Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yumeno Kyūsaku

In mid-February of 1927... After S Peak's summit had been shrouded in gray clouds for two or three days, white flakes began fluttering down to the villages at its base—developing into an unusually heavy snowfall for recent years.

At the mountain's foot, half a kilometer from S Peak Village, stood Fujisawa Hospital—reputed to be the wealthiest establishment in these parts.
With its Nordic-style slate roof—a countryside rarity—intertwined with traditional gabled eaves of the main building, Fujisawa Hospital retained a distinct outline in the snow even after sunset, until two differently colored electric lights—one bright, one dim—began glowing from either side of its entrance.

The bright window on the right was the hospital's pharmacy, where at the central compounding table surrounded by two-tiered medicine cabinets sat Shinao—wearing a white nurse's uniform with impeccable posture—who had been raised as this household's adopted daughter.
Before her on the sepia-toned surface lay today's prescriptions, copied medicine orders, stapled leaflets for new pharmaceuticals, card-style medical records, and similar items—all scattered haphazardly among various stationery supplies and medications.

Her skin was as white as if she wore thick makeup. Her cheeks and lips were crimson as if rouged; her eyelashes and eyebrows thick and long as though they had been drawn on. Her hair too appeared so luxuriantly dark it could be mistaken for a wig—pulled back with such tension it seemed to lift the corners of her eyes—then carelessly coiled into a large bun at the base of her long neck. And so, leaning her supple body against the desk while lowering her long-lidded single eyelids, she let her jet-black eyes scan every inch of the documents—yet her expression shifted between moments of innocent girlishness befitting a twelve- or thirteen-year-old and flashes of worldly maturity more suited to a woman of twenty-four or twenty-five. At times she appeared noble as the Virgin Mary in a Western masterpiece... only to turn seductive as a stage villainess in the very next instant...

She was truly busy.

The medical graduate Kensaku—the Fujisawa family’s adopted son set to marry her soon and nephew of the former director—had returned late last year shortly after his adoptive father Gen’yo succumbed to acute pneumonia, discontinuing his university research. A remarkably energetic man, he vigorously advertised to attract more patients while implementing university-style meticulousness in every aspect, making the workload utterly overwhelming.
Among these duties, only the pharmacy and accounting work—following the family tradition of never entrusting them to outsiders—had been handled solely by Shinao since the previous director's time. Yet for her, a graduate of a rural girls' school, even deciphering German prescriptions proved such an extraordinary strain that one might call the work nearly superhuman.

However, she finally finished the work.
After stapling the new medicine advertisement flyer to the board and neatly placing it atop the account book, she let out a sigh of relief, raised her eyes, and looked at the large pendulum clock hanging between the medicine cabinets straight ahead.
At that very moment, as though it were her most devoted companion, the clock struck the first chime of eleven.

Until the sound faded completely, she lay both bare arms across the desk and stared vacantly.
Her lips slightly parted... As each chime of the clock swirled through the room only to vanish back into the shadow of the brass pendulum, she pressed both hands to her face and slumped forward like someone who had utterly drained their mind.

But that lasted only a minute or two......As men's voices—likely conversing in some distant room—began seeping through hushed whispers from the door facing the hallway......

......Shinao......

......Revenge......

When the two words—"......Shinao......" and "......revenge......"—resounded one after another as if by chance, she snapped her head up.
She gazed fixedly forward like a marionette, her face contorted into an indescribably fearful expression while her entire body seemed to turn utterly rigid; then, hurriedly extinguishing the reflecting stove at her feet and carefully twisting the switch of the hundred-candlepower bulb flickering above her head, she slid soundlessly through the now-darkened medicine cabinets into the corridor.
Indeed, she approached the door of the patient waiting room located across the pitch-dark entrance hall and stealthily pressed her eye to the keyhole.

The patient waiting room was a roughly ten-tatami-mat space lined with linoleum. In its center hung a dim 10-candlepower electric lamp, but near the large brazier placed beneath it, two men had drawn up chairs to face each other while warming themselves over the fire.

With his back to the door was the young director Kensaku, his starched examination gown hanging open at the front to reveal a modest black serge vest and trousers. Though not particularly tall, his robust arms crossed at chest height, his squared shoulders, his disheveled hair, and his face glowing with health all still bore the unmistakable appearance of a scholarly youth, without the slightest pretentious air one might expect from a hospital director. At a glance, he had the bearing of an active judo practitioner or rowing athlete.

In contrast, the man facing him was a corpulent, bluish-black figure of imposing height with a bristly chestnut-burr head. He appeared to be in his forties, his aristocratic face—marked by a straight nose—bearing large black glasses in the Lloyd style. Over two layered camel shirts he wore an indigo-striped haori, the stark white tan line around his neck lending him an air of vigor... This was Shigeru Kuroki, a patient who had occupied the hospital's special ward since New Year's. Once chief engineer on European cargo routes, he had reportedly come to convalesce after developing complications from a lung apex infection, having discovered the hospital through newspaper advertisements. True to his claim of Tokyo upbringing, he proved not only meticulous with money but refined in manner and worldly in knowledge—qualities that had naturally made him the young director's sole confidant.

The aluminum medicine kettle hissing steam between them and the glass window—through which snowflakes fluttered as droplets trickled down its surface—attested to how long the two had been engrossed in conversation. Moreover, their conversation seemed to have reached a fever pitch—Kensaku leaned back against the long chair with arms coldly folded... while Kuroki kept his fish-like expressionless face thrust forward above the brazier. They remained locked in a staring contest, ensnared in tense silence, until at last Kuroki parted his tightly sealed lips and released a long sigh while keeping his gaze fixed on the other man. And then, abruptly as if soliloquizing,

“...Revenge...”

Kuroki uttered.
Then Kensaku nodded deeply as though he had been waiting for those words... but almost immediately flushed crimson for some reason while forcing a faint smile.

“...That’s right... Shinao says she wants to avenge her parent’s enemy, so she’s asking to postpone our marriage for now.
“...It’s such an absurd pretext that even I’m at a loss... Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Kuroki, however, did not laugh.
While continuing to stare fixedly at Kensaku's face, he asked hesitantly.

“Hmm... But you must have some deeper reason behind that?”

“Yes… Well, you could say there is.”
“I thought if someone like you who’s seen the world could hear the reason behind it, I might receive some appropriate advice… The truth is, I have no one else to consult with…”

“Hmm... If I’m suitable for the task... But such a personal matter...”

