This was the night Shiori confessed that she'd gotten so deeply involved in her work that she wanted to move out, that she'd be getting an apartment with a place where she could work.

“Of course not! People who want that stuff go other places.” Shiori smiled gently.

“I had no idea such a job even existed. But then I guess that's supply and demand, isn't it?” There was no way for me to stop her if she'd decided to leave. And I could tell that in some way I didn't really understand, she had become a prisoner of her work, of that peculiar job.

“I'll miss you,” I said.

“You'll come visit me, right?” she replied. “After all, my apartment is just an ordinary apartment.”

She hadn't even started to pack, so it was still difficult for me to grasp the fact that she was leaving, that this woman, who seemed so much a part of my home, was leaving. We sat together on the floor like we always did until very late that night, half watching music videos, commenting on them from time to time, saying that a certain song was good, that a certain singer was ugly. Time always seemed to become strangely distorted when I was with Shiori. This was because of her eyes. She had an extremely gentle face, but her narrow eyes were always as cloudy and dark as a blue moon.

Sometimes she'd spread her futon out on the floor next to my bed and go to sleep, and I'd turn out the lights and be able to see her perfectly white arm lying there in the moonlight, its outline absolutely clear. But often we'd talk even more after I turned out the lights. It amazes me to think how much we talked. The night she told me she was leaving, Shiori told me a whole lot about her job. I listened to her tiny voice as it flowed on through the dark like a melody played on some musical instrument.