WHEN I WALKED IN the front door late that night and my mother saw me covered from head to toe in mud, she seemed rather taken aback. When she asked what happened, I spun a convoluted lie about getting jumped by a group of delinquents on my way home from cram school. She could tell from my exhausted expression that I had at least not been out having unauthorized fun around town all night, so she reluctantly bought my story. I took a quick shower and went straight to bed.
Morning came swiftly.
It was September 1st—one of the most popular days for suicides among minors. With every muscle in my body still sore from the previous night, I trudged my way over to school for the first day of the second semester. I walked into the classroom and was greeted by the familiar indifference of my fellow classmates. Then in came my homeroom teacher, and first period began shortly thereafter.
Summer vacation was officially over.
“Hey, like, did you guys hear about this?”
During passing period, one of the girls in my class recounted an interesting anecdote to a few other female classmates gathered around her desk.
“Apparently, they found a dead body in my neighborhood!” she said—and I perked up my ears to listen (while still pretending to be sleeping with my head down). “No joke! When I woke up this morning, the whole street was full of police cars. I guess they got an anonymous tip overnight or something. Everyone was just standing outside in their pajamas, trying to figure out who it might be and what exactly happened.”
Apparently, this girl’s mother heard a rumor through the neighborhood grapevine that a body was found in a suitcase in a fenced-off lot near the railroad. I was relieved to hear that the police did their job and followed through on the report in a prompt manner and didn’t dismiss it as a prank or anything like that. The three of us had called it in last night, of course—but we made ourselves scarce before the police could actually show up on the scene. I even made sure to wipe down the suitcase with a handkerchief, so I didn’t leave any of my own fingerprints.
By the time I got home from school that day, the discovery was already being covered on national news. A few days later, they reported that they managed to discern the victim’s identity, and they started showing Ayane’s name and photo on TV alongside the police’s official theory that she got herself mixed up in some sort of major incident or scandal by accident. It wasn’t long after that that a man came forth and turned himself in to the authorities, claiming to be the owner of the suitcase and admitting that he accidentally hit Ayane with his car on the night of a typhoon, three years prior. He had apparently been racked by extreme guilt ever since, and the recent flood of news reports led him to decide he couldn’t run from his crime any longer. He admitted everything to the police—it was an open-and-shut case. The only detail that remained mysteriously unknown was the identity of the anonymous caller who dug up the body in its very specific, very difficult to access burial location.
Ryo, Aoi, and I stayed in touch via our group DM, sharing opinions with one another anytime new information came to light regarding the incident. Then, about halfway through September, we all got together on the weekend and headed back to the abandoned airfield at nightfall with sparklers in hand. We wanted to test to see if we could still meet with Ayane or not. The last time any of us had spoken with her was the night we discovered the suitcase under the ground. But now, no matter how many sparklers we burned through, she wouldn’t appear before us. The three of us couldn’t come to a consensus as to whether it was simply because summer was already over or because finding her body allowed her soul to finally rest in peace.
But I did see her one last time after that—while I was sleeping.
In my dream, she and I were taking a walk together through what appeared to be an amusement park. It was clearly not anywhere in the real world, however, as all of the buildings and attractions were oddly colorless—almost like a blank canvas version of an amusement park, still waiting to receive its hues. A pure white merry-go-round, a pure white roller coaster—the flowers and ornamental vegetation were all pure white as well. Ayane was not floating, notably, but walking on her own two feet beside me. The park was completely deserted as well, with no other guests in sight aside from us two.
“But tell me, though,” Ayane said as we walked down the path. “What is it you really want to do?”
The context in which this question was being asked of me was entirely unclear. But context was often hazy at best in a dream, so perhaps that was to be expected.
“Guess I wouldn’t mind going for a ride on that thing,” I answered, pointing to a large Ferris wheel across the way. Its spokes and carriages were all the same shade of pure, unblemished white.
“I really wanted to live, you know,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about wanting the same for you.”
She stopped dead in her tracks and looked me straight in the eye. Her facial features were as striking and as flawless as ever.
“Besides,” she went on, “you can only draw while you’re still alive. You can’t very well pick up a pencil once you’re dead, now can you?”
I was suddenly reminded of the fact that I hadn’t drawn anything in months. I wondered if that part of me was already dead, or if there was still a spark of that desire somewhere deep down inside me, just waiting to be rekindled.
Ayane turned and started trotting off down the path once again.
“You…want me to live, Ayane-san?” I asked, jogging to catch up with her.
“Of course I do,” she said.
“But why?”
“Because I’ve kind of got a thing for older guys.”
That was decidedly not among the possible answers I was expecting.
“I mean, think about it, Tomoya-kun. If you were to die right now, then you’d be younger than me for all eternity. And to be completely honest with you, I’d never consider dating a guy who was still in high school. So, if you really insist on dying, at least do me a favor and wait a little longer—until you’re a bit older than me, y’know? Trust me—I’m just trying to help us both out here. You just go ahead and grow up into a handsome old silver fox and then you can come over here and be with me. Sound good?”
“…I’m starting to have second thoughts about my taste in women,” I mumbled.