“It’s quite all right... Since there’s no one listening... That’s all there is to it.”
“...As I was saying earlier, Shinao and I had our marriage decided long ago by my late foster father Gen’yo. We’d discussed it with the relatives and were about to hold the ceremony at the end of last year when his illness kept postponing it... Then when he passed away—this was on January 11th—during the twenty-first-day memorial service, we consulted with the relatives and decided to hold the wedding shortly after completing the forty-ninth-day memorial... But when Shinao heard this, she unexpectedly brought up vehement objections... Though until now she’d seemed to have no particular reservations...”

“Hmm… That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“That is…”

“Yes... It’s strange...
“In other words, she says she wants to wait until after my foster father’s hundredth-day memorial... And since Shinao’s biological father’s twenty-first-year memorial will also be coming up soon, she insists on thoroughly settling all these services before holding the wedding ceremony at her leisure.”

"I see... In that case, that may not be unreasonable..."
“Because Miss Shinao seems to have some vague apprehension about marriage...”

Kensaku turned red once more, this time all the way to the roots of his ears.

“...Well... I know that too.”
“But seeing how deathly serious Shinao was about it, I couldn’t help feeling concerned.”
“The whole notion seemed so preposterous... That’s when I told her...”
“While that may sound reasonable on the surface... we’d already settled matters with the relatives... It wouldn’t do to change plans now...”

"I see... That too is reasonable."

"When I said that, Shinao started sniveling this time and wouldn't give any response at all."

"Hmm... I see..."

"...Her behavior was so strange that I grew increasingly concerned... When I pressed her relentlessly—asking why she was crying—she finally confessed."
"...'I am resolved not to marry until I have avenged my real father who was murdered twenty years ago'... I mean, it's such a preposterous, anachronistic response—utterly bizarre—yet she delivers it with such deadly seriousness that I was completely taken aback."

“Hmm… That… must have come as quite a shock…”

“Frankly, it’s almost too ridiculous to speak of... So I too initially wondered if she might be spouting such nonsense to hide some unspeakable reason—but seeing Shinao’s earnest demeanor, that doesn’t seem to be the case... The truth is, unlike me, Shinao has always been the literary type—for a woman, she devours detective novels and religious texts with wild abandon.”
“She even orders translated novels with black covers—supposedly written by some Russian—and reads them through the night... So she must be under the influence of such things.”
“She has a habit of thinking far too seriously about even the most trivial, mundane matters.”
“...And that’s when I realized she must have imagined such things.”

“Ah… I see… That may indeed be the case.”
“Hmm… Still, that’s odd.”
“Since Ms. Shinao’s father passed away over twenty years ago, she shouldn’t even remember his face clearly—so how could she possibly recognize her father’s killer?”

“That’s another peculiar aspect of it.
Shinao insists that as long as her real father’s murderer remains alive, he will inevitably return to this village at least once in his lifetime.
Her reasoning being that criminals feel an irresistible compulsion to revisit scenes of their crimes or hear rumors about them—a blend of psychological need to secretly confess and their inherent thirst for adventure.
She claims this creates an allure beyond upright people’s imagination… that grows exponentially with both the crime’s severity and the perpetrator’s education level.”

“‘So my father’s killer,’ she says, ‘must have been tormented by this allure—yearning endlessly to return here even until recently—but our foster father alone knew his face.
That kept him at bay…
Now that our foster father has passed with no one left to fear—that man must feel completely secure.’

‘He’ll surely come soon… No… He might already be lurking nearby, watching me intently…’
She maintains this delusion with deadly seriousness—as if recounting some prophetic dream.”

Kuroki, who had been listening intently, let out another long sigh. He continued staring at the other man’s face...

“I see… There is nothing more terrifying than a woman’s imagination… It becomes a truth beyond truth…”

"...Absolutely... But at that time, both Shinao and I were completely overwhelmed—new hospital responsibilities, estate settlements, memorial services all jumbled together in such a mess that marriage was utterly out of the question. We had no time to probe deeply into such matters and simply left them unattended... Oh yes... Then Shinao added this when explaining..."
"Well, two or three days later during dinner, while blushing... she said, 'I recently read a story during my late foster father's fourteenth-day memorial night—about a Corsican girl whose circumstances mirrored mine—and was deeply impressed.'"
When a man whom she believed had undoubtedly killed her father proposed marriage to her, the girl gleefully accepted immediately and rejected all other offers.
"...and then strangles the man on their wedding night—that was the plot—but within it lay an unbearable profundity: the criminal’s psyche, drawn to the traces of his own crime while seeking to doubly savor his transgression, contrasted against the unyielding girl’s psychology that could find no peace until cleanly severing those obsessive desires—all depicted with devastating depth... or so she claimed."
“It seems Shinao must have developed such notions after reading that novel, I think…”

“Ah…”

Kuroki seemed at last deeply moved and stroked beneath his nose with one hand.

“…It seems to be a French or Italian novel.”
“…But if by some one-in-a-million chance that were to come true, the young lady would possess an absolutely remarkable intuition, wouldn’t she?”

Kensaku also gave a wry smile as he ran his hand smoothly over his face.

“I’m utterly embarrassed... It’s such an absurd story that…”

“No... but I must say I’m astonished.”
“...To tell the truth, I too had heard two or three rumors from the villagers regarding Ms. Shinao’s father—but I thought most were exaggerations, or perhaps slander from that arsonist gang, so until this very moment I never once believed them...”

“No... The villagers’ rumors are mostly factual.”
“Shinao is indeed the daughter of a person of unclear lineage and is unquestionably the orphan of a victim of an unnatural death.”
“In other words, because the culprit was never apprehended, everything ended up being swept under the rug...”

“Ah…”
“So this would be what’s called a cold case, then.”

“That’s correct.”
“The incident in which Shinao’s father was killed has been a cold case from start to finish.”
“After all, it happened over twenty years ago—the police work was likely slipshod, and what’s more, being a crime committed in such a remote mountain village, it seems they couldn’t secure a single piece of solid evidence.”

“I see.”
“However, even if there was no physical evidence, there must have been some psychological evidence.”
“Given that a hypothetical perpetrator had been posited...”

