Pathway to Japanese Literature

Morigen's Greenhouse Oku-Izu—this area called by that name—was geographically just a short distance from Tokyo, yet it brimmed with a crystal-clear cerulean sky and warm rays of light so reminiscent of southern climes that it could well be called another world. The lush, gently rolling expanse of fertile land made even someone like me feel an inexplicable sense of hope—I couldn't help but be struck by that impression. I raised my eyes and inhaled the raw air. In this atmosphere devoid of even a speck of dust, I wanted to breathe as roughly as I pleased and wave my arms about.

I, who had come to convalesce in Oku-Izu after my illness, found the fever on my temperature chart had settled into a sine curve at last—and more than anything, that I had come to hold something called “hope.” This was my greatest harvest. For me—one who had only ever seen the sun through grimy veils of dust and loathed the city’s clinging red bean paste-colored night skies—moving here brought such disbelief at how cerulean a southern sky could be. It was because I found wholesome illusions in those pure white cotton clouds drifting there.

But as my condition improved in this way, I found myself unexpectedly assaulted by intense boredom. The surroundings were so utterly still—as if one could hear each individual sunbeam seeping into the ground—that it felt like being suddenly deafened, and even the blowing wind seemed soft to my ears. At a loss with myself, I filled every permissible moment with walks, and beyond that, I was starving for someone to talk to.

It was around that time that I came to know the eccentric Morigen—. This preface may have run rather long, but I provide it because I fear my acquaintance with Morigen—whom not a single soul would engage with at the time—might strike you as unnatural unless you first understand the depth of my boredom during that period. Morigen—this being a nickname; his real name was Morita Gen’ichirou—but since every villager called him Morigen, Morigen, and somehow that seemed to capture his appearance more fittingly, I too resolved to use that familiar name.

Regarding the eccentric Morigen, the villagers’ rumors varied—some claimed he was a hidden scholar, others insisted he was merely an oddity closer to madness—but on one point they all agreed: he remained an 'eccentric' who utterly refrained from interacting with them. Morigen’s house stood in a low valley four or five *chō* from the one I was renting, its Western-influenced construction method unusual for this area. On the way there, several greenhouses utilizing natural hot springs stood in a row, and inside those greenhouses, one could see vines heavily laden with muskmelons hanging in neatly arranged rows.

This was apparently something Morigen had devised, but now imitations of these natural greenhouses had sprung up all over the village, forming what was said to be a profitable sideline. In this regard, Morigen ought to have been shown considerable gratitude, yet the villagers affixed him with the label of "eccentric" and made no effort to engage with him—

The first time I met Morigen was at that greenhouse during one of my walks. Morigen was wearing khaki work clothes and busily placing muskmelons on small padding made of straw, which he then hung from support pillars. Had I not heard people call this man an "eccentric," I likely wouldn’t have spoken to him at all. But precisely because I’d been given that foreknowledge—and with the curiosity born of my earlier-mentioned boredom spurring me on—

“Oh, this is splendid! These could rival imported ones.” was the sort of thing I said. However, Morigen raised his pale eyes to give me a brief glance,

“Hmph. You think imported ones are better, amateur.”

With that, he spat the words out dismissively and continued working, feigning ignorance.

“Hmm, so imported ones are no good?”

“Of course! It’s obvious,” he spat. “With muskmelons, timing is everything. If you cut the vines, load them onto a ship, and have them plod across the ocean like that, their real flavor’s already past its prime.” Finally turning toward me, Morigen ceased working as if noticing my unfamiliar presence for the first time. “I see, that must be true—how many times a year do you harvest these muskmelons, anyway?” “Others might manage three harvests at best if they take their sweet time, but at my place, we get double that right off the bat…”

“Double? So you get six harvests?” “Exactly. We should be able to harvest even more.” “Oh ho, so there’s some kind of method for that?” “If those fools think all you need to do is keep a greenhouse warm, three harvests a year is the best they can manage.” “That’s just aping others. Using greenhouse hot spring water as steam—even a child could manage that… Heh heh heh. Method?” “There’s a method, you see.” Having said that, he looked me over again as if to verify something,

“It’s the building method—the greenhouse building method. Not like those guys who just throw up structures wherever they find empty land. And then there’s the antennas.”

“Huh, do greenhouses need antennas? …Now that you mention it, they all seem to have them.” As I thought the conversation was taking a strange turn, I looked up at the several antenna wires atop what he called “antennas” on the greenhouse.

