JUST ATE!"
"The soup wasn't disgusting," Tamamo murmured.
"It was cheap. There's a difference."
"I don't care! I'm real!"
"Girls, wait—"
The phone buzzed again.
"They're quite pretty figures, by the way. Very detailed. They almost look alive with that expressiveness. Are they custom? Where did you get them? You should tell me the artist's name."
"It's... complicated," I wrote.
"You're complicated. Always so reserved, like a CIA spy. Now suddenly you send me photos of your figures doing weird poses with no context."
"......."
"It's because of my father, isn't it?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"The photos. It was your way of trying to cheer me up. Because you knew I was sad he didn't come."
"No, I—"
"You're terrible at lying. You don't have to deny it."
Rory burst out laughing. Tamamo, beside me, smiled.
"It wasn't me," I said out loud, as if Luna could hear me.
"I didn't—"
The phone buzzed again, and what I read left me speechless.
"You're very sweet, César. A clumsy attempt, but sweet. You don't have to deny it."
I blinked. That wasn't... that wasn't the interpretation I expected.
"No," I wrote.
"That wasn't it. I wasn't trying to... anything weird or anything like that."
"Sure. You're too socially awkward to try something like that. If you wanted to court me, you'd probably send me a ten-page essay about dragons explaining the romantic subtext. And then you'd apologize for sending the essay. And then you'd apologize for apologizing."
I let out a laugh I didn't expect. It was a weak, breathless laugh, but real.
"What does she say?" asked Rory, climbing up my arm to see the screen.
"She says I'm socially awkward."
"That's not news."
"César," Luna continued,
"I more or less know how to read people. It's part of my training. And you're... different... strange, but not bad."
"You don't approach me for my money. You don't try to impress me. You don't tell me what I want to hear. In fact, you're the only person who's ever told me my work was bad. Directly. Without sugar-coating it."
"It was bad," I wrote.
"The first draft. Not the current one."
"I know. And that's why I trust you. Because you're honest. Brutally honest. Even when it's not convenient for you."
A pause. Then:
"Today was a bad day. But these photos... they made me laugh. So thank you. Even if that wasn't your intention."
The phone buzzed one last time.
"Thanks for trying to cheer me up. After today, I needed it."
"Good night, César."
And then, silence.
I put the phone down on the table and stared into space.
"Well," said Rory, breaking the silence with her best 'I told you so' tone.
"It seems I'm real after all. What a surprise. Who would have imagined."
"What a shame for you."
"Rory..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." She climbed onto my shoulder and let herself fall against my neck, her small body warm and solid.
"It was silly to doubt my existence, by the way. Very silly. You should be ashamed."
"I am."
"Good. Because if this happens again, I'll make you pose for much worse photos."
"Worse than the silly face?"
"Much worse. With girl costumes. And makeup. And choreography."
"Rory, please."
"No mercy for the unbelievers."
"But I forgive you. This once."
"How generous."
"I'm a goddess. Generosity is a requirement."
Tamamo, who had been silent for most of the exchange, came to the edge of the table and placed a tiny hand on my arm.
"It was a justified fear," she said softly.
"You shouldn't punish yourself for being afraid. Your circumstances... have been difficult. It's natural that you doubted."
"Natural?"
"For ten years you were alone. For ten years you talked to figures that didn't answer. The fact that one day they answered doesn't erase those ten years. Your mind needed external confirmation. And now you have it." Her golden eyes looked at me with a warmth that hurt.
"Maybe it was a necessary step. Or maybe fate moving its threads. But it's over."
"Fate?" I repeated.
"Sometimes things happen as they should. Even doubts." She withdrew her hand and smiled—that serene smile that reminded me so much of the character from the game.
"Now finish your soup. It's getting cold."
I looked at my plate. The soup was, indeed, cold. The noodles floated in a broth that no longer steamed, and the spoon was exactly where I'd left it.
But for the first time all day, I ate with appetite.