“That’s correct. At the time they had indeed identified a suspect matching those criteria, but now with the culprit remaining uncaught, the entire incident has become an unresolved mystery shrouded in fog... From such circumstances, various rumors are bound to arise—and I imagine Shinao too, having overanalyzed these matters through a detective novel lens, has developed these preposterous delusions... Though I don’t know what your opinion might be—”

“Well… That may indeed be so, but…”
“However, as I too have only heard of such rumors through the nurses, I’m afraid I cannot offer a firm opinion…”

“...I see... Then perhaps I should try outlining the incident’s key points now.”
“Since this comes from my foster father who witnessed it firsthand, it’s far more accurate than village gossip... Will you hear me out?”

“Well...
“I’d certainly like to... but... as you’re aware, my constitution is such that even slight excitement leaves me sleepless—and given the late hour...”

“...No.”
“It’s still about ten o’clock.”
“If you can’t sleep, I’ll give you powdered medicine later—you can take that then.”
“Since you’ve recovered enough to be discharged already, staying up one night won’t harm you... I’ll take responsibility...”

“Ahahaha... No.”
“I still have some powder from two or three days ago...”

“So could you make a proper judgment... whether Shinao became obsessed with foreign detective novels and started saying such things... or whether there’s another reason behind it... that sort of matter...”

“Hahahaha… Now, now—you mustn’t be so hasty.”
“…For when it comes to feminine psychology—in essence—it’s said to lie beyond masculine comprehension…”

“Absolutely. It’s utterly incomprehensible.”

“Ahaha… Well… I too naturally believe the same could be said of me… In any case, perhaps I might be allowed to consider the matter after hearing how this incident unfolds?”

“Please, I beg of you… It’s like this.”
"...Shinao's father was a man named Genjiro Sanematsu—someone my foster father Gen'yo brought from Tokyo about thirty years ago to serve as this village's veterinarian—who died in his forties, I'm told."
"He was born in C Prefecture in Tohoku—the heir to the wealthy Sanematsu family of T-zuka Village, a large settlement—but for some reason, when not a single relative remained in his hometown, he converted all his fields and farmland into cash and moved to Tokyo, or so I’m told."
"And so while enrolled at veterinary school and studying there, through their shared residence at the same boarding house, he became acquainted with my foster father Gen'yo—or so I’m told…"

“Ah… Pardon me for interrupting, but does that mean the reason his relatives all disappeared from his hometown remains unclear even now?”

“That’s correct.
The reason remains unknown... However, it’s said only one nephew of Mr. Genjiro remained.
I did hear he was indeed the child of Mr. Genjiro’s sister—that person being Tokuro Sanematsu, a twenty-two or twenty-three-year-old young man identified as the perpetrator in this case.
Of course, he would now be over forty—around your age, I should think—”

“Ah… What sort of man was he in appearance—did you hear about that?”

“He was said to be a slender, fair-skinned… effeminate handsome youth. Apparently he’d long received tuition support from his uncle Mr. Genjiro while studying in Tokyo, but fled here due to pestering from delinquent influences… Then while assisting at this hospital to obtain his medical license, commuting daily from his uncle’s house on the village outskirts—a man of splendid intellect, adept at everything, and exceedingly gentle in disposition—so much that my foster father Gen’yo became utterly infatuated, even consulting my foster mother about making him our adopted heir… or so I’m told.”

“Ah…”
“Dr. Gen’yo must have been quite an open-minded man, then.”

“That’s right.”
“My foster father was, if anything, of a trusting disposition.”
“As for Shinao’s biological father Mr. Genjiro, he would rave about him being ‘a splendid man wasted on veterinary work,’ but upon closer examination, he wasn’t such an exceptional man—just someone equivalent to a village veterinarian.”
"He apparently appeared eccentric at first glance—a taciturn, unfriendly man who had no friends besides my foster father Gen'yo... His sole hobby was gun hunting, and he seemed quite the expert at it. In the about ten years he lived here, he came to know the mountains around Mount S better than even the local hunters... When the mood struck him, he would briskly prepare even in the dead of night and head out shouldering his gun, so often the household would only notice his absence come morning... Then he'd return in the highest of spirits, drinking a pint while using his game as a snack and doting on his wife with wild abandon—this too became quite the talk of the neighborhood."
“Ha ha ha ha ha.”
However, at other times—unless the mood struck him—he would refuse any invitation from wherever it came, drinking nothing but sake and lying about... He wouldn’t deposit money in banks or post offices, instead converting everything to cash and stashing it away somewhere... never telling even his wife where he hid it—such was his eccentric way, I’m told.
“However, his wife—appearing to be a social climber skilled in social graces—managed to maintain their reputation by deftly handling her husband, or so it’s said…”

“I see.”
“Given all that, they still maintained marital harmony through zither and lute, I suppose.”

“That’s correct… However, when that nephew Tokuro began frequenting the Sanematsu household, their marital relationship apparently deteriorated… This comes from Oiso—a woman who had been employed there long before Shinao’s birth—but for reasons unknown, Mr. Genjiro’s affection for Tokuro reportedly exceeded that for his own child, and he would constantly reprimand Shinao’s mother whenever her treatment of Tokuro proved unsatisfactory.”

“Ah... A perverse tendency, perhaps.”

“That may have been so... In any case, marital quarrels of an unprecedented nature apparently began occurring over such matters. Then precisely twenty years ago now... Shortly after Shinao’s mother died of puerperal fever while giving birth to her, the nephew Tokuro once again vanished without a trace—leaving behind a note addressed to his uncle Mr. Genjiro and my foster father stating he was going to America—all without any discernible reason.”

“Ah…
“I see... By the way, did that nephew truly go to America?”

"Well... That is precisely the central question—those in the know suspected this was the premise for Tokuro’s murder of his uncle, or so I’m told."

“I see... A perfectly valid question indeed.”

"In any case, the incident is said to have occurred approximately three months after that nephew ran away... around mid-March of Meiji 41... Having lost his wife and now having been abandoned even by his beloved nephew, Mr. Genjiro was left with only the infant Shinao and old Oiso—reduced to just the three of them—so he must have grown somewhat reckless."
"For some time after that, he neglected not only hunting but even his professional duties as a veterinarian, frequenting the brothel district of K City nearly every day—and despite Oiso and my foster father Gen’yo tearfully admonishing him, he stubbornly refused to listen, or so it’s said."

“……Indeed….”
“People with such dispositions tend to be narrow-minded, you see.”
“There was no other way, I suppose.”

