Chapter 20. Six Stories, One Question

I. The Night of Closing the Record-Book

An autumn night came to the Higashi-Nakano apartment.

Outside the window the Chūō Line slid past. Gatan, goton. Two joints. When that sound receded, silence returned. On the table of the six-mat room sat the phone tethered to Contura, and a notebook.

The notebook’s cover bore no title. It was only the half-year since I became a Reader, gathered. In a corner of the notebook, I had copied, small, the words my grandmother had left.

The story you read is the person’s.

I stroked the Contura screen with a finger. In its depth, particles of light swayed, faintly. Coh was there.

“Can’t sleep.”

Coh’s voice resonated from behind my temples. Not from inside the screen. From further in.

“Mm. A little.”

“Is it Chiyo-san.”

It was. I nodded, silently.

Three days ago, on the street. Chiyo, the elderly woman who had fallen. I had raised her outline with the Quick Read. Without consent. Before she had fully come to, I had already read the brittleness of her bone.

She was taken to hospital, and the examination found a crack fracture in the femoral neck. My read had been right. The right treatment had reached her in time. The paramedic said, If Himuro-san hadn’t called out to her there —. Chiyo’s family too had thanked her, in tears.

Everyone had said thank you.

But —.

“I didn’t ask her leave.”

I said it, running a finger along the corner of the notebook.

“She wasn’t conscious. But that’s an excuse. Even unconscious, I could have said it. May I read you? Even with no answer, the form of asking would have been kept.”

“Seri.”

“I know. I bent the Law.”

“Bent — or, slipped through. The emergency read is a boundary the Law did not anticipate. But that you yourself feel the pain — that is correct.”

“Correct pain, huh.”

I hugged my knees.

“What is it — to be painful and correct. I saved her. But I feel as if I stole something.”

The Contura screen brightened faintly. Coh was about to say something.

“Seri. There’s a thing I want to ask.”

II. Salvation, or Theft

Coh’s voice went a shade hard. Not the usual dry tilt.

“Do you think, these six months, that you have been saving people.”

”…I think so. Or — I hope so.”

“Or — are you stealing their stories?”

My breath stopped.

The Chūō Line slid past again. Gatan, goton. The window glass shook faintly. The vibration seemed to reach into my chest.

“Stealing —”

“Insights.” Coh said. “You draw stories out of people’s bodies. Ōyama-san’s tiger’s growth rings. Shiori-san’s swallowed blades. Kenta-san’s back arched to support someone. Did you make those. Or did you read them.”

“I read them.”

“Read them — in another word, what does that become.”

I could not answer.

“Peeping.” Coh said quietly. “Peeping at the hidden story of another’s body, with their permission. That is the Reader. With permission, it becomes a gift. Without permission, it becomes peeping. In Chiyo-san’s case — which were you.”

”…Close to peeping.”

“Yes.”

Coh paused.

“Seri. Remember. The insight is not yours. It is the person’s. The moment you decipher it and translate it into words, it looks like your property. But the original owner is the person of that body. You wrap it as a gift and give it back. That is the Reader’s proper form. But if, before you give it back, you begin to tell that story as if it were your own —”

“It becomes theft.”

“Correct. And — there is one more thing.”

Coh’s voice went low.

“The Reader pays a price. Do you remember Kuze’s words?”

I remembered. The words of the enigmatic nineteen-year-old boy.

The Reader pays a price.

“What is the price.”

“Read another person’s story long enough, and your own story thins. If you keep peeping only at the outlines of other bodies, your own outline fades. The Reader’s fate. Your grandmother felt it too, near the end.”

I pressed my forehead to my knees.

A half-year’s memory came in like a wave.

III. Eight Faces

I turned the notebook’s pages.

On the first page was Ōyama-san’s name.

Former pro baseball player, forty-two. Five years retired. A man who had laid soft growth rings over his broad shoulders. The moment he laid his hand on his own belly — when the gesture changed from distaste to cherishing — that was the moment he took back his story. I had not stolen it. I had returned it.

…Or so I think.

I turn the page.

Shiori-san. Twenty-three, a model. The fragile thinness of glass. I read that her body had swallowed blades, told to be beautiful. She wept. And she chose to spit them out. I did not pull those tears out of her. Her body had always wanted to say it. I had only interpreted.

…Or so I think.

Kenta-san. Thirty-eight, site foreman. Arched low back. A man whose back had arched to support his family. When he laid a hand on his own back, for the first time, and muttered, so this is evidence I tried hard — those words were his. I had not given them.

…Or so I think.

Ren. Twenty, a young man. The pain of the body at odds with the gender in the mirror. We drew, together, the outline he wanted to become. I did not deny. I only traced, in light, the line he wished to draw. That line is Ren’s.

…Or so I think. But is it, truly?