“These greenhouses are all built longitudinally east-west, with antennas installed atop them—they utilize Earth’s magnetic force. Through precise surveying, they’re aligned exactly perpendicular to the magnetometer’s north-south. Of course, the error caused by pole migration is simply unavoidable. If we could clearly account for that error, efficiency would no doubt improve even more—but…” “Are you saying you’re using magnetic force as fertilizer?” “In other words, it’s the same lack of understanding as believing magnetic force acts only on iron—that must be the common assumption. Do you know of the ‘dead man’s north-facing pillow’? Admittedly, this practice is said to originate from the legend that when Buddha died, he rested with his head to the north—but you see, sometimes these damned legends hold kernels of truth. A north-facing pillow aligned with the magnetic lines of force is theoretically the most tranquil position, you see. If one positions them perpendicular to those magnetic lines of force and effectively captures them with antennas and ground lines, then my endeavor to increase yields shouldn’t seem the least bit mysterious, should it? Facts are the greatest theory—they deserve application across all fields. After all, there’s absolutely no harm in anyone making use of the energy being pointlessly radiated across the Earth—no matter how they go about it.”

I couldn’t quite grasp it all precisely, but it had begun to seem that this Morigen was no mere ‘eccentric.’ As for this method of utilizing atmospheric energy, it surely wasn’t merely about installing antennas—there must have been some newer device at work—and if this method was as remarkably effective as he claimed, then it had to be a groundbreaking discovery—one that, if widely adopted, could instantly resolve issues like food shortages.

Having grown considerably interested in Morigen’s words—and with the length of this idle day to fill besides—I settled into that greenhouse as if I’d found an ideal companion.

The glass-walled interior was bathed in ample sunlight, with hot spring heating running through it in all directions, and fragrant southern plants spreading their lush green leaves around us. In this utterly detached state of mind, I found myself engrossed in conversation with Morigen, whom I’d only just met. Morigen too—contrary to rumors—was by no means averse to conversation; rather, he seemed even more talkative than I was. This became clear when he eventually abandoned his work entirely, casually getting his hands dirty with soil, offered me a slightly worn-out round chair, and leisurely began smoking.

“Are you from Tokyo? “Ah, that’s right—the locals here bolt the moment I mention antennas. Heh heh heh!”

Morigen’s features, highlighted by direct sunlight filtering through the glass, couldn’t be called those of a handsome youth, but neither were they particularly unpleasant. Rather, his sunken cheeks and square, sturdy jaw—which at times gave him the appearance of a laborer—conveyed a certain ruggedness—whether due to the light or perhaps the deep wrinkles etched into his forehead and thick eyebrows making it seem more pronounced.

**The Electric Manor**

“I think using Earth’s magnetic force as fertilizer—that’s a fascinating theme. Why haven’t you published it? And you’ve already achieved double the results through practical application—”

He laughed, wrinkling the sides of his nose, “...I haven’t yet reached the stage of publishing anything.” “You might call it one piece of data, but it’s premature for action.” “Of course, it’s not just antennas and ground lines—the auxiliary devices connected to them remain incomplete.” “I see—so that’s why publication remains impossible?”

I realized pursuing this further would be futile, so I looked up, hoping to find another topic.

Just then, the greenhouse door swung open, and a woman entered. The instant she entered this greenhouse—as if flowers had burst into bloom—her beauty struck me with such force that I nearly hallucinated. Perhaps due to the tropical ambiance surrounding us, the beautiful girl’s bold Western-style dress in vivid primary colors of red, yellow, and blue blended so perfectly with the environment that even I—who should have been thoroughly accustomed to encountering beauties strolling through Ginza and other urban areas—involuntarily widened my eyes in astonishment. The bobbed hair was beautiful; that too was beautiful. The eyes were dewy; that too was beautiful.

On her part as well—startled by my unexpected presence—she approached quite near before stopping short with a gasp, parted her lips slightly as if waiting for words, then turned to look back at Morigen. From between those red lips, her white teeth—kissed by the glass’s reflection—glistened brilliantly. “Yeah, a friend.” Morigen said this as if making an excuse, then— “I’m Rumi…”

After that, he never referred to her as his wife or sister. “I’m Endo. Nice to meet you…”

Even as I rose to my feet while speaking, I began feeling an intense interest. She whispered two or three things into Morigen’s ear and left the greenhouse once more, yet that searingly vivid impression of her form refused to fade from my retinas for some time.

“Truly beautiful… They say such beauty is rare even in the countryside, but of course she couldn’t be from around here—and even in the city, she’d be a rarity.”