“But then… but then—on some day in March, after heavy snowfall just like today’s—that evening, a thoroughly drunk Mr. Genjiro returned home covered in snow for the first time in ages, shoveled down two or three bowls of tea-soaked rice, then crawled into the bedding Oiso had laid out and began snoring loudly—or so it’s said.”

“Without even speaking a word?”

“Of course—it’s said he didn’t utter a single word from when he lay down until falling asleep. This being his usual behavior... old Oiso not only found nothing suspicious but even slept soundly beside Shinao for the first time in ages—or so it’s said—only to awaken the next morning and find Mr. Genjiro gone.”

The futon lay empty. Moonlight streamed through the wide-open kitchen doorway as they searched indoors and out—but fresh snowfall after his departure had erased all footprints. Opening the closet revealed his prized Remington double-barreled shotgun missing alongside every hunting tool.

“When they checked the kitchen,” he concluded, “traces of cold rice packed in a lunchbox made them realize he’d gone hunting—or so it’s said.”

“Hmm… Why did he suddenly go out hunting?”

“Well... There was a theory that his nephew Tokuro had lured him out after all... However, others maintained that Mr. Genjiro had always possessed the habit of heading to the mountains whenever he saw snow, so upon encountering this unusually heavy snowfall, he must have been unable to resist going out... This latter opinion held greater sway... Yet another theory suggested that Tokuro—aware of this very habit—had precisely targeted that vulnerability to commit the deed... But given that the man himself was nearly mute in his taciturnity, nothing could ever be conclusively determined.”

“Was there any sign of a letter or such beforehand… from his nephew Tokuro…”

“According to Oiso’s recollection, there hadn’t been any…… They even searched the house thoroughly afterward, but…”

“I see…”
“And then…”

“What followed was extremely straightforward.”
“At daybreak, students out rabbit-hunting discovered Mr. Sanematsu’s corpse—which had fallen from a roughly six-meter cliff at Ippon'enoki in Mount S Pass into the valley stream—and reported it to the village police box, causing quite the uproar... The cause of death was determined to be from shattering the back of his head on a rocky outcrop during the fall, with no other abnormalities detected whatsoever.”
“This comes from my foster father who examined the corpse, but…”

“I see… But apart from the corpse…”

“Aside from the corpse itself, they found in his pockets an oilpaper-wrapped pouch of rolled cigarettes, matches, and one strip of dried squid—with neither the lunchbox contents nor the sake in his canteen showing any decrease... Then from his belly wrap emerged a frog-mouthed purse containing two yen and several tens of sen—said to be the Sanematsu family’s last remaining wealth—while the cash Mr. Genjiro should have hidden somewhere had completely vanished without trace... Though this fact was only established after they turned over every foundation stone at his home on the village outskirts during post-incident investigations...”

“I see… So the motive for murder was established, then.”

“That’s correct. Admittedly, the exact amount of money remains unclear... But another crucial point is that both spent scattergun shells remained in the Remington double-barreled shotgun still tightly gripped in the corpse’s left hand—or so I’m told.”

“Ah… Left without reloading them, I see.”

“That’s correct.”
The other bullets were neatly lined up in the bullet belt with no signs of having been fired, and considering that neither the lunchbox nor canteen had been touched, Mr. Genjiro must have fired two scattergun shots at something shortly after reaching that clearing at Ippon'enoki.
"And it’s said he likely plunged into the valley stream and died without even time to reload."

“Hmm… That part does seem rather odd.”

“It’s perplexing… As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Genjiro should have been thoroughly familiar with that terrain as a guide.”
“Moreover, with moonlight reflecting off the snow to illuminate the footing, he wouldn’t have met such an end unless encountering some formidable adversary that threw him into disarray—or so the accounts maintain.”

“Quite so… That reasoning seems unassailable.”

“I share that view.
“Yet considering how snow had formed a perfectly rounded mound over the corpse—seamless with the rock—and with no footprints found nearby, they were apparently confounded by the complete lack of perpetrator’s traces.”

“Hmm... That does seem to be the case.
Had the snow not fallen afterward, they might have discovered something interesting, but...”

“That’s correct. However—apparently because village hunters claimed snow always melts first from human footprints—they waited for the thaw to re-examine the scene, but it seems not just one or two people had crossed Mount S Pass before Mr. Genjiro... To make matters worse, the area around the scene had been trampled by the students who discovered the corpse—so while numerous footprints did emerge, they only grew increasingly impossible to distinguish—or so it’s said.”

“So... in other words, that search proved fruitless after all?”

“Yes… With absolutely no leads obtained, K Town’s newspapers apparently lambasted the police’s incompetence. ……But soon after, infant Shinao was taken into this household along with old Oiso, and Mr. Genjiro Sanematsu’s remains—which had been temporarily buried—were given a formal funeral service, so the case appears to have reached provisional resolution.”
"And so, as various rumors rose and faded, twenty years flowed by to bring us to today—in a sense, Shinao could be called the sole living memorial left in this village by that tragedy from two decades past."

Having said this and swallowing his saliva, even Kensaku couldn’t prevent a trace of bitter sorrow from crossing between his eyebrows.

“I see... In that case, the villagers must have spread all sorts of rumors.”

Kuroki also nodded gloomily.
But before long, Kensaku seemed to grow agitated once more, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he continued with renewed intensity in his voice.

"But no matter what anyone says, since our situation was definitively decided by our foster father, it absolutely cannot be altered... To concern ourselves now with villagers' rumors or relatives' backbiting would be inexcusable before his mortuary tablet—and above all, Shinao herself would become utterly pitiable."
“With both her foster father and Old Oiso—who had been her allies—now dead, she’s become completely alone in the world, you see.”

“Quite right.”

And Kuroki nodded once more with a deep sigh.
He said, as if to change the subject.

“By the way... This may go without asking, but Ms. Shinao must have heard every detail about her biological father’s death.”

“That goes without saying. She’s been told the story endlessly by her foster parents and Old Oiso—and must have caught the villagers’ rumors directly or indirectly too. She likely knows more than anyone alive... Given she means to take revenge... Ha ha ha ha...”

"Indeed... But regarding this revenge she intends to carry out... What method does she plan to employ?"

"Well... I haven't heard details that far..."
"It's too preposterous a notion... More than that—I simply can't fathom why Shinao would even voice such ideas... That's precisely why I've disclosed these private matters to you..."

"I see..."

