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"You seem to be, uh, looking around quite a bit, ma'am," I reported, trying out a new character voice. Is she nervous too?
"It's been about ten years since I was last in a hotel, so it all feels pretty new to me—"
"Oh, I see." Should I declare that this is my first time walking through a hotel with a girl?
Even if common wisdom dictates that the older one should take the lead in these situations.
I’m a guy who can’t tell lies, you see. Not that I say what’s true very often either.

"Oh, by the way, Senpai."
"Hm? Hmm?" Just reacting almost made me cough. You’re putting too much strain on my body, Mr. Nerves.
"You get along well with your family, right, Senpai?"
"Huh? Uh, well, yeah, I guess? About average, I think."
"Like, if you were in a jam or, say, critically ill, they’d come rushing over in a panic?"
"It's pretty inconvenient to get to where they are, you know. Everything would probably be over by the time they got there."
"Ahaha."
"Ahahaha."
What is this super flirty conversation? Usually, this stuff grates on my ears, but when you’re in the middle of it, it’s like gospel, huh?
"What should we eat, I wonder?"
"I'll leave the choice entirely up to you. But if possible, I'd like to pass on anything too spicy."
"Oh, really? I thought you didn't like spicy food, Senpai? I have this vivid memory bubbling up of you devouring shrimp chili in the school cafeteria, though."
"I've forgotten all about such ancient history." Was that a Chaplin line?
Either way, I've bitten my tongue so much today, it's guaranteed to sting.

We walked down a hallway where we passed no one and arrived in front of the room. "Which room did you get, Senpai?" "Uh, this one." "Is this a non-smoking room?" "Mm-hmm." Without the tip of my brain quite understanding what I was nodding about, I put my hand in my pocket and fumbled around.
"...Huh? Wha-what?" "Wha-wha-what's wrong?" "Whaaa—" For now, I played along with her, then next came distress.
The card key was gone. I searched deep in my pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, and searched even deeper, but the ultramarine blue rectangle had vanished from my person. Did I drop it? I wondered, turning around and starting back down the hallway.
"Senpai?" "I lost the card key." "Feeh?" She also started looking around the hallway, coming up beside me. Setting aside how serious she actually was about it, she at least seemed willing to look for it with me.
But I couldn't afford to be that nonchalant. Her level of seriousness was different from mine. My brain felt like it was sizzling hot with impatience. The more time we spent, the more I felt like various things were slipping away.
I scanned every corner of the hallway with focused eyes. I hoped that white cat might pick it up and bring it to me again, but the cat itself was nowhere to be seen under the vending machine anymore.
"You didn't use the vending machine, did you?" she commented, as I poked around and stuck my hand into the gap underneath it.
"No, I know, but... just in case."
Naturally, what I was hoping for wasn't there. Instead, for some reason, I picked up a cell phone from underneath. It had a big, white cat strap attached. Maybe they had a big family, because seven or eight cat keychains were also stuck to it. "Huh? Senpai, do you have two phones?" "It's not mine, though." There were faint scratches on the phone's surface, like cat claw marks. Maybe this was the phone of that cat's owner.
But right now, I couldn't care less about something like this. In the end, we ended up back in front of the elevator.

"It's not here, is it?" she said, shading her eyes with her hand like a visor as she looked around.
"Yeah." I couldn't think of any specific action to take, so I was stuck. Right, let's retrace my steps. I had it before I got on the elevator. Of course I did; you can't operate the elevator without the card key. I remembered inserting it, and I even remembered putting it in my pocket afterward.
And then, uh, my nose got crushed... "Ah."
That "onee-san"—no, the *beautiful* onee-san. No, no, that's not the correction I mean, the woman from before. When she dropped her phone in the elevator and bent down, and we bumped... could it be? Was it stolen? Or maybe I dropped it in the elevator then. Which is it?
She still showed no sign of a grim expression, leisurely folding her arms and saying, "What should we do, I wonder?" Hmm, should I try going in the direction that onee-san went? No, but I'm not sure if she stole it, and more importantly, if she *did* steal it intentionally, that would make her a dangerous person involved in a crime.
It would be careless to take her to meet someone like that, and above all, I want to avoid danger as much as possible.
Oh? A gentle-looking man in a blue suit walking down the hallway and passing the elevator... he looks like the bellboy who was knocking on the guest room door earlier, tapping out that three-three-seven rhythm. His clothes are different, but it's probably him. Has his shift ended? Well, this might be good timing.
"Excuse me."