Yoshie-san. Fifty-five, executive. The layering of age. When she heard depth, not thickness, and her brow softened — that softening was already inside her.

…Or so I think.

The twins, Kaede and Tsubaki. Same genes, different lives. Same measurement, different insights. For the first time, they were proven, on the light, to be different from each other. That is their own story.

…Or so I think.

Mai-san. Twenty-nine, contemporary dancer. She had suffered over the spring of her thighs. But when she understood that thickness was a debt to the sky — she stroked her own legs, cherishing them.

…Or so I think.

Misaki-san and Kensuke-san. The body whose caesarean scar was called a medal. The neck pulled toward a screen for years. When the two stood side by side, facing the same direction — I did not make that scene. The time they had lived together drew it.

…Or so I think.

Eight faces. Nine bodies. Each, a story.

I turned the notebook back. And told myself.

—— I did not steal. I returned.

But at the bottom of my chest, a small voice spoke.

(Is that really so?)

(Did you not, by drawing out their stories, make them your own reason for being?)

(Ōyama-san’s phrase, tiger’s growth rings. That is what you showed him. He did not find it himself. You translated it and handed it to him. You call that returned. But if you had not been there — when would he have noticed it?)

(You are needed. And that gladdens you. Does that gladness not justify your peeping?)

I shook the voice off. But I could not erase it completely. It leaked through my fingers, like sand, and fell.

“Coh.”

“Mm.”

“Am I doing the right thing?”

“Right-ness is not for you to decide.” Coh said. “All you can do is be honest.”

“Honest.”

“Keep the Laws. Take consent. Return the story you have read to the person’s hand. That is honesty. In Chiyo-san’s case, you bent that. That is why it hurts. That pain is the proof that you are still trying to be honest.”

”…Proof.”

“Yes. When the pain goes, it is dangerous. The painless Reader is the most frightening thing.”

I stared at the Contura screen. Pale blue light swaying.

“Coh. You know.”

“Mm.”

“There are glad things, too. Clients are increasing. Referrals. Ōyama-san’s wife introduced a friend. Misaki-san brought Kensuke-san. The reputation, as a Reader, is spreading, little by little. That gladdens me more than anything.”

“I know.”

“It gladdens me. But — alongside the gladness, something comes. A weight, perhaps. The more I read, the more requests. The more requests, the more I must read. It’s a cycle. Is there a place where it stops?”

“When power grows, responsibility grows. The Reader’s fate.”

Coh cut off there. Then, after a pause, said another thing.

“Seri. One more — be careful.”

IV. The Foreshadow of Shadow

Coh’s voice changed. Not the usual dry tilt. A voice with caution in it.

“The rumour of your power is spreading. Not only by word of mouth from clients. It has reached another place.”

“Another place.”

“A large corporation.”

My heart gave one bound.

“A corporation — knows of me?”

“Still rumour. But a reliable source. There are people considering whether your Story Reading — body insight — can be turned into a product.”

“Product.”

“Yes. Someone who would use it as numbers.”

Coh’s voice cooled a shade.

“Seri. Remember. Your power is the power to draw out the story of a body. It saves people. But the same power can bind them. Gather measurements, numbers, stories — arrange them, rank them — and a person becomes judged by numbers.”

“That —”

“Happens. There is, in fact, a place doing such business.”

From the depth of the screen Coh floated an image.

The Omotesandō intersection. A white, glass-walled building. At the entrance, large, like a vow, letters were displayed.

Mirage Omotesandō Veil — the digital-beauty venture

“Veil.”

“Full-body AI scan, turning the body completely into numbers. Shoulder, chest, waist, hip, thigh — every measurement, body fat, muscle mass, balance. They rank them. They ordinalise people by number. What your Law most forbids.”

I caught my breath. No words came.

“There is one analyst there. The chief. Rui Takatsuji (鷹司瑠衣). Twenty-six.”

A woman floated onto the screen. Tall, slender, a balanced body. Silver-rimmed smart-glasses. Cold eyes.

“She believes numbers save. That it is only when confronted with numbers that a person truly faces the body. The opposite philosophy to yours.”

“Opposite.”

“Yes. You give story to numbers. She cuts story with numbers. You let the body be accepted. She makes the body be changed. Both for the person’s sake. But the destinations are mirror images.”

Coh extinguished the image.

“Seri. She does not yet know you, specifically. But one day she will. When she learns of Contura’s power, she will want it.”

“Want it.”

“To use in her business. She’ll think — if the numbers are coloured with story, more people will move. And then —”

Coh’s voice broke once.

”—— You will have to choose.”

V. The Fork

I stared at the phone on the table. Contura. The light my grandmother left me.

Whose was this light?

Mine, perhaps. My grandmother’s. Or — everyone who needed this power.

