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Hehehe.
Sent. Another one. Good, good. Another one. Good, good. Another one. Goooood, good, good... Oh dear, there I go again, sending the same email over and over. It's a habit. But sending emails to my husband, you know, it reminds me of when we were lovers and gets me all excited, so I just can't help but savor it again and again. Oh, my husband, he’s just like one of those chewy snacks—the more you get into him, the more you crave him! Well, now that my little fun is over, time to head oooout.

To the old lady—or rather, middle-aged housewife—from the neighborhood playing with a child in front of her house, I give a cheerful bow as a greeting. My lack of virtue is my husband's lack of virtue, after all. It's all about The Public Face. Unfortunately, I can't show the true essence of a good wife to anyone but my husband, so I act. I play the part of a kind wife with a lovely smile. "Oh, my, are you off somewhere?" says the gorilla—I mean, middle-aged housewife—who's three years older than me, striking up a conversation. So I reply sweetly, "Yeees, thaaat's riiight, just for a biiit," and hurry on my way. The child, who looks like he has snot smeared all over his face, doesn't even glance at me. Maybe he's a little slow? Not that it matters to me. Aaah, but it just made me picture that wonderful dream of having a child with my husband soon, a wish that would make everyone smile. As soon as my husband comes back, we have to get started on making a baby right away!

Holding down my skirt, I dash off and arrive at the so-called bus stop. There's a taxi stand just twenty meters further, but saving money is a housewife's duty! Redialing my husband's number, I press the phone to my ear, killing time at the bus stop where no one else is standing.

My husband didn't answer the phone by the time the bus came, so I had no choice but to get on. After paying the fare, I sat down on an empty seat and decided to type an email this time.
"Phone." I tried to keep it concise, just the essentials. If I sent a long message, it would just trouble my husband. Because, you know, he can be a tiny bit lazy about things. Other than that, he's completely, utterly perfect, my ideal man, if you just exclude that one little flaw. But even his flaws are part of what makes him so wonderful, you know?
"Phone." "Phone." "Phone." "Phone." "Phone." "Phone." Phooone ♪ Phooone, phooone, phooone ♪ Hubbyyy~, I'm so loooneely, I'm waaaaiting for your caaalllll. Click-clack-click, click-clack-click, click-clack-click. This sound is so annoying. Why do cell phones have to be so noisy?

While I was repeating my "Phone"-click-clack-I'm-so-mad waltz, we'd arrived at the station before I knew it. But there was no reply from my husband, so I got off, shoulders slumped. Ah, I almost dropped my knife! "Oopsie!" I pretended to be anemic, pressed my head, and bent down to pick up the knife, its blade wrapped in cloth. Because I'm going to save my husband now. A wife can't do something as shameful as going unarmed. Besides, if my husband has betrayed me, I can use this to slice off his nose or ears before I butcher him ♪

I enter the station, bustling with people coming and going—the kind of scene you'd want to sketch, maybe with a "swoosh-swoosh-swoosh" for a road sweeper or something—and buy a Shinkansen ticket at the Midori no Madoguchi. I briefly wondered if I should get a round-trip ticket, but then I thought, "Oh, well," and just chose a one-way. After I save my husband, wouldn't it be lovely to stay a few nights and feel like we're on a trip? A person's worth in life is determined by how wonderful they can be, you know. Yes, you could call them "Wonderfulness Points"? Accumulating them is life's true purpose. Of course, since I have my husband, I always get a perfect score!

