Ma En pulled the door shut behind him without turning on the lights, slipped off his shoes in the entryway, and walked into the living room. The city's ambient glow came through the windows, and as his eyes adjusted to the room's darkness, things gradually took shape.

The police had searched the room after entry — but had left the chaos exactly as they found it. The search hadn't struck him as particularly professional: he located their points of entry and exit within seconds, using marks he'd registered in memory. Their methods were evident. From the traces left at the scene, they'd found nothing useful.

He moved through every corner of every room, checking for hidden surveillance equipment. Finding none, he stopped worrying about it.

When he set down the briefcase and the black umbrella, the wooden carving sitting on the desk as a centerpiece caught his eye and held it — unpleasantly. This morning, the strange patterns carved along the wood's natural grain had seemed to carry an artistic breath. Now they produced something closer to discomfort. Too avant-garde. Too strange.

If you tried to read what the carver was expressing through these shapes and lines, Ma En was beginning to think the answer was mental treachery — some kind of bizarre nightmare, a negative emotion given form, an imagination wholly disconnected from anything life-affirming.

He couldn't understand how his morning self had looked at this thing and found it beautiful. The morning self and the present self might as well be two entirely different people. He was certain he should never, under any circumstances, have seen this carving as "a beautiful and natural masterpiece" — although, to be fair, that didn't mean it lacked appeal. It had a definite appeal, just of the ideologically specific kind: the tastes it displayed, in their deviation from common aesthetics and mainstream sentiment, would probably win admiration from certain people who considered themselves iconoclasts.

He'd been to art exhibitions. He'd seen abstract "masterworks." He'd never felt moved by any of them. So how had his morning self found this wood carving — which, from every angle, radiated gloom and distortion — genuinely worth appreciating?

"Interesting—" he muttered to himself, something between a smile and a snort.

He picked the carving up and turned it in the city's faint light, running his fingers over its surface texture. Something dim and half-formed began pulsing in his mind — a suggestion of something, not yet clear. He remembered: he'd bought this from the building manager. What exactly he'd been thinking when he bought it, he couldn't recover now. But it obviously hadn't been for the purpose of art appreciation or collection.

He set the carving down beside the tree branch he'd brought back from Sanchoumoku Park. Looking at them together — by eye and by hand — the textures and grain were clearly different. But he was fairly certain the carving material had come from the same park. What he also felt, without quite being able to pin down why, was that the carving's material was older — significantly older than a modern piece should be.

He was starting to think this wasn't a work of recent craft at all. The strange shapes and the unnatural curves following natural grain lines had something primitive about them — primitive in a way that felt almost like an optical illusion, something his eye reached for before his mind could stop it.

Does this have something to do with the Room 4 Ghost Story?

The thought arrived suddenly, but he had no evidence to support it. Even so, everything that had happened today was revealing a kind of uncanny, precisely choreographed sequence that masqueraded as coincidence — and he could no longer look at this carving with equanimity.

He wrapped the carving and the branch separately in old newspaper, layering it thick enough that neither was identifiable by shape, then sealed each bundle in a black plastic bag and tied them closed. He left the packages beside the bookshelf.

While doing this, he took a moment to check under the bed. No second corpse. Good.

Summer had arrived; daylight came earlier than it used to. He had less than two hours until dawn — perhaps just over one. There were still things to do. Nothing complicated, but if any of them were overlooked, they could generate more trouble.

He stripped off all his clothes and dropped them into the iron bucket he'd bought when he first moved in. He poured alcohol over them, held a flame to the surface, and stood watching as they burned. When the embers cooled, he mixed them with water and flushed them down the toilet, holding the handle down to sustain maximum flow.

With the flush running steadily behind him, he walked into the bathroom.

He showered briskly, scrubbing himself down in passes — his own-mixed cleaning solution first, then regular body wash.

He'd always liked Japanese bathroom design — not that it converted him into the habit most Japanese residents had, of sitting while they bathed or soaking in the tub afterward.