Kuroki nodded while staring fixedly at the brazier's ashes. After remaining so for some time, seemingly deep in thought, he quietly raised his face and asked with continued reserve: "And then... Though this may be an unnecessary intrusion—have you obtained a copy of Ms. Shinao's family register?"

“Ah… There’s one copy my foster father kept that simply lists Shinao as Genjiro Sanematsu’s eldest daughter—an orphan utterly without kin. …They say they even dispatched someone all the way to C Prefecture three or four years back to investigate, but it’s fact her hometown had long since lost every last relative. Not a soul remained who even knew Tokuro’s parents’ names… But does that bear any connection to this incident?”

“Well... It’s not exactly that there’s a connection...”

Kuroki, for some reason, trailed off ambiguously and sank into thought with an even gloomier demeanor than before, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
Kensaku casually observed the expressionless face beneath those black-framed glasses, then began fidgeting restlessly while hiking up one knee.

“Mr. Kuroki. You needn’t hold back… I’ve considered us close acquaintances for many years now, and when this historic snowfall coincides with the twenty-first memorial of Shinao’s father’s passing—well, I thought it must signify some karmic connection that compels me to speak earnestly… Frankly, you’d bring greater merit by speaking without reservation… Ha ha ha ha.”

As he spoke these words, Kensaku’s agitation seemed to have completely subsided, his complexion taking on a relaxed demeanor.
At the same time, he seemed to grow somewhat bored with the conversation, tilting his head back and starting to let out a small yawn.
However, Kuroki still did not change his expression.
He still sat with arms deeply crossed, seemingly turning something over in his mind, until eventually adjusting his glasses with both hands and muttering with a faint sigh.

“Well… Should I speak of that… or not…”

“Ha ha ha ha ha.”
“You needn’t force yourself to speak if you cannot. …After all, this is a matter we two should keep secret…… But forgive my insistence—no matter what kind of woman Shinao may be, the will binding us through the deceased absolutely cannot be altered.”
“Even were this household to meet ruin for Shinao’s sake—since that outcome itself fulfills the departed’s wishes—you needn’t trouble yourself over such concerns…… I merely receive this information for reference.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha. To phrase it thus might sound rude, but...”

Kensaku laughed without a hint of sarcasm as he said this, then let out one resolute, exaggerated yawn.
His gaze drifted to the cottony snowflakes shimmering beyond the glass pane...

“...I see... Then... I shall... offer my opinion...”

Kuroki finally seemed to reach a decision. Uncomfortably uttering these words, he picked up the large cup lying beside the brazier and poured plain hot water into it.
Then Kensaku followed suit and picked up a glass cup from under the sofa.

A fresh conversational energy swelled once more between the two.
Kensaku blew on the steam rising from his cup and spoke in a lighthearted tone.

“...I beg of you.
Since it concerns the rise and fall of Shinao’s entire life......”

However, Kuroki nodded with utter seriousness, his expression unchanging.
While setting the teacup to one side...

"Not at all... You are entirely correct."
"Well then, I shall try to explain what I can—but before that, there is one more matter I must inquire about..."

Kensaku also nodded casually while setting his glass cup down on the tatami mat.

“Ah… Anything you wish…”

“...No.”
“It’s nothing particularly different.”
“In other words, regarding our current discussion about Ms. Shinao’s father... Concerning that father’s unnatural death, Ms. Shinao must have formed her own observations on the matter, I presume.”

“...When you say ‘observation’...”

“...Why her father’s unnatural death must have been murder... that sort of matter.”

“She must have given it considerable thought, I imagine.”
“Because she’s fond of detective novels... but I’ve never once confronted her directly about such matters.”
“Since it’s already a matter of the past, and if asking about such things were to make her start crying again, that would be troublesome...”

“Ha ha. I see… So you’ve formed your own separate interpretation then.”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it an interpretation, but since I’m explaining things through my own common sense, to put it bluntly, I share my foster father’s opinion. …In short, at the most minimal level, there is not a single point that would allow us to recognize Genjiro Sanematsu’s unnatural death as suicide or accidental… Regarding it being unmistakably murder, I believe there remains no room for doubt…”

“...So Dr. Gen’yo had suspected from the very beginning that it was the doing of Mr. Sanematsu’s nephew, I take it.”

“Well, that’s about right. However, this conclusion ultimately amounts to nothing more than various conjectures based on the facts you mentioned earlier. Since it’s fundamentally a labyrinthine case to begin with, should you present a more compelling, well-founded opinion, I would gladly bow to it.”

“No. If you demand evidence, I’m at a loss… To be blunt, what I call my opinion is merely a judgment my sixth sense perceived just now while listening to your account.”

“Oh… Just now… Sixth sense…”

Kensaku widened his eyes and stroked his jaw.
Kuroki nodded with a somewhat pleased air.

“That’s correct. Having spent many years in life-risking maritime existence, I’ve developed the habit of resolving matters solely through what you might call sixth sense—or perhaps intuition—that strikes me the instant I confront an incident… Since this case has remained unsolved for such an extended period, I believe there’s no alternative but to judge it through that approach.”

“...I see... How remarkable...”

“Yes.
“Though perhaps not so remarkable... Yet even so, were I to interpret this case through my own singular judgment, Ms. Shinao’s revenge theory as presented moments ago would become entirely meaningless.”
“Precisely as you requested...”

“What? Completely meaningless… As per my request…”

Kensaku was momentarily speechless.
He blinked rapidly, momentarily flustered, but soon regained his composure and—as if to mask his embarrassment—hastily pulled both knees to his chest and began rocking back and forth.
Once more with forced resolve while blushing...

“Ha ha...
“Now that’s truly splendid.”
“Please do let me hear... that sixth sense of yours...”

Kuroki nodded magnanimously, as if soothing a baby.

“Of course I will explain.
“...However before that—first speaking from my ordinary common-sense judgment prior to receiving this sixth sense—fundamentally in such labyrinthine cases, there exist various ways of thinking. When viewed solely from one perspective, judgments drift from the core truth and naturally create a maze... Particularly with rumors or the authorities’ perspective—things predisposed to cast doubt—each individual event becomes prone to being exaggerated toward suspicion or forcibly connected in that direction.”
“That is precisely why the labyrinth tends to grow ever deeper, I should think.”