I quickly grab the ticket, zip through the ticket gate, and whoosh, jump onto the Shinkansen. All the while, I kept my phone pressed to my ear, trying to get through, but there was no answer. Instead, it impertinently played a beeping sound, like a warning. I took it from my ear, wiped the screen—"What's with this thing? It's all sticky with sweat, you grimy little thing"—and checked it, only to see the battery was about to die.
Aaargh, you spineless thing! If I were somewhere private, I would have smashed it, and then I'd have to show my face at the phone shop again as a regular customer. It's just so annoying when that snot-nosed brat—I mean, that young salesgirl, who's only six years younger than me but acts like she's in her prime—gets that exasperated look on her face. That's the only thing that bothers me.
But it's okay. Shinkansen trains have power outlets, you know!
I'm glad I brought my charger. Be prepared, and you'll have no regrets, right?
Though, of course, since I have my husband, there's not a single moment in my life to regret.
Aah-la-la~, there I go gushing about him again. If there were a Satori on this train, I bet my cheeks would be bright red. I wonder if there is, I wonder if there is! I slowly turn my head, looking around, but everyone's putting on a prim and proper, innocent face. Trying so hard not to show it ♪
I plug the charger into my cell phone, and then I jab it into the outlet.
Now I can keep trying to connect to my husband's phone forever.
Shinkansen trains are such a great deal, aren't they?

**Yamana Misato**
2:50 PM

So, what's with that old guy?
After the old guy scurried into the bathroom, I let out a "mphh" sigh and folded my arms. I've lived in a town like some depopulated area in a peaceful country my whole life. This was the first time I'd ever met a suspicious person, so I was a little tense. And for him to go on such a grand adventure just to borrow a toilet... it's so audacious, it feels like a miracle he's even survived to become an old guy like that. Just kidding.

He didn't seem like he was going to harm me. He looked like a gentle old guy. People often say "don't judge by appearances" as if it's the truth, but the reason we tidy ourselves up before job interviews or school entrance exams is none other than because we *are* judged by our appearance, at least to some extent. Even the motivation for falling in love with someone starts with looks about seventy percent of the time.

The reason I was attracted to him was also the perfectly natural one: because he was good-looking. He was naturally popular and well-liked. Even now, I can't quite explain why, or the process by which, he became my boyfriend. I always worried that it wasn't fate, but rather that chance had taken a wrong turn, leading him to make a mistake in choosing his girlfriend. Maybe the influence of my older sister, who fell into that... that state, was part of it. It was hard to be confident in my appearance, which even I felt, standing in front of the mirror, greatly resembled hers.

".........Well now," what should I do? Since I'm planning to jump to my death today anyway, there's no point in reporting a suspicious person to the hotel. Or rather, if I'm going to die, there's no need to drain the bathwater, no need to cut my nails, and really, no need to even breathe. All actions lose their meaning.

I guess you only realize on the verge of death that if you're not alive, you can't find any appeal in value.
"Haaah." Another sigh. Talking with that suspicious old guy was mentally tiring. I didn't have the energy to get flustered, so I didn't lose my composure, though. There are times when being calm—or rather, unemotional—by nature comes in handy. But that old guy really does seem like a good person. I wonder if he's not thinking of looking away from me and contacting someone else. Or maybe he's in the bathroom, pressing his ear to the wall, trying to figure out what I'm doing by sound.

......Whatever. If I'm going to die anyway, I'm not interested in suspicious people either.
Sitting seiza-style on the floor, I stare blankly at the ceiling. He sometimes used to point out with a smile that my mouth would be hanging open, which was unsightly. I've tried to be careful about it since then, but I have a feeling it's probably open right now. I don't even extend my fingertips to my lips to fix it.

I muse that if the world were on the other side of a CRT screen, that old guy might be a shinigami or something. I wished for something to sweep me away, to give me a push from behind.

While I was doing that, another intruder came in through the window. The white cat I saw earlier came in, again without my permission. Technically, this cat is also of unknown origin and should be a suspicious character, but I don't feel as much resistance to it as I did with the old guy. Don't you think appearances are important after all?