He liked standing while he showered. He liked the showerhead mounted high on the wall, liked the pressure of water striking his scalp and muscle from above.

He liked the feeling of his wet hair sticking to his forehead, and liked the particular satisfaction of smoothing it back with one hand, then wiping down his face.

He liked wiping the condensation off the mirror with his palm and watching — in the reflection that was never quite clear and fogged over again within seconds — the human outline inside it.

He liked the sound the showerhead made, and the sound water made spiraling down the drain. In this sealed six-square-meter space, suspended in warmth and mist, there was a safety that reminded him of something pre-natal — a security he couldn't fully name.

It never lasted more than twenty minutes. Most times, closer to ten.

He turned off the showerhead, draped the towel across his shoulders rather than wrapping it around his waist, and pushed open the bathroom door. He stopped the sustained toilet flush, then walked half-damp and without clothes back into the living room.

He left the disorder of the room undisturbed. He didn't care about the water drops on his skin. He sat down on the sofa, sat quietly for five minutes, then picked up the pen and notepad from beneath the coffee table and began to write.

He didn't turn on the lights. The darkness in the living room had thinned — the sky outside the windows was lighter now than when he'd first come back. Light enough, at this level, to see every character he wrote clearly.

He worked through everything he knew, thought through the implications behind what he knew, and embedded it all in descriptive prose. His mind was like a pen writing one step ahead of his hand — his hand was only transcribing what the mind had already composed. He took everything he'd experienced and thought in the Room 4 Ghost Story so far, shifted the angle, and translated it into a story: summaries and settings, specific scenes.

This was a short story adapted from his own experience. He wrote it specifically for Hirota Masami.

He'd never felt able to speak these things to her directly. But in the dangerous situation they were both now in, a certain degree of honest disclosure had become necessary. He didn't expect her to be honest with him in return — he intended to be the one to disclose. Direct conversation might be too complex, might fall short of the meaning he intended, might land like a blade. So he chose fiction. Oblique, thorough.

Whether this approach was correct, whether Hirota-san would actually accept it, whether it could convey the complex emotional landscape he couldn't fully untangle himself — he wasn't confident. But he'd chosen what felt like the best method available.

No one could teach him how to do this. Because the people who might have taught him were either dead or insane.

He wrote as he thought, and thought as he wrote. By the time he set down the pen, the word count had surpassed ten thousand. The sky outside had brightened properly — pale early sunlight was coming through the window now, spreading a warm sheen across the wooden floor. He stood and opened the window. Morning air moved into the room; the notepad's pages lifted and fell with a soft rustling sound.

As a story, it was full of hints and clues — but in his own judgment, the prose was dry, the plot was oblique, the craft was lacking, the descriptions were impenetrable, and the whole thing would never be called "good." But it was drawn from his actual experience, a story still in progress, far from any ending — riddled with mysteries he himself might never fully solve.

At the end, he wrote the title on the first page: "The Matchmaking God." He looked at it for a moment, then crossed it out and wrote something else — a title he thought had more of the island's flavor:

"Playful Red Thread — The Murmurs of Those Walking in Darkness."

The story had no ending, even as a short piece, because the Room 4 Ghost Story hadn't ended. He couldn't and wouldn't fabricate a conclusion. And because it was adapted from his own living experience, when he himself couldn't follow all the threads with complete certainty, that uncertainty would inevitably surface in the writing.

He picked up the notepad and read it through from the beginning. He'd written it with his own hand, and still it made him shake his head internally the whole way through.

Technically and literarily, this is painful to read.

Even so, as he absorbed the pitiful state of his unfinished draft, a sense of calm gradually settled over him. That calm brought, at last, a real smile.

Hirota-san should be able to see this.

He set the notepad back on the coffee table and looked up at the clock on the wall. The hour hand was creeping toward six. He pulled off the towel and dropped it on the sofa, then began to sort through the mess in the kitchen — the intruders had thrown two-thirds of the dishes out of their cabinets, which he found baffling. He muttered about it while he worked. What had they been looking for in the kitchen?