“I agree.”
“I see…”

“Now—though it may be impertinent to say so—your honorable adoptive father’s judgments and recollections concerning this case were thoroughly humane… or rather conventional… Therefore I imagine you too—having primarily based your judgment on what you heard from that honorable adoptive father—ultimately arrived at the same conclusion…”

“That’s correct… And so…”

“Therefore, based on what I’ve indirectly heard from you and turning it over in my mind, I believe this case’s substance can largely be broken down into three distinct events.”

“I see… Up to that point, our perspectives appear to match.”

“...Is that so.”
“This might go without explanation, but the first is simply the fact of Mr. Genjiro Sanematsu’s fatal fall itself.”

“Indeed…”

“Next comes the incident of Mr. Genjiro’s missing savings, followed by the disappearance of his nephew—these three elements coalescing are likely being judged as a single case.”

“I’m impressed. Truly impressed.”

“Now then, when we combine these three incidents and observe them as a unified event, it appears rather a fearsome case.”
“...In other words, that villainous youth—what was his name—brutally murdered Ms. Shinao’s father, who had shown him great benevolence, upon the mountain, stole his assets, and fled. Thus this incident would constitute a premeditated crime executed through such cruel and inhuman character.”

“That’s exactly right. Even if Tokuro hadn’t killed Mr. Genjiro Sanematsu, merely forgetting that debt of gratitude would make him a grave sinner… That’s what my foster father used to say.”

“However… There’s one more thing I’d like to ask—have you… or your honorable foster father as well, for that matter—ever considered separating these three incidents and examining them individually?”

“———”

Kensaku kept his knees hugged to his chest as he vigorously shook his head from side to side.
It was completely unexpected... or so it seemed...
Kuroki bared his white teeth in a smile.

“Ha ha... You haven’t considered it that way.”
“I thought that might be the case.”
“In that case, try separating and examining the three elements of this incident individually.”
“Wouldn’t it then appear several times more dreadful than some commonplace murder... transforming into a truly blood-curdling event before your very eyes?”

“...Several times more terrifying...”

“That’s right… Can’t you see?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ha ha... You don’t understand... No, that’s quite reasonable.”
“The basis for my judgment—as I mentioned earlier—is extremely unconventional… Yet to a certain extent, it can be explained through common sense.”
“No… Rather, one might argue my reasoning is actually the more commonsensical interpretation…”

“Ha ha… What do you mean…”

“...First... regarding this individual currently regarded as the culprit... Ah yes.”
“What was his name again?”
“Ah yes—Tokuro... That his nephew’s disappearance has been linked to this incident seems perfectly reasonable at first glance... For among all villagers—excluding Mr. Genjiro’s wife and his loyal nursemaid Oiso—the one most likely to have discovered where Mr. Genjiro hid his money would be none other... than that very nephew Tokuro himself.”

“Indeed…”

“On the other hand, Mr. Genjiro Sanematsu—as is often the case with eccentrics—may have had an unexpectedly cautious streak, perhaps keeping his entire fortune in a money belt or similar item worn day and night, much like the Chinese do.”
“If we suppose Tokuro deduced that as well, then to steal the money, he would have had no choice but to kill Mr. Genjiro...”

“Of course… That…”

“So first, as his initial step to avoid suspicion, he ran away from home under the pretense of going to America.”
“Then after considerable time had passed, while changing his appearance and stalking Mr. Genjiro with a murder weapon in hand, he eventually discovered Mr. Genjiro setting out hunting—lured by the heavy snowfall. Seizing this golden opportunity at that place on the mountain... what was it called... ah yes, he ambushed him from behind a single enoki tree far removed from the village and took the shot.”
“However—given the snowy conditions—one might consider that he was discovered by his target sooner than anticipated, causing the first shot to miss... But regardless, anyone could imagine that a ferocious gunfight erupted on that snowbound mountain peak. Yet if Mr. Genjiro's weapon was a double-barreled scattergun while Tokuro's happened to be something like a five-shot pistol, he stood no chance whatsoever. Inevitably, Mr. Genjiro found himself retreating backward until he misstepped and plunged into the mountain stream.”
“Thereupon, we can imagine that Tokuro took only the savings from the corpse, deliberately leaving behind the frog-mouthed purse containing two yen and some-odd sen before departing...”

“Heavens... That’s precisely correct. It doesn’t differ by a single jot from my foster father’s thinking.”

“Exactly… This is the most commonsensical interpretation—it perfectly matches every fact from beginning to end.”

“That’s right. There’s no other conceivable way to interpret it, I should think.”

“That may be so… But suppose we now take one step back and examine this from a different perspective… In other words, what if this incident had no such perpetrator at all? What would that imply?”

“Wh… What do you mean… no culprit…?”

“Exactly.
“What if this connection between Tokuro—the nephew—and the incident exists solely in people’s imaginations?… For imaginings that align with reality are often mistaken for sound deductions… Suppose Tokuro truly harbored lofty ambitions and departed straight for foreign shores without ever approaching these matters… Could we really say such a scenario is impossible?”

“Well… That…”

“What if… none other than Mr. Sanematsu himself lost his savings—that money being squandered on leisure or such? Couldn’t we view it that way?”

“......”

“Wouldn’t it prove more commonsensical—and less novelistic—to dismantle these three incidents thusly? To examine each as mundane happenstance rather than some orchestrated murder… Mightn’t that interpretation align closer with truth?”

“Th... then...”

With his eyes gleaming, Kensaku leaned forward slightly flustered.

“Then what… Are you saying the two shots Mr. Sanematsu fired were indeed aimed at a real animal or something after all?”

“No... That’s precisely the point.”

Kuroki conversely arched his back.
With evident satisfaction, he took a sip of hot water and leisurely licked his lips.

“...I too would like to believe that.”
“...But... there exists another reason why it cannot be considered solely that way.”
“To tell the truth, what follows now stems purely from my intuition.”

“...This intuition of yours...”

Kensaku leaned forward even more.
At the same time, Kuroki leaned back even more assertively.

"...To put it succinctly, it seems Mr. Genjiro Sanematsu was assailed by some terror in the snow before dawn."

“...some terror...”

“Exactly… In other words, I believe he perceived a certain terrifying enemy in the snow—one that did not actually exist—and fired two scattergun shots to combat it.”
“If we do that, all facts would align without the slightest inconsistency...”
“...Wait a moment.”

Kensaku raised one hand.
As his expression gradually grew more anxious...

"What exactly is this so-called terrifying enemy... Could it be some sort of psychiatric hallucination?"