The white cat has a mean look in its eyes and glares at me as if to say, "The hell're you lookin' at, huh? Don'tcha go starin' at me like that," but somehow, it's endearing, like a child bluffing.
"Meow," I tried. No reply. It seems my counterpart can't meow right now. It's holding something in its mouth. Is this a room card key? Mine's still here, right? I turn towards the entrance to check. Yes, it's there. I wonder whose room it's for.
The cat patters straight across the room, glares up at me as it passes by my side, and approaches the entrance. Then, it taps the door lightly with the tip of the card key and looks back at me. It's a gesture as if it's demanding, "Open up, you!" Does it want to go outside? In the first place, where did this cat come from? Maybe someone at the hotel owns it, but if so, it should just go back there.

I can faintly hear a sound like a cell phone ringing from the hallway. I recall, as if it were someone else's problem, that my cell phone has probably been tossed aside in my room, not having rung once since he died.

"...Well, whatever. I listened to the old guy's request, so there's no reason to refuse the cat's wish."
The lingering taste of the curry I ate as a pre-death luxury, which cost over a thousand yen, had faded from my throat and stomach, and I wasn't in a very happy state. As a substitute, I get up to go drink a juice from the vending machine.
It's somewhat sad how I become slightly proactive when it comes to food. I have a bit of a big appetite, and I was worried he might dislike me for it, so I didn't eat with him very often. I thought I should at least have good manners, so I decided to wait until I finished studying etiquette. By the time I finished, he had become a body that no longer needed food.

I put on the shoes that were left neatly beside the bed and take my wallet from the table. All that's left is to pull out the card key and I'm ready, but since the old guy who went into the bathroom would probably be surprised if I suddenly disappeared (though it'd be fine if he was), I decided to tell him I was stepping out.

I knock on the bathroom door and wait for a strained "Y-yes?" in reply.
"Um..." I don't know his name. "Mr. Suspicious Person." I almost said Mr. Pervert.
"No, uh... well, I guess that's fine. Yes, what is it?"
"I'm just going to buy a juice."
When I said that, there was a moment of hesitation from inside the bathroom. Did he run out of paper? No, that's unlikely in a hotel.
".........Go ahead." There was a pause, but that was his reply.
"Alright!" I did a half-turn, then stretched out both arms and did another half-turn, then settled back.
"Mr. Suspicious Person, would you like something to drink?"
"...No, please don't worry about me."
"I see." Well then, I raise a hand and leave. I murmur "Sorry to keep you waiting" to the cat and open the door.

The moment I opened it, the cat ran like... hmm, what would it be? Not with the speed of a cheetah. No real power either. If anything, it was a way of running that seemed to float. As if gravity were only half of Earth's, it gracefully bounded on all fours towards the vending machine. I wonder if it found its owner.

I walk, dragging my feet listlessly, drawn towards the light illuminating the dim hallway. It's a pain. Walking is suuuch a pain. My knees hurt. That's why I drag my feet. I pass by guest rooms, indulging in the world's most pointless daydream about the hallway suddenly tilting so I could just roll all the way to the vending machine.

At the vending machine near the corner of the hallway leading to the elevator hall, there was a human figure besides the cat. It was a guy who looked about my age, clutching a cell phone. His back was turned to me, hunched over, and he seemed to be staring intently at the cat at his feet. His reaction was a bit off; he didn't seem to be the cat's owner. The cat, too, wasn't looking at the guy's face but seemed to be looking up at the cell phone.
Even as I approached, dragging my shoe soles on the carpet, the guy my age didn't turn around. I decided there was no particular need to speak to him and looked at the vending machine.

My face, distorted in the reflection on the vending machine's body, looked ghostly due to the whiteness of my skin and the way my hair hung down. Also, the guy my age was positioned right in front of the vending machine, blocking my view as I tried to choose a product. I wanted him to move, so I had no choice but to speak to him. My brain, whose motto is "whatever goes," concluded that it was better than pushing his shoulder since it involved no physical contact.