When he opened the rubbish bin, he found it full of takeout packaging and beer cans. They'd apparently held some sort of party here. He'd noticed the mixed-smell of this debris when he first came back — what surprised him now was that they'd been tidy enough to put the rubbish in the bin. Everything that had been scattered around the room was books, documents, ordinary items — not a single piece of actual litter.

He gave the bin a look, muttered a little more, and in his heart felt less irritated than he'd expected. He'd briefly considered tracking the intruders down — but now, thinking about it, what exactly would that accomplish? Beat them up? That would give the police grounds to detain him. Kill them? Then he was a murderer, and whether their deaths would even stick was uncertain. The people who'd broken in were almost certainly connected to the monsters responsible for the Room 4 Ghost Story — maybe they were monsters themselves. Dragging them to the current police system would produce nothing. Not while that system had whatever number of monsters inside it, and while Matsuzaemon still had his hand in things. Getting that outcome would require cleaning up the institutional machinery, and that was not a realistic task.

The most useful thing was to avoid the enemy's most powerful punch.

He'd finished putting the kitchen in order and was starting a casual, stomach-filling breakfast when the unlockable front door was pushed open from outside. Ma En wasn't particularly surprised. The person who entered was, naturally, his recently acquired girlfriend — Hirota Masami. When he turned to look at the entryway, he saw the door had been pushed open with some caution.

He thought: she probably found it strange to find the lock broken again, a month after he'd just had it replaced.

"Darling? Is it you?" Hirota Masami's half-face appeared at the narrow gap, calling out with something that sounded slightly afraid.

"Yes, I'm back," Ma En said loudly.

Then the door was pushed fully open, and Hirota rushed in, staring at him with wide eyes — and then her gaze slipped downward, just slightly.

Ma En didn't mind in the least. He sat spread-legged on the sofa, completely without clothes, stuffing food into his mouth and chewing steadily. "You're up early today. Have you eaten?"

"Ah, I just..." Hirota Masami's gaze kept dozing off, dropping involuntarily and then jerking back up, and she looked with studied casualness at the clock on the wall. "You said you'd be gone two or three days, so I thought I'd come check. A bit strange of me, I know, ha-ha." She let out a couple of dry laughs, let her eyes sweep the room once, and then couldn't keep the smile up at all.

She dropped onto the sofa beside him and frowned at him: "What happened to the room? It's a disaster. The door lock is broken too. When did you get back?"

"Just about two hours ago." He said, perfectly calm. "I came back and found the place like this — someone broke in, looking for something. Still not sure what." He didn't go out of his way to watch her expression. He didn't need to. Whatever she showed would certainly look normal.

"How could that..." Hirota Masami said with genuine alarm. "The security in this building is so good. You should tell the manager right away."

"It's only six o'clock. She won't be up yet." He took a sip of milk and looked at Hirota Masami. "You don't usually get up this early either."

"Mm—" She leaned toward him slightly — almost onto his shoulder. "When you're not here, I can't sleep well."

He said nothing. He just ran his hand through her hair.

The two of them settled together like that, and she watched him eat and drink, and for a long stretch the living room was quiet and warm, nothing in it except birdsong drifting in from somewhere in the morning. The breeze and the early light seemed to mellow Hirota Masami a little; her cheeks had a faint flush, and one hand rested lightly on Ma En's thigh, feeling the shape and temperature of him through his skin.

Even the fact of the break-in, which had seemed significant, was beginning to feel like a minor thing.

"Why did you come back so quickly?" Hirota Masami asked.

"When I got there, it turned out the problem had already been handled on their end — they just hadn't had time to let anyone know. So I'd made the trip for nothing." He smiled and told the lie smoothly. Hirota Masami didn't seem to doubt it.

"No problems at all is the best result," she said.

He set down the empty cup. Hirota Masami stood immediately, picked up the tray and carried it to the kitchen. The sound of water followed, along with her voice: "Is this really enough for breakfast? Want me to make you a bit more?"