"Yes? How can I help you?" The young man in the blue suit, whom I'd called out to, responded with a gentle voice, exuding kindness.
He approached, fiddling with the knot of his tie at his throat.
"You're a bellboy here, right? I think I saw you delivering room service earlier."
"Yes, I am. Is there something I can do for you?"
He smiled, a smile like an adult gently accepting a child's selfish demands.
"I've lost my card key... well, it seems that's what happened. In a case like this..."
"If you tell the front desk your room number, they can issue you a new card key."
"Oh, I see..." I agreed, though not very convincingly. Seeing this, the bellboy seemed to understand immediately.
"Ah, right. You don't have your card key, do you? Shall I accompany you to the front desk then?"
"Yes, please," she interjected from the side, for some reason. The bellboy, unperturbed, replied with a smile, "Certainly." It was a warm smile, the kind that made me worry she might get captivated by him.
"But please make sure to manage your card key properly from now on," he gently admonished. I felt uncomfortable. Should I tell him it was stolen? But if I revealed that and it turned into a big deal, my time with her would be cut short... weighing those options, the internal command was to omit the details and chalk it up to my carelessness.
"Oh, and this... it's something I found." I handed over the cell phone I'd picked up from under the vending machine. "A phone?" the bellboy murmured as he took it, looked it over, and then said, "Understood," accepting it.
"I'll hold onto it. It's an essential item for people these days, so someone might have already reported it missing at the front desk."
"Could be," she chimed in again. Well, both she and this bellboy have that friendly look and aura about them, so it seems like they’d hit it off. Though if they did, I’d be a little troubled.
The three of us waited for the elevator to arrive, maintaining an awkward distance. Should I say something? I looked at her, but she herself was gazing up at the ceiling speaker. I, too, turned my ears and attention to the music playing.
The bellboy was spinning the cell phone in his hand, killing time.
And just as the elevator was about to arrive...
The moment a man and woman, with a noticeable age gap, appeared from around the corner of the hallway and walked by.
For an instant, I couldn't tell who had let out that outlandish, shriek-like, bizarre cry.
"Huh?"
Her voice sounded so different from usual, it was as if she were hiding a recorder behind her back. "Ugh! You damn old geezer!"
My eyes went wide at her words, shouted at the middle-aged man with a woman. The man himself was frozen, while his female companion and I were the ones whose necks and eyes darted back and forth. The young man in the blue suit, for some reason, was faintly smiling.
He acted like a butler from a manga, one who performs his duties flawlessly while always maintaining an air of composure. This wasn't the time to be praising his professional spirit. My heart began to race, matching the dizzying movement of my eyeballs.
"Natsumi... you, you, with a man, at a hotel, huh, why are you here—"
The fact that the old guy said her first name increased the probability that, in this case, "damn old geezer" referred to her actual father. First the "onee-san," now her father. What in the world is going on?
"Look who's talking, bringing a woman to a hotel! Things must be looking up for you, huh, you damn old geezer!"
The old man was flustered by the thorny words she spat out. "No, ah, you've got it wrong, this is—" he stammered, his gesture and tone suggesting he was about to ask, "And who might you be?" The woman maintained a passive stance, looking dazed by the situation. Only her eyes were unnecessarily at full brightness, which was somehow a little funny.
Just as the elevator in front of us opened, she clicked her tongue, "Tch!" grabbed my wrist with enough force to nearly yank it off, and turned on her heel. Ignoring the arrived elevator, she dashed down the hallway in the opposite direction of my room, putting her plan to disappear from her father's sight into action.
Just like my dizzily spinning vision, I was swallowed whole by the opacity of the situation, as if I were in complete darkness.
Still, as a vaguely felt sentiment:
"What's the big deal now?"
It seemed like fate was determined, no matter what, to make my entire life suitable for all ages.

**Shiina Kouji**
3:30 PM

Even though a man and a woman were in the same hotel room, no R-rated events were unfolding.
If anything, it was G-rated (as in, "Geezer"-rated, my frustratingly weak legs and back).
"I guess I'm way past 'middle-aged man' and firmly in 'old guy' territory now," the woman frankly assessed, as I lay sprawled on the floor with my legs stretched out, limp as the yolk of a failed fried egg. The woman's expression, which until a few minutes ago had been squashed in the middle like a used tissue after blowing one's nose, had already returned to its midnight state, eyeballs and all. Only her eyes were "cabareting" brightly (a coined term).
As a result of desperately forging ahead in the direction the cheeky-looking girl had pointed, I had succeeded in returning to the strange woman's room. Now, I was leaning against the side of the bed, completely drained. I’d used up all my strength.