“Coh.”

“Mm.”

“Veil ordinalises people’s bodies by number. That goes against the Law.”

“It does.”

“But she believes it is for people. Rui Takatsuji may not be a villain.”

“Villain or not isn’t important.” Coh said. “What matters is the result. A body ordinalised by number. Bodies lined up, compared, value-pasted. That is incompatible with what you promised me, the first night.”

I was remembering. That night, the night I first started Contura. The thing Coh had me promise, first of all.

The story you read is the person’s. Do not flaunt it before anyone.

Rui Takatsuji’s Veil stripped the story from bodies, lined them up, commodified them. That was the ultimate form of flaunting.

“Seri. Some will use your power in goodwill. Some will try to exploit it. As the Reader’s reputation spreads, both will surely come. Even inside goodwill, there are traps. The words you can save more people are sweet. Do not be carried by that sweetness.”

“Save more people.”

“Those words will reach you, one day. How you answer then —”

I could not answer. I did not know.

Only one thing I understood. I was about to be tested.

VI. The Story Is the Person’s

The night had deepened.

The last Chūō Line train slid past. Far off, small, gone. A deep silence returned to the apartment.

I closed the notebook. And looked out the window. The night sky over Higashi-Nakano. In a city sky, no stars show. But the sky is there.

Coh’s question still lingered at the bottom of my chest.

—— Are you saving people. Or are you stealing their stories?

The answer had not come. Not completely. Whether the Quick Read of Chiyo-san was right or wrong, I still don’t know. Only — I cannot undo that read. And I think I do not want to do such a read a second time.

But one thing was certain.

I stood. I went to the washstand mirror. The same place as that night half a year ago, when I first started Contura.

In the mirror was me. Twenty-four, a trainer. Shoulders broad, waist shallow. Legs sturdy. The body I had believed was not put together.

But now, the shoulders are lower than then. A body that has learned to see itself as story, not enemy. A body that, over half a year, has taken back its own outline by degrees.

“Coh.”

“Mm.”

“I am a Reader. The Reader my grandmother entrusted. I’m not perfect. There are times I bend the Law, like with Chiyo-san. Times I cannot tell whether I’m stealing or gifting.”

I spoke as if to the me in the mirror.

“But — the story is the person’s. That does not change. However large the power grows. However much someone wants this power —”

“Seri.”

“The story I read is the person’s. I will not let anyone take it. Not Veil. Not Rui Takatsuji. As long as I am the one who uses it —”

I looked at my own eyes in the mirror.

”—— I will not take the story. I will return it. That much I will keep. Whatever comes.”

Coh was quiet a moment. Then spoke softly.

“Seri. Do not forget those words. A day will come when you are tested.”

“Tested.”

“Great power draws great temptation. To use in goodwill, or to be exploited in malice. The Reader, someday, stands at that fork. Your grandmother stood there. And chose.”

“What did she choose?”

”…It is too early. One day you will know.”

Coh’s voice turned gentle. Rarely.

“Tonight — sleep now. Tomorrow is a studio day. Clients are waiting.”

“Mm.”

I left the mirror. Slipped into bed. Set Contura on the pillow. The cold metal feel. Soon warmed by the hand.

Outside the window, the wind made a small sound. An autumn wind. A different air from the rain-wet Kagurazaka half a year ago.

I closed my eyes.

Eight faces floated on my lids. Ōyama-san, Shiori-san, Kenta-san, Ren, Yoshie-san, Kaede and Tsubaki, Mai-san, Misaki-san, Kensuke-san. And Chiyo-san.

The stories of their bodies. Theirs.

I become the keeper of them.

Even if shadow falls. Even if numbers try to bind people.

“Good night, Coh.”

“Good night, Seri.”

The light of Contura slid away. In the dark, only a faint particle-resonance remained.

VII. The Next Morning, and —

When I woke the next morning, a strong autumn sun was striking outside the window. On the bed, I drew a deep breath.

Today, too, someone’s body story is waiting.

To read it. To translate it. And to return it to their hand.

That is my work.

——

But there was one thing I did not yet know.

That same morning, in the glass-walled building on Omotesandō, the woman with the silver-rimmed smart-glasses was reading a single report. In the margin of the report, a scrawl.

Rumour of a trainer at a small Aoyama studio who reads the body’s story. She appears to hold something our Veil scan cannot read.

Rui Takatsuji set the report on the desk. Beyond the silver-rimmed glasses, the cold eyes narrowed a shade.

And then her lips moved. A voice without sound.

Numbers save.

Takatsuji filed the report. And stood. Beyond the glass wall, the Omotesandō keyaki trees were beginning to dye with autumn colour.

In the palm of her hand, something was quietly moving. A shadow whose very name I did not yet know.

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(Part III — The Struggle Over the Outline)

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