The park was only a two-minute walk from my apartment. It was already night. The roadside trees grew at even intervals. There was the old jungle gym, the bench with flaking paint, and the towering streetlights in front of the swings, illuminating everything with a dim blue glow. I liked this park.

On my weekly, nocturnal supply trips to the convenience store, I always made sure to stop here. Empty, the space belonged to me alone.

I enjoyed the cool night breeze. Seated on the bench, if I looked up at the sky, I could see the faintly waving branches of the trees and, through them, the moon and the stars. It was a place to relax and release my worries.

Tonight, the park wasn’t just my personal space, though. Someone else was there.

I didn’t call out. In fact, my stomach felt hollow.

What are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Who on Earth are you? These questions accompanied a growing rage, yet my mind remained clear for some reason. I was even calm, my thoughts moving in an orderly manner, with no threat of spinning out of control.

This may have been a form of resignation. Perhaps I had finally accepted my current situation. It was wholly possible I had quietly admitted to myself that I was a hikikomori, a person with no future, someone who should just die. Yes, that had to be the explanation.

Lately, I had been living in the past. Every night, I dreamed of long ago: the hometown I yearned for, friends, family, things I hadn’t liked, things that had made me happy, other various memories— fragments of all these things. My nightly dreams were gentle and melancholy.

Indeed, the future had ceased to be a problem. It already had been decided, which was precisely why I needed to exist in the past—in my wonderful, comforting memories. While this was obviously an extreme form of backward escapism, I didn’t care anymore.

Yes, that’s right. I am a hikikomori, a worthless person with a weak spirit. Is that a problem? Just leave me alone, and I’ll disappear quietly. I’m fine! It’s all over!

“No, no, no…” I sat on the bench, head in hands.

“ ‘No’, what?” the girl inquired. She was rocking in one of the swings near the bench. Her almost shoulder-length hair blew lightly in the wind. Tonight, too, she was dressed like an average teenage girl—no parasol, no pamphlets, and no discernible religious atmosphere.

However, I forbade myself to let down my guard. More than anything about her, the very strangeness of the situation spoke vividly of how truly odd she was. I had to deal with her calmly, but with total caution.