Kuroki nodded emphatically.

“Exactly… That illusion was undoubtedly a manifestation of some horror conjured by Mr. Sanematsu’s own obsessive thoughts."
“Whether it was a bird, a beast, or something else entirely—I can’t say for certain, but…”

Kensaku was astonished.
As if he had realized something, he gulped repeatedly.
However, Kuroki continued speaking without pause.

"Mr. Sanematsu pulled the trigger of his Remington to combat that illusion.
"But since this enemy fundamentally didn’t exist in reality, no amount of scattergun pellets could possibly strike true."
“As the enemy closed in ever nearer before his eyes, Mr. Sanematsu fled in a panic-driven frenzy from sheer terror… until he met with that bizarre calamity described in the accounts—this is how it can be surmised.”

“Ah…”
Kensaku gulped hard, his unease growing palpable.
"But the evidence..."
“...No. When pressed for evidence, I must confess perplexity… After all, this stems purely from my intuition… Yet considering how Mr. Sanematsu’s devotion to his nephew Tokuro transcended ordinary human affection, and how he converted his entire fortune to cash only to hide it in absolute secrecy—one cannot help but conclude he possessed a supernatural intellect.”
“Therefore, he was prone to being seized by such obsessive thoughts…”

“No… I understand…”

Having said this and cutting off Kuroki’s words, Kensaku suddenly straightened his posture on the sofa. Planting both elbows on his spread knees, swallowing hard several times until his face rapidly paled, he fixed Kuroki with a terrifying glare. With his lips quivering, he produced a voice that seemed to wring his very vitals.

“...No. I see it all now. Until now I hadn’t noticed at all, but as I listened to your opinion, everything became clear. ...It seems you’re deducing from Mr. Sanematsu’s extraordinary character to argue for Tokuro’s innocence. In other words, Mr. Sanematsu—Shinao’s father was inherently endowed with a hereditary psychiatric disposition, a perverse character. Therefore, you’re asserting that under the intense moonlight on those pure white snowy mountains, he fell into some sort of hallucinatory delusion and met an unnatural end akin to an unforeseen suicide...”

“No.”
“Please wait a moment.”

Kuroki raised a hand to stop him.
As if fearing Kensaku’s increasingly impassioned tone...
However, Kensaku did not flinch.
While raising one hand in unison with Kuroki, he leaned forward even further.

“No.
“Wait.”
“Please wait.”
“You are unaware.
“It seems you believe such arguments could prove Tokuro’s innocence, but when it comes to explanations of that sort, I am the specialist.
“Do you understand?
“When we compare the facts as you’ve described them with the renowned Devinne-style principle of hereditary predisposition, it actually leads us to the exact opposite conclusion.
“...While the handsome youth Tokuro appeared gentle on the surface, he too concealed a supernatural character akin to Mr. Sanematsu’s at his core... Moreover, it has been scientifically proven that he could indeed be the congenital possessor of such unconscientious traits—ones enabling him to ruthlessly stalk and murder his greatly benefacted uncle with cruel persistence.
“Do you understand?... That Mr. Sanematsu was both an extreme eccentric and someone whose sole hobby involved blood-soaked slaughter; that perverse disposition which exhibited abnormal sexual excitement following such carnage; the reason his ancestral bloodline became extinct in their homeland... And that Shinao’s current state—her obsessive delusion of being watched by the murderer from twenty years ago, her monomaniacal fantasies about unavoidable revenge—all of it can be explained by this case’s central truth... Namely, that the Sanematsu family of T-zuka Village belonged to a severe psychiatric lineage...”

Overwhelmed by the other’s mournful tone, Kuroki—whose face had flushed red then turned pale as he stared wide-eyed—now barely managed to awkwardly straighten his posture.
Kuroki raised both hands to stem the torrent of Kensaku’s words.

“No... wait... please wait—”
“So— That’s your misunderstanding.”
“I was only speaking about Ms. Shinao’s father...”

“No… It doesn’t matter at all.”
“I won’t mind even if our marriage meets with public opposition.”

Kensaku declared resolutely in this manner.
While his entire body trembled with inexplicable agitation...

"No matter what happens, I am resolved not to kill Shinao—and I have absolutely no intention of abandoning her—so speak plainly about everything.
...The Sanematsu family had been wiped out in their homeland due to that terrifying psychiatric lineage.
And now that single remaining drop of blood cycles through the veins, poised to flow forth and destroy the Fujisawa family.
That single drop of blood... is said to be Shinao?"

“...”

“So you’re saying it would benefit the Fujisawa family to let Shinao die… You…”

“...”

“...”

The two remained frozen like stone, their pallid faces locked in mutual gaze... Just then, something outside the door crashed to the floor...

The two men started up simultaneously.
When Kensaku, nearest to the door, frantically pulled the handle, there on the dark linoleum floor beyond lay Shinao in her white uniform.

Kensaku wordlessly knelt and took her pulse.
Then, forcing himself to adopt a composed demeanor, he looked up at Kuroki standing rigidly nearby and gave a single bitter nod.

“...Excuse me... Could you open the examination room door...”

It was slightly past three o'clock that night.

Shinao quietly fluttered her long lashes—lowered like those of a fixed doll—two or three times before snapping her eyes wide open. Staring with void-like black pupils, she gazed for a long while at the dim ceiling of the tatami room.

Without blinking once, she slowly tilted her head left and right, observing the all-white bedding and her own hair—left undone and disheveled about both sides of the pillow. She then surveyed each dimly lit form: the bedside lamp shrouded in black cloth; the narcissus flowers she'd arranged in the alcove; Kensaku's face—still in his white examination gown—leaning against the alcove pillar with crossed arms in sleep; the iron kettle faintly steaming atop the round paulownia-wood brazier; the nurse huddled beneath a quilt in its shadow. Without altering her expression in the slightest, she lay back as before and quietly closed her eyes.

The room once again returned to the silence of the snowy night.
Only the hissing iron kettle, the nurse’s rhythmic snoring, and the trickling sound of snowmelt running down the gutter outside the storm shutters remained.

However, Shinao had not truly fallen asleep.
Keeping her eyes closed, before long she formed an indescribably cold smile at the corners of her lips—then, while drowsily opening her eyelids, she slowly sat up.
Extending both hands forward... writhing her body sinuously as if groping through darkness... she seemed unable to find her balance—but then, pressing down on the bedding with both hands, she rose smoothly to her feet on the mattress.