"Um..." "Whoa!" Perhaps because he was distracted by the cat, the guy my age reacted with exaggerated surprise when I spoke to him. He fell on his butt and was rubbing his lower back with a pained expression, going, "Owowow." I have to feel like I did something bad, I mentally scolded myself with a "tut-tut," while looking down at him with a heart and eyes from which nothing welled up. I was slightly impressed by the cat's agility in deftly avoiding the guy's flailing arm as he fell.

"Oof...kay. So, uh, um..."
The guy my age stood up, looking flustered, while minding his cell phone, its surface sticky with grime. Since I was the one who spoke, he was probably waiting for me to state my business.
I, who doubt I've ever used the imperative "Move" even once in my life, naturally, this time too, said, "I'm buying a juice, so, could you please move?"
It came out sounding as if I were shifting responsibility to someone else, as if I were about to add, "...is what my girlfriend next to me said." It's always like this. My desire not to take responsibility for my words is clearly evident. It's a wonder that, being like this, I managed to succeed in the biggest event of my life: confessing to him. Maybe because my usual demeanor was so lacking in confidence, I managed to evoke his pity or something.

"Oh, right. Sorry 'bout that."
The guy my age casually bowed his head and made way for me. He didn't seem to intend to buy a juice himself; he laughed awkwardly, as if to smooth things over, saying, "Nah, haha," scratched his head, and walked off towards the elevator. As soon as he was a little distance away from me, he immediately opened his cell phone, his eyes glued to the screen as if confirming something.

For some reason, the white cat also followed the guy my age, trotting after him. Its tail swayed like a car's windshield wiper, and if I stared at it, I felt like I might fall under a sleeping spell. Not that it matters.

Alone now, I face the vending machine. What should I drink? I'm not in the mood for tea right now. But then again, I'm not feeling fizzy enough for soda. Oh, wait, that's always the case. Then why have I been drinking soda all this time? Not that it matters, part two. What else... juice, huh... Okay, orange. He liked it.
I insert coins into the vending machine, which is whirring—as if angry—to cool itself. "Huh, the prices are the same even inside the hotel," I find myself agreeing with this odd detail, and firmly press the flashing red button. The vending machine, whirring as if suffering from a stomachache, makes a "clunk-clunk" sound, like it's giving birth to its child. I reach down and retrieve the can of orange juice. As is customary, I peek for change, but nothing more than what I paid came back. Such an honest fellow. When I worked part-time as a cashier, I used to give ten percent extra change as "service" (it wasn't a mistake, manager!). The ultimate "not that it matters."

Enjoying the coolness spreading up to my shoulder as I press the cold can against the artery in my wrist, I head back towards my room. On the way, I glance sideways into the elevator hall and see the guy my age from before, crouching down and interacting with the cat. The cat, still with its grumpy face, is glaring at the guy as if to say, "The hell, you? What's the deal with you being bigger than me even when you're crouching?" but it's docile. It doesn't even raise its claws.

How listless.
Maybe that cat has learned that harming humans is disadvantageous.

I'm getting tired. I probably don't even have the energy to hesitate anymore.
When I get back to the room, if that old guy has suddenly vanished.
I'll decide that I'm so far gone I'm seeing hallucinations.
And this time, I'll use that as my cue to jump. From the window, from life, a diiive.