The moment I made it across, I was convinced I'd surpassed a circus act, enveloped in imaginary cheers. I recalled a time long ago, as part of a family outing, when we went to see a visiting circus troupe at a nearby shopping mall and I looked up at the tightrope walkers. I had strongly rejected the idea of a life that involved treading such a narrow path; it wasn't for me. And now, here I was, having gone through an even more intense tightrope walk, renewing my lease on life minute by minute. You never know what life will throw at you. I’d always imagined a retirement without major ups and downs, probably passing away before my aging wife. Would I really get to experience that kind of old age I'd envisioned since becoming an adult and starting work at a company? A proper long weekend for an old guy like me should be spent sitting in a massage chair going "Ubababababa."
"I've gotten old, haven't I... or so I'd like to say, but even if I'd done that when I was young, my legs probably would have been shaking uncontrollably, and I might have even burst into tears."
When I voiced my thoughts on the wall-hugging experience, the woman, fiddling with her bangs, agreed noncommittally, "Maybe so." She had accepted me into her room without any fuss or panic and was sitting on the floor, maintaining a certain distance. She looked pretty worn out herself, like a tangerine thrown against a wall and squashed.
"Ah, right. There's something I've always wondered about."
"What is it?"
Wanting to show a friendly side and implicitly say, "Please don't report me," I kept my tongue moving. Perhaps it was the effect of escaping the terror and the tension passing, but I was also strangely exhilarated. "You know, when I was young, naturally, I liked young women. That's pretty standard, right? But then, I always wondered what would happen when I got older. Would I start liking older women when I became an old man?"
"Hmm. And what's the verdict?"
"Yeah, younger ones are still better, aren't they?"
"Well, of course."
My long-standing question meets its fated answer. No, wait, I admit I got confused about what I was even talking about midway through. Besides, doesn't this sound like I'm indirectly saying, "I'm after you"? From that perspective, I'll admit I was at fault.
But the woman has her problems too. She has no inclination to elaborate on any topic. If anything, she clams up. Her gloomy demeanor and those eyes, holding a ripe light that makes me shrink every time she looks up, keep her silent. It’s like trying to interact with a child raised in a closed-off rural village and only getting silence in return; it's creepy.
"Uh, I have a rather unusual question." Those were the next words that came out as I tried to say something.
"Yes?"
"For example," I said, looking into her eyes. "Could you forgive someone for... toying with the dead body of someone important to you like that?"
The woman looked a bit dazed by the mysterious question, but her face tightened slightly as she answered seriously.
"I couldn't forgive it, I don't think. But even if I got that worked up, I don't think I'd do anything about it."
"Revenge on the person using the body?"
"I wouldn't," the woman stated decisively, her toes pressed against the floor wriggling.
"I see..." Maybe that's just how it is. I almost voiced my agreement, "Me too," but swallowed the words.
Come to think of it... trying not to be obvious, I let my gaze wander around the room—casually cracking my neck as I did so—pretending, while I checked the top of the desk. The white slip of paper was still there. Does she not even intend to hide it?
...No, in this woman's case, there's also the possibility she simply forgot she put it there. I'd grasped enough of her personality in our less-than-thirty-minute interaction to know I couldn't deny that. Careless, or perhaps indifferent. She probably has little interest in anything, including herself. When my daughter left home to live alone after we fought, her room was cleared out as if by fire, every personal item gone, a thorough consideration to prevent her family from seeing her private things. My daughter, Natsumi, has always been a girl with a fierce temper; the only time she'd use a wheedling voice was when she wanted allowance. She takes after her mother in that respect.
I'd secretly worried about the future of my daughter, who would triumphantly declare, "There's nothing violence can't solve!" while making a fist... but seeing as she did knock me down and leave home by force, perhaps I should praise her as a parent for her determination to see her original intention through. A daughter who would kick her parent around so mercilessly is probably a rare find. Though I failed at raising her.
Right now, the young lady whose room I'm borrowing is more of a concern than my daughter. No, more than that, I should be growing more worried about the intruder in Room 1701 and what lies sleeping inside, but I'm numb, so there's nothing I can do. I'm currently drunk on my own survival. I was aware of that. I was filled with an arrogant sense of liberation, optimistically believing that events would thoroughly tilt in my favor. It's the worst kind of complacency. I usually spend time in such a mood and end up letting things get out of hand.
Even understanding that much, the scary part of this "sense of accomplishment" is that I can't resist it.
Well, it'll work out somehow, nah-ha-ha. I'm saying it jokingly, but in my heart of hearts, I believe it without any basis.