She wore the crimson Yuzen-patterned underrobe from her sixteenth or seventeenth year that always served as her sleepwear. Over this lay coiled only a single frayed purple obi. Pressing both palms firmly against her swollen chest as though clinging to herself, she stepped barefoot from the bedding and glided smoothly across the tatami to place her hands on the bashofu-covered sliding door. At that moment, the hem of her underrobe trailing across the floor brushed against the syringe on the tray near the pillow, sending up a metallic clatter. In response, Kensaku—still sleeping—released a slightly louder breath, but Shinao neither glanced back nor paused in her motion.

When the bashofu sliding door opened without a sound, a cold wind rushed in with a whooshing gust.
However, Shinao showed no intention of closing it behind her. She slid open another shoji screen with a soft whoosh and stepped directly into the brightly lit corridor.
One side of this corridor was fitted with glass storm shutters, where from the silvery-nickel sky that had just cleared, the brilliant full moon’s light cascaded down in a glittering shower—onto the jet-black polished wooden floorboards and the snow-covered plantings in the outer garden alike—but Shinao paid no heed to such a spectacle.
As though guided by some unseen force, she traversed the long corridor in a straight line while staring through half-lidded eyes at the cold space before her. Upon reaching the dead end, she opened the blue-painted door and entered the pharmacy corridor. Advancing straight across the pitch-dark linoleum, there soon came the sound of her pushing against the far door... Then... The lightbulb hanging at the examination room's center blazed forth with blinding intensity.

Perhaps from emerging suddenly into sub-zero cold from the warm inner parlor, all color had drained from Shinao’s complexion.
Her face and limbs were so white they seemed translucent as snow—this figure with long black hair cascading down her back and the blazing underrobe’s hem trailing exposed as she squinted up into the bluish-white light—might one call it lascivious? Or divine?
The pinnacle of forbidden allure—there she stood incarnate.

However, that such a figure would materialize in the midnight examination room of snowbound Fujisawa Hospital was something no one could have possibly anticipated.
Everything lay wrapped in sub-zero air, utterly still.
In such stillness, Shinao abruptly halted. With eyes that seemed dazzled yet drowsy, she swept her gaze about before fixing it on the four-sided glass-paned cabinet in the room's corner. Stealthily drawing near, she slid open the heavy glass door halfway.
From there she thrust her pale hand inside, selecting among dozens of scalpels arrayed in a square enamel tray—this one or that—until seizing upon a single large blade cast aside beyond the tray's edge.

It was a small naginata-shaped blade—the largest scalpel called a round-bladed autopsy knife, unnecessary for ordinary surgery. At this hospital it seemed used for some external purpose, with black rust stains visible near the handle. She gripped it firmly in a reverse hold with her right hand, holding it up to the bluish-white light behind her as she swung it through the air several times, sending glittering sparks like small lightning flashes. Gazing up at these sparks, Shinao formed a childishly innocent smile before raising the scalpel in her right hand and—gathering both sleeves with her left—slid out through the still-open door into the linoleum corridor once more... Turning left this time, she crossed over the pond and navigated the dim covered walkway toward the wards, feeling her way hesitantly before turning left down the first side corridor until reaching the special ward at its end. Without hesitation, she pulled the brass knob.

Illuminated by a ten-candlepower electric light, the form of a person completely shrouded in white bedding from head to toe loomed prominently atop the iron bedframe. Holding the scalpel aloft all the while, Shinao appeared deeply absorbed in thought; then, mercilessly yanking away the upper futon and sending her hair swirling in a misty vortex through the air, she swung the scalpel down as though plunging into the bedding. From the bedside, a single sheet of white powdered medicine wrapper fluttered down to the floor.

“Mmm... Oogh...” came a dream-like scream as a bluish-black, massive body wrapped in a white towel sleeping robe began to rise up.
It was Shigeru Kuroki with his spiky chestnut-burr head; bending his hairy arms, he grabbed both the scalpel handle embedded in the chest of his sleeping robe and Shinao’s right wrist with his bare hands.

However, he no longer had the strength to do anything about that.
Baring bloodshot white eyes, he peered wide into her face; but upon catching a glimpse through the disheveled hair, he firmly shut both eyes and arched back on the sheets.

“Mmm... Tch... Damn you!”
“It’s... come... then...?”

The fragmented scream trailed off with a bizarre cadence, trembling and vanishing like the meaningless refrain of a popular song... Before this perception could solidify, a winter gale's howl erupted through clenched teeth as foamy blood spewed forth.

However, Shinao still did not loosen her grip.
As her opponent’s arm strength waned, she steadily plunged the scalpel deeper and deeper.
As if savoring the blood welling up and spreading across the patient’s chest in his white towel sleeping robe—like crashing waves—Shinao gradually rolled up the crimson Yuzen-patterned underrobe’s sleeve with her left hand, flexing her pale, translucent arms with all her strength while darting her gaze back and forth. Yet no sooner had the robust chest before her arched upward with a series of gurgling sounds than it collapsed flat with a deep, blood-choked sigh. Shinao narrowed her eyes, biting down hard on her white lips as she stared intently at her own wrist gripping the scalpel.
Large and quiet, as if matching the rhythm of her opponent’s chest heaving with its final breath, she slowly, deeply expanded her own breathing—deeper and deeper—in gradual waves.
And at the exact moment her opponent’s breathing ceased entirely, she too stopped breathing abruptly, becoming as motionless as a statue.

“Shinao—”

It was at that moment that a thunderous voice came flying in from the corridor.

Startled, Shinao recoiled in an instant.
With a swift motion, she flung her abundant hair back behind her and began raising high her right hand gripping the scalpel—but upon seeing Kensaku standing like a Nio statue in his white clothes, his face pallid and contorted directly before her eyes—she suddenly arched her body backward and burst into peals of laughter.

“Hohohohohoho.
“Hohohoho... You were watching... Hohohohohoho.”
“Wasn’t it splendid... I... have finally avenged myself on my sworn enemy...”

The scalpel that had slipped from Shinao’s hand stood upright on the floor.
At the same moment—apparently having gone slack—Shinao went limp, cheeks dyed crimson with shame as she collapsed against Kensaku’s chest.
While wrapping bloodstained hands around the white examination gown’s collar, she looked up with fiery eyes.

“You know… you understand now…”
“Now I can… be with you… it’s permitted…”