Morigen, appearing pleased, once again crinkled the sides of his nose,

“Oh, she’s just a country girl. I’ve simply had her dressed that way as—what you might call—a hobby of mine.” “Oh ho! I’m astonished—you perform such feats? And here I thought you were merely an eccentric—” I started to say—then hurriedly swallowed the rest—but Morigen responded with a bitter smile, “Have you been told about it too? Being labeled an eccentric makes for a convenient title for someone like me who dislikes socializing—”

Morigen was making himself into an eccentric. Indeed, this must be a clever method. “How about it—it’s hot here, so why don’t we go to the house for some tea or—” “So, you’re willing to socialize with me after all?” “How ironic.”

“No, no—that’s not what I meant. Socializing… I’m asking to socialize with you…”

I was somewhat flustered. It seemed my attempt to conceal the expectation that going to his house would mean encountering that beautiful girl named Rumi had instead caused me to blurt out something strange.

Morigen took the lead and passed through the greenhouse. As we reached the entrance, the door opened automatically, allowing us to enter with our hands still in our pockets. (Did Rumi open the door for us?)

Thinking this, I quickly turned around, but Rumi was nowhere to be seen—moreover, the door had shut tight again exactly as before. We passed through the hallway into what appeared to be a study. This time too we didn't touch the door. Not only that—the door lacked any handle whatsoever. "It's automatic,"

Morigen responded to my suspicious gaze.

Then, upon paying closer attention, I realized this house seemed electrified to an extreme degree in every aspect. When temperatures fell below a set level, heating systems activated; when they rose, cooling units immediately adjusted themselves. With just a button press, folding chairs and tables emerged from walls—it was precisely like those electric mansions one hears about in stories. Likely, the only task requiring Morigen’s personal attention was tying his necktie. Even face-washing became automated—presenting one’s face to the basin caused temperature-regulated water to flow forth and rinse everything away perfectly, or so the mechanism claimed—

“You really do seem like a character straight out of a science fiction novel.”

At some point, I shifted from using casual phrases like "Sō ka ne" to the more formal "desu ne." I sat down on a chair that sprang out from the wall and lifted the lid of the tobacco tray on the table. Then, the first cigarette sprang up as if spring-loaded, but when I reached out my hand, I found it already lit properly.

I found myself wondering whether I would actually put it in my mouth and smoke it—so much so that I nearly hallucinated the act.

“Science fiction—”

As if taking offense, Morigen muttered that, and continued— “Mr. Endo—you did say that, didn’t you? Are you an avid reader of these science fiction stories?” “And what do you think of that?”

“It’s not that I’m an avid reader, but of course I don’t dislike them either.” “That ‘not disliking them’ means you actually prefer the fictionality of so-called science fiction—isn’t that what it amounts to? In other words, I believe science fiction can be considered synonymous with fictional novels. It could also be called a form of speculative fiction. It may sound harsh, but I think nearly everything up until now could be described that way. For example, works like *A Trip to the Moon* or *The Conquest of Mars* would be those intriguing themes. However, even those speculative ideas must be rooted in ‘scientific plausibility and eventual achievability’—that’s the crucial part. For example, something like perpetual motion—since there’s proof it’s impossible—can hardly be called science fiction... Oh, wait—does that mean science fiction and speculative fiction are different after all…”

Morigen tilted his head slightly but then immediately continued—

“No—it’s fine. Science fiction is simply novels that take plausible fantasies as their theme—works that could exist with present-day science.” “Don’t you agree?”

He took a breath and tried to make me grasp his definition of science fiction.

“I see—that’s right—the idea of *A Trip to the Moon* is an interesting one—but once you leave Earth，can you really make it all the way to the Moon?” “That is，if we take Earth-to-Moon distance as one unit—since Earth’s gravity measures six times lunar gravity—when you’ve covered five-sixths of that span，meaning one-sixth remains—wouldn’t their gravitational pulls cancel out，leaving you stranded midair?” “Or worse—if solar or stellar gravity acts at that point，despite your efforts toward lunar approach—wouldn’t you veer into some preposterous cosmic detour?”

“That’s not the case.” “The inertia from Earth to the Moon would likely be greater, so you’d probably crash into the Moon instead—but compared to such things, I find this matter of ‘scale’ far more profoundly fascinating.” “The ‘size’ of things is entirely relative—nothing absolute about it.” “Humans just go around stating measurements against these arbitrarily set scales—me being five feet three inches tall, that tree four meters high, this tobacco tray a quarter-inch thick—that’s all it is.” “Take how Earth and Mars revolve around the Sun—isn’t that exactly like electrons orbiting an atom?” “You say it’s just a difference in scale, but then—what exactly do we mean by ‘scale’ itself?” “—If you think this way, even our universe containing the solar system might be seen as a single element within some mega-world.” “Conversely, within one electron circling an atom under our super-microscope, there might be ‘humans’ living like us—with trees, rivers, something they’d call Earth—in short, it’s all scale’s non-absolute trickery—”

Having half-heartedly nodded along, I found myself overwhelmed by Morigen’s words until it seemed my own mind was beginning to go strange. Though midway through his lecture I did think he seemed rather eccentric, truth be told, I couldn’t rid myself of thoughts about that beautiful girl named Rumi—the one I’d glimpsed in the greenhouse. I kept waiting in nervous anticipation for her to appear here again, but ultimately never managed to see her shadow. When Morigen’s discourse finally reached a lull, I seized the chance to retreat with what dignity I could muster.