This is bad, really bad.
Well then. I glanced once more at the "farewell note" on the desk, then sighed.
I'm not sure when this suicide aspirant intends to go through with it, but right now, I'm compelled not to pretend I haven't seen it. It's not that I'm claiming I want to save her; rather, I'm reaching out because I want to be fulfilled.
Hypocrisy, starved for self-satisfaction, is waving its transparent arms in a corner of my heart. *Right.* I won't overlook it; I'll persuade her, and then I can say I pulled her hand back from the window at least once.
Clench that flower of goodwill, and let its thorns pierce your fingers.
...Most of that, however, was just to hide my embarrassment.
No, I get it. But if I look at it directly at my age, my eyes will pop out.
An act driven solely by the doting parent's desire to tell someone, to spread his son's words.
"Mind if I tell you an old man's story?"
The woman reacted to this preamble by lifting her chin. When her pupils flickered, the light seemed to scatter in diffuse reflections.
"I don't intend for it to be a very long story."
"I don't mind, as long as you don't expect any commentary from me."
"I won't. You're the type who probably ended most of your school essays with '...is what I thought,' right?"
"How did you know...?"
As she said this, the woman averted her eyes. Her gaze went far off, to the other side of the wall. Perhaps she was immersing herself in the taste of reminiscence.
After a deep cough, like swallowing a daikon radish, I recalled the faces of my two children.
Around five years old, perhaps. Their outlines slowly blurred into my mind before I opened my mouth.
"My family was blessed with two children, a boy and a girl."
"We were three siblings in my family."
"Is that so? Are you the youngest?" "No, I'm the middle one." "You're an older sister, then?" "Why are you surprised?"
It was just that she seemed so much like a lost cause, with a demeanor completely devoid of any shred of responsibility.
I kept that thought to myself, cleared my throat, and moved on to the next part of the story.
"So, about my son... he died about half a year ago. From an illness. Didn't even let us pay his school fees to the end. Is it normal for a kid to die before their parents?"
"...Ah, well, that sort of thing has nothing to do with you, sorry."
Complaining indiscriminately had become a source of trouble for me these past six months. At work, my subordinates and colleagues had listened sympathetically for about a month, but recently, it's become painfully clear they find it annoying. Even so, like a broken machine, I'm automatically driven to keep letting it all pour out.
When you get older, you tend to repeat the same stories. I used to get fed up with my boss doing that, and now I'm the one in that role. It's ridiculous.
"If you say that, then none of this has anything to do with me."
"You're right. That's true."
Her point was valid, so I fell silent. The woman sat with her knees drawn up, then wiped her face with her fingernails, like a cat grooming its cheek with a paw.
"Oh, but I thought, maybe you could continue, you know?"
This woman really does have a strange way of talking. If she were representative of young people, society would collapse.
"Alright, I'll continue then.
"So, when my son was recuperating at home, he said something. 'Even if it's decided you're going to die in a week, people live until that week is up.'"
"Basically, living beings are full of lingering attachment to life," my son had said with a smile. And indeed, true to his words, my son lived out his days, and there were absolutely no signs that would have made anyone suspect he might consider suicide. Well, there was that one time he slipped out of his futon, went out, and came back with a large gash on his left arm, which caused a huge commotion. "I went to see someone," he'd said, looking satisfied, his expression peaceful, as if he were losing the sensation of pain. My tear ducts started to quiver like earthworms, so I cut the reminiscence short.
Trying to figure out why I was so close to tears was also a no-go right now.
The woman looked into my eyes, as if waiting for the story to unfold, "And then?" Staring into her eyes, I fell into the illusion of lying back at the dentist's, looking up at the ceiling light.
Ugh, I hate that waiting time before the treatment starts. It smells bad, too. Not that it's relevant.
"Well, don't you think those are good words? Don't they resonate with you?"
"Hmm."
Her reaction was underwhelming. I had hoped the power of his words might impress her enough to stop her suicide attempt.
"And that's that," I said, cutting the story short and trying for a graceful exit.
".........That's it?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Was that... a boast, perhaps?"
The woman formed a flat, expressionless face with her listless facial muscles, her exasperated gaze—"What is with this guy?"—making the suspicious person seem even more suspicious.
I told you beforehand it was a personal story, didn't I? I have no intention whatsoever of preaching life lessons.
The woman tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as if overcome by drowsiness. Had she sensed something? I was aware that my way of bringing up the story had been a bit abrupt, but then again, she was a suicide aspirant.