"No need today. I haven't had much appetite lately." He said this with deliberate casualness, picked up the remote from the coffee table, and turned on the TV to a morning news channel.

"What's the matter?"

"Mm... a bit of a mental effect."

"Psychological effect?"

"Yes — when I was in Kanagawa, I had a nightmare. I tried writing it down, and I think I got a little too absorbed in it."

"Hm?" The sound of water stopped. Hirota Masami's puzzled voice came from the kitchen: "A nightmare?"

"Yes. One nightmare. I thought it was a good opportunity, so I decided to turn it into a short story." Ma En picked up the notepad from the coffee table, held it up toward the kitchen and waved it. "It's all in here — about ten thousand words so far. Masami, you write for magazines, don't you? Would you be willing to have a look and tell me how it reads?"

"...Darling — are you thinking of becoming a writer?" She asked this, and her footsteps moved toward the sofa.

"No — just a moment of impulse. My literary foundation isn't strong enough to be a writer."

He kept his eyes on the television. Soon enough, Hirota Masami's figure appeared in the TV screen as a reflection. He didn't turn around. He held the notepad out behind him. The apron-wearing Hirota Masami took it, then walked around to the front of the sofa, tied her shoulder-length hair back with a rubber band, produced a hair clip she apparently carried habitually and pinned one side of her fringe back, exposing a smooth half-forehead.

She examined the notepad briefly, then opened it. Ma En turned to the first page of the story for her. Their closeness brought a faint scent again — he'd noticed it before but hadn't dwelt on it; now it seemed stronger, somehow more distinct.

Hirota Masami's expression settled into something serious. She read quietly, carefully, in silence.

Ma En interlaced his fingers beneath his chin and watched the television with the same stillness, listening to the soft, careful sound of her breathing beside him. He felt as though even the TV's volume had dropped of its own accord. He didn't know what Hirota Masami would think when she finished the story, whether she'd be able to read the hints buried in it. If she read them, what would her reaction be? These questions turned slowly in his mind — and unexpectedly, he found he didn't want a clear answer.

The story was only ten thousand words and still unfinished, but Hirota Masami spent nearly twenty minutes reading it. Ma En glanced sideways at her profile; she seemed to be thinking as she read.

His heartbeat hadn't changed its rhythm — yet he felt nervous. He found it somewhat embarrassing that his experienced self could be nervous in a situation like this. He asked himself what there was to be nervous about.

But he was nervous, a little, in a way that didn't tighten the nerves or accelerate the pulse — more like a psychological state, a sensation without physical signs.

"Ma En-san, I've finished." After what felt like a long time, he finally heard her voice.

"Well?"

"I found it very interesting." Hirota Masami's voice brightened.

He looked at her, genuinely needing to confirm: "Really?"

"Really. A suspenseful plot — not many specific details, but the sense of immediacy is strong throughout. The pacing of the narration is slow, but even so, you can feel the force building underneath." Hirota Masami stroked the handwritten pages with an expression like someone handling something precious. "This is a short story, right?"

"Yes," Ma En said. "But only the opening."

"I want to see what happens next as soon as possible." She said with real wonder. "Is this your first time writing fiction, Ma En-san? It's really good — every line has such distinct character. Reading it, your face keeps drifting into my mind. The writing makes you think of the author. It really does."

"...Is it actually that good?" He didn't have that impression of it himself.

"You must submit it. No—" She lunged forward almost bodily, wrapped both hands around his shoulder. "Darling, I know lots of magazine editors — let me submit it on your behalf. A story this good absolutely needs to be read by everyone."

"Ah, ah?" Ma En was genuinely startled.

"It's decided." Hirota Masami took his face in both hands and looked at him with an expression that was warm and entirely immovable. "Leave it with me. I'll handle it."

"Ah... if... if you think so..."

"I'll take it today," Hirota Masami said.

"Today?"

"Today."

"With just this notepad?"

"Yes, just this. That's all it takes." Hirota Masami said with certainty.