**Hanasaki Tarou (Detective) & Touki (Girl)**
3:00 PM

"Hm? Was I wrong?"
Tachibana Eiji, having abandoned his computer and now constructing an airliner out of Lego blocks, was waiting for my reply. No, he didn't really seem to be waiting. His words were adorned with only enough interest to ask since he'd already brought it up.
I leaned back against the chair and let out a breath. "No, you're right, though," I confessed.
I always get found out anyway. It's just that this time, it wasn't my confession but the other party seeing through me. Strangely enough, I've never failed a job even after revealing my identity. That's why it's still difficult for me to diagnose whether the detective business is suited for me.
"Honestly."
"For my own edification, I'd like to ask, did I make any slip of the tongue?"
"Not really. I was the one doing all the talking."
When I nodded deeply in agreement, Tachibana Eiji snorted with a "Hmph."
"Well, based on experience. Previously, a young man who clearly looked like he hadn't read a book in ages claimed to be a fan and approached me under the pretext of wanting an autograph for his book. And eventually, he slipped up, and I found out he was a detective here to investigate my affair. You're not here for an affair investigation too, are you?"
"That's exactly it. It's the bread and butter of the detective business, after all."
Tachibana Eiji's face fell, and he pulled off the feat of sounding dejected with just his voice, saying, "Not again." He rummaged through the box of Lego parts and began assembling the left wing separately.
"The one who hired you, it was a young woman, wasn't it?"
"That's covered by client confidentiality."
"For someone whose job is to expose privacy, it's strange that you protect that sort of thing."
"Ah, well, that's true. But it's to protect my own position, you see."
"Just spit it out. I pretty much have an idea who hired you, so I just want to confirm if I'm right."
Well, unless he has multiple lovers, it's usually just one person who suspects an affair. I'll answer with some ambiguity, like a hypothesis, within the bounds of what I can fulfill as a detective's confidentiality. Tachibana Eiji's desire to be convinced was clearly evident, and I liked that about it. Similarly, I also work hard, prioritizing my own "conviction." According to the second Hanasaki Tarou, that's "insufficient for a detective," apparently.
"She's not that young. Around twenty."
In my eyes, that age appears to be an old hag.
"I can't say anything more specific than that." Because that's the job.
To be honest, from my subjective view, Tachibana Eiji made a strange face. He momentarily took his eyes off the Lego blocks and gave me a probing gaze. "What the hell is this guy talking about?" his eyes seemed to say.
"Ah, just as I thought. Same as last time."
In the end, he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. As for me, there's no need for everyone to understand my predilections, so I don't elaborate further on topics like aesthetic theory.

"She's not... your lover?"
"She just called herself that, didn't she?"
"Well, yes. Are you planning to deny that?"
"Exactly. I don't have anyone like that. I don't even know the woman. I hardly ever forget the face or name of someone I've seen once. Why? Because I have nothing else to remember."
He said this self-mockingly and completed one wing. He changed the angle, peered at it from below, and seemed to be checking his handiwork. Apparently dissatisfied with something, he disassembled one part and reassembled it.

"You guys can investigate me all you want, but before that, investigate the person who hired you."
"It's our policy not to pry into our clients' backgrounds."
We're a small-time agency, so if they're that knowledgeable about the target, we trust them.
"What is it?"
"Haaah."
Muttering, "Creepy," Tachibana finished correcting the wing. After placing it on the corner of the table, he plunged his hand into the box as if grabbing a snack and took out similar parts.
"If anything, I'd rather have you guys investigate that woman's background for me."
"Oh, is that a job request?"
"No, thanks. I don't want to meet the same detective twice for different cases. That kind of thing is fine just in the world of fiction."
A typical argument for a fiction writer... or is it? I can't quite tell. However, can I really trust Tachibana Eiji's words completely? I've never had a target who, when asked if they're having an affair, answered "yes." Well, if they were like that, there'd be no need for a detective.

"Ah, come to think of it," I broach the subject as if I'd just remembered. "Staying in a twin room seems a bit suspicious, doesn't it?"
"It's a coincidence. This time, when I booked a non-smoking room, they assigned me this one for some reason. Apparently, it's supposed to be a service for a long-term stay."
As he assembled the right wing, his words flowed out as smoothly as his hands worked. He doesn't seem to be lying. Though I wouldn't assert that seeing through truth and falsehood is what a detective does. In stories, they're closer to the side that "creates truth and falsehood," aren't they? Because the cases solved by those who take on the role of detective become the main plot of the story.

