Guest Room Maze

Once she makes her bed, she heads to the kitchen for a simple breakfast.

A fried egg, bread, milk...

What she wants to eat, and what she wants to drink, are all up to her in the moment.

She sits by the piano, pressing a key, bringing its untuned string to the correct pitch, little by little. After some time—however much—it is the next string's turn to be tuned.

By the time the final string is tuned, the first string has lost its pitch.

And so it goes, again and again and again.

Uika lies down on the summer-fed meadow, and gazes at the starry sky above.

She knows that even if the positions of the stars seem no different from yesterday, in truth, they are constantly shifting about.

Two stars next to each other now will, after a hundred million years, become incredibly distant. That even if we assign them meaning, that meaning will be lost.

Just like the relationship between people.

Today, too, that child didn't come back.

Here, on this deserted island, a dream of smoke and mirrors is built out of nothing but faint memories.

Trapped in a cage of recollection, as if but a doll.

Obsession and sorrow fill her body. They grow. They grow.

But she cannot move.

Waiting here for her return, or my death.

There'll come a day that the well of my sorrows dries up. There'll be no more tears, and no more weeping.

Some far-flung place nobody cares about—that's the best place I can belong.

'No!'

'Look, you can't escape'

'I confine you as you weaken—'

'You know I want...'

'I want... I want...'

'I want you so, I want...'

Uika's awareness snaps back, only to find herself running with all her might.

Her chest burns hard like never before, a sensation that leaves her light-headed, even.

The last strand of her sanity asks her the same question on loop:

If you can't remember her name, or even her face.

How will you find her among all the endless people of this land?

Her voice is a step ahead of her legs, flying straight for her heart.

And with every ounce of power she has, she runs after her voice.

Sakiko makes it to the villa in one piece. It is all exactly as Morpheus showed her.

The floor is spotless. The kitchen boasts an overwhelming array of silverware, and a grand dining table to seat a dozen or more.

Sakiko cannot imagine Uika living in a place like this by herself.

Halfway through her sentence, Uika forces the words back down her throat. Fortunately, the boatman doesn't seem to notice.

With his grumbling over, the boatman heaves his steps onto the boat.

The sea wind carries its horn through every corner of the island.

As she looks back at this isle of countless joys and sorrows, Uika finds there's so much she wants to say.

You couldn't have forgotten.

We lived here since we were children.

I trust that we will meet again—

Sakiko's voice is already hoarse.

The waves crash on and on against the coast, but they carry no response.

The boat has already left the island.

Now, she is the only one here, alone.

Sakiko feels a burst of cold under her feet. Somehow, seawater has crept up to her ankles.

Dark clouds gather where the sea and sky meet, punctuated by rays of dazzling light.

The water rises with a fervor. Sakiko senses something dragging her down towards the abyss.

Gloom; cold; suffocation.

The water strains against her eardrums. What oxygen is left in her lungs slowly dwindles, as does the feeble light from above.

Her sight blurs. Salty, bitter seawater forces its way into her mouth, in a bid to occupy the last vestiges of her consciousness.

And so, she falls, and falls.

Down to the seabed, a place that knows no light.

'Saki...'

'Saki... Saki...'

A voice approaches, though she cannot tell from where.

Where am I?

Who is calling for me?

It is a familiar voice. One she has not heard in a very long time.

The cold, waterlogged seabed is gone; was never here. In its place, dry land, and swirling eddies of dust.

Sakiko struggles to open her eyes. A pale strand of hair greets her.

Such simple words, and yet they bring tears to Sakiko's eyes.

It's no fault of the sand in the air, she knows that. For only she knows just how helpless she feels in this moment.

If she speaks now, her voice will break. But she can't afford to care about that. All she can think of is to clutch at the final straw she has.