What in the world did I intend to do, showing up unannounced? I couldn’t make anything better for her.

Should I try saying something like, “Don’t die!”… ?

Should I try yelling something like, “You still have tomorrow!”… ?

Misaki had written numerous, similar clichés in her secret notebook. But they hadn’t helped her, so she’d tried to overdose on sleeping pills.

In short, there was nothing I could do for her. It might even be better for me to avoid showing my face. She probably would feel even emptier, getting a hospital visit from a pathetic hikikomori.

When I thought about the situation that way, I’d decide to go home; but at the hospital gate, my feet would stop on their own. Once more, I turned back toward the front entrance and repeated the entire cycle.

My thoughts were looping around. If this kept up, it looked like I would just keep walking to and fro until nightfall. I couldn’t make up my mind.

Finally, screwing up my courage, I dashed into the hospital before I could change my mind again. I got a visitor’s badge at the front desk, pinned it to my chest, and headed up to the fourth floor.

The entire fourth floor was an open psychiatric ward. At first glance, it seemed no different from a normal hospital. I’d thought that a psychiatric ward would be full of straitjackets, electroshock equipment, and lobotomy laboratories. However, this open ward was clean and cheerful; it seemed like an ordinary part of the hospital.

Or so I thought. When I noticed that an older woman of around sixty, apparently a patient, had squatted down in the corner of the hallway, I quickly headed for room 401.

In the far corner of the fourth-floor hall, a nameplate identified Misaki’s room: “Misaki Nakahara”, it said.

There was no mistake. This was the room.

I knocked softly.

There was no answer.

I tried knocking again, a little harder; there was still no answer. However, my knocking seemed to have dislodged the door, though it might have been open partially to begin with.

“Misaki?” I peeked into the room.

She wasn’t there.

Well, if she’s not here, there’s nothing I can do. I’ll go home!

I decided to leave behind the fruit basket I had bought in the hospital gift shop. And I noticed someone had left a train schedule open on the shelf next to the bed. The schedule was annotated here and there in red ballpoint pen. Moving it aside, I put down the fruit basket.

As I did, a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and read it: “Mikka Tororo was delicious. Therefore, farewell, everyone.”

Shoving the scrap of paper and the schedule into my coat pocket, I dashed out of the hospital and headed toward the station.

The sun had begun to set.