"This is just a hypothesis, but that woman, Tachibana..."
"Call me whatever you like. Just don't call me Sensei."
"I hate being called that. 'Sensei' is a role for teaching something, right? I don't want to teach anyone anything."
"Then perhaps she's an ardent fan of yours, Tachibana-san?"
"If she's a fan, she's trying too hard. If she's a stalker, she's about average."
Assembling another wing, Tachibana Eiji purses his lips at its workmanship. "He's like a child," I think, observing his profile. And his fingertips. Are those the tools of his trade? It's a strange job.
"So, are you planning to investigate my affair?"

After stacking the two wings, Tachibana Eiji stares at me, as if glaring.
"Well, that's the job. However, this is the first time my cover has been blown right from the start, so I'm also wondering what to do."
"Is that so. Well, do as you like. But lately, I've only been meeting with my editor, so no matter how much you investigate, you won't find anything. Ah, well, maybe my lack of social skills will come to light." His tone sounded somewhat amused. He shot me a look as if threatening me with his eyes to laugh, so I gave a slight smile and brushed it off.

"I wasn't keen on it from the start, so either way is fine with me, though."
Even as I said that, I naturally still intended to investigate Tachibana Eiji as part of my job. I am, after all, a detective, however humble. Through work, there are things to be gained besides one's livelihood. So, I carry out the jobs I'm given. That, I suppose, is my pride.
While I was pointlessly making such a passionate resolve, the man—who may or may not have sensed it—narrowed his eyes and stared out the window. He had the expression of someone with poor eyesight desperately trying to see something.
"As a detective, what's your specialty?" he asks me, his gaze still directed outside.
"Specialty?"
"Finding animals, finding people... Unfortunately, it seems there are hardly any detectives in Japan who handle murder cases."
"Truly unfortunately. I haven't even encountered many dead bodies myself."
The two of us let out subdued laughs together. Impropriety, when shared, is replaced by amusement.
"Hm? Not many?" His mouth still smiling, Tachibana Eiji interjects with a question.
"No, don't mind me," I brushed it off and continued speaking. "My specialty is finding lost animals. After that, finding runaways, or assisting with disappearances... Well, as a major case that shakes the agency, we also handle affair investigations."
"Hoh, then that's perfect. Won't you look for a cat for me?"
Tossing aside the half-finished fuselage, Tachibana Eiji spins around in his chair. He turned not just his head but his entire body towards me and straightened his posture.
"A cat? Well, that's a job request, isn't it?"
Taking a job from the target of an affair investigation? ...Well, I guess I can just do both. The image of the Chief, who pretentiously says at every opportunity, "If you have any business, go through my secretary," plays in my mind. Incidentally, I am the secretary. An organization with a grand total of three members tends to produce individuals with many roles: secretary-slash-tea-server-slash-receptionist-slash-cleaning_staff-slash-clerk-slash-subordinate. I don't know how it is elsewhere, though.
"This one, yes. It's my cat. Pure white, mean-looking eyes, and a long tail. Those are about its only features."
Just like its owner, except for the tail, huh. While restraining myself, my eyes were probably smiling. I could feel the corners of my eyes twitching.
"Hmm, do you have a photo or anything? If you do, I'd like to keep one."
"Ah............" He raises both hands to a halfway position as if searching for something, then shakes his head. "Don't have one. I just picked it up recently."
"Picked it up?"
"It was abandoned on the road in front of my parents' house. My family hates cats, so I brought it here too."
"Ah............ I have some experience with that sort of thing too."
Because I picked up Touki in front of the office too.
"So, where did you get separated from the cat? Did it run off during a walk, or...?"
"No, it's probably in the hotel. While I was complaining insistently about room service, it must have gone out for a walk through the window on its own again. I just hope it didn't get on an elevator."
His tone was brusque, but I could sense his concern for the cat beneath his words. But, huh?
"This hotel, are pets allowed?"
"Of course they're not allowed. I just arbitrarily decided it was a perk of renting the room for a month. In fact, the hotel staff are turning a blind eye to it."
"Huh?"
"I see. So, as a result of that fib, it means the cleaning staff won't drag it out."