There was no telling when she might die. I wanted to tell her while she was still alive.
"Well, well."
Her reaction was so delayed it was tedious to even count the beats; being slow-acting seemed to be her forte. Does she have dinosaurs in her ancestry or something? Perhaps she's extra dull because she's lost in grief.
I suppressed the meddlesome advice, "Maybe you're not cut out for suicide," at the back of my throat.
If she then asked, "Well, what am I cut out for then?" I'd be at a loss for a reply, and as a result, she'd despair and it would turn into a "Aah, life's not worth living, I'll kill myself after all! Flying Woooo-maaan!" scenario, and I'd have to build a small grave in front of my house... or would I?
At the very least, it seems I have zero talent for creating story outlines.
"...Good grief."
It's not like I have the luxury of looking after a random stranger right now.
Still, I feel compelled to prioritize my personal feelings of not being able to turn a blind eye to suicide.
I'm not about to declare that life is precious, or anything.
However, I don't want to be the kind of person who can tell someone, "If you want to die, then die."
Because I believe that death should not be an individual's freedom.
Even if this is a self-righteous value system cultivated by my son's death, I want to support its back now, believing it to be right. Until the wounds heal, until my own life runs out.
"Why... did he die, I wonder?" she murmured, burying her face in her knees, her voice muffled.
I couldn't immediately understand who she was referring to, so I remained silent.
"Your son, Mr. Window Man."
She'd upgraded my nickname from "suspicious person." The pronunciation sounded like "adulterer," which didn't leave a good impression. Come to think of it, I realized we still hadn't told each other our names.
However, while I didn't know the woman's name, I was well aware she wanted to commit suicide. Conversely, the woman understood that I was a suspicious individual who had come walking along the outside of the window.
The information was so lopsided that, against the flow of the conversation, I couldn't help but laugh.
"Did I say something humorous?"
"It's nothing. So, the reason my son died? I just told you, didn't I?"
"No, that's not what I mean. I mean, why did he get sick and die?"
It was a question I likely couldn't answer correctly. There was no anger in it, just a wry smile.
"Why, I wonder. I'd like to know that myself."
"Oh... so you don't know, after all."
"Generally speaking, I suppose you could only say it was bad luck."
Whether it was the family's or his own bad luck, I can't define it, though.
"If you have bad luck, does that mean you have to die?"
Her eyes and words became a tightly wound thread, digging into my skin.
Seeking suicide means she must feel subjectively unhappy.
Unhappiness means her luck isn't good.
So, that's what it comes down to, isn't it? No, I get it, but still.
"That's missing the point."
"...Is it, I wonder?"
"Hmm?"
She mumbled a little defiance. If you combined her with my daughter, you might get a perfectly balanced personality.
Though she'd have no individuality at all, and her nickname would probably end up being something like "Horizon."
The words she tried to continue with didn't seem to catch any air; the woman mouthed something incompletely, no voice accompanying it. She scratched the nape of her neck, said "Uh—" as if to reset, and then,
"I'm going to go buy some juice."
"Again?"
"I know, right?"
"Humans are apparently eighty percent water, you know."
"So, it's like, glug glug, gush gush, I guess?"
She mimed gulping something from a cup for "glug glug," and for "gush gush"... "You really shouldn't do that in public. Ever. Seriously." "You think so?" Oh, did she actually get embarrassed for a change? A flush of vermillion lit up her pale skin. As for what gesture she actually made, I was so struck by the unreservedness with which she expressed it with her whole body that I decided to keep mum.
"Well then, what if 'gush gush' is for puking?" the woman explained, miming punching herself in the solar plexus.
"I think that's problematic in its own way."
"You think so?"
"So, can I go out with you too?" I asked the woman, who had stood up, offering to accompany her.
I really wanted to walk on wide, solid ground. I missed it. Besides, if we were walking towards the vending machines, I could also check the hallway in front of Room 1701. I didn't think anyone would be there, but still, it bothered me.
Because I had no idea how things were going to develop from here.
"I don't think it's a problem... but," the woman mumbled, looking down, seeming hesitant to speak. She was tracing circles on the floor with her finger.
"Is there a problem? Don't tell me, uh, what is it... you're worried about appearances, like being embarrassed if people rumor you're an adulterous couple or something?"
"No, it's just... I was wondering if you have any money."
"You seem to have me pegged as a pretty pitiful person, don't you?"
Not that you're wrong, but I'd like to believe the direction is different... Well, it's true I made a series of blunders in Room 1701, so I'm utterly destitute right now. How did I end up so penniless, I wonder.