The beautiful girl Rumi

As for why I visited Morigen's house again—while my extreme boredom was certainly a factor, as I mentioned before—it remains undeniable that two or three days later, while taking a walk and passing by his house, I glimpsed Rumi through a window. At that moment, she—perhaps it was my imagination—stood blankly in the middle of the room, lifting hollow, vacant eyes to stare at me. No—perhaps it wasn't me she saw. But did that really matter?

While knowing Morigen was inside a greenhouse a short distance away, I deliberately did not turn in that direction and headed straight toward the house so she could hear me,

“Excuse me! Excuse me!—”

I called out. And I pushed at the door.

At the same time, I realized with a start—oh!—that although last time when I had come with Morigen, without even calling out or pushing the door, it had opened on its own as expected, today, despite pushing as hard as I could, it didn’t budge an inch.

And yet, even though my calls should have been clearly heard, there was not the slightest sign of movement from Rumi. I was feeling somewhat disappointed and was just thinking of leaving when—

Before I knew it, Morigen, who had come up behind me, gave my shoulder a light tap.

“Hey, apologies for the other day. Well, come on in—there, there—”

When he said that, I turned around again—and the door was now wide open.

I felt slightly ridiculed, but I couldn’t very well leave now, so I followed after Morigen. “Welcome—”

That voice! With a beautiful voice that seemed to ride on melody, it was Rumi—radiantly vibrant, utterly transformed from when I had glimpsed her through the window—who welcomed me.

“Come now—it’s your favorite esteemed guest. Bring the tea—” Truth be told, I didn’t want Rumi to go fetch tea in the slightest.

But Rumi obediently nodded and left the room. And yet, she did not return for quite some time. Morigen, with his usual habit of wrinkling the sides of his nose, grinned slyly and— “Rumi seems to like you very much—” “…………” I was at a loss for a reply and could only return a meaningless smirk. “Actually, it seems Rumi does like you—but unfortunately, without me, she cannot survive even a day—no, rather, not even an hour.” “And besides—not that I want to let go of her—don’t misunderstand me—”

I could not comprehend Morigen’s words. There was something about his way of speaking—as if he had something caught between his back teeth—that simply didn’t register with me. Just then, Rumi finally brought the tea, and I felt the awkward atmosphere—where the conversation had lapsed—relieved with a sigh.

Rumi brought in two cups of black tea on a silver tray. “Well, you sit there too—” At the chair Morigen had indicated with his mouth, Rumi wordlessly sat down.

And as if suddenly remembering, she turned her eyes toward me—. Ah, how should I describe those eyes? Truly, I thought, these must be what they mean by obsidian eyes. Moreover, those round eyes that had forgotten to blink were fixed intently on me, pouring forth an intense gaze that seemed to churn up something within my chest. On the contrary, I found myself blushing crimson and fidgeting nervously like a boy.

“It’s been some time since you last visited, hasn’t it?” She blinked slowly, said in a melodic voice, then let one cheek relax into a smile. “No, it’s just that—I thought I’d be intruding...”

“Oh, that’s not the case at all. Please do come every day if you can—after all, you must be bored.” “Oh, I’m the one who’s been bored out of my mind—I’ll be dropping by now and then.”

It must have been a shout-like, inadvertently strained voice, for Morigen—

“Ha ha ha ha!” He laughed unreservedly, his wrinkled nostrils crinkling as he—

“Please do come—I’m an ‘eccentric’ with no one to talk to, you see—” “It’s a great honor to have made such a beautiful friend.”

Although it was a slightly affected way of phrasing things, for me—who was apparently in raptures—it rather felt like a genuine feeling. I, with Rumi by my side today, settled in completely as part of our three-person gathering.

Amidst this, what I had gradually come to notice and find puzzling was none other than Rumi herself. For one thing, she was indeed a beautiful girl, and from her manner of speaking, it was clear she had likely received an advanced education—but at times, when she suddenly fell silent, her profile would take on a chillingly cold, rigid expression as though carved from stone. And she would often forget to blink—

At such times, I stole a glance at Morigen. Then Morigen, too, wore a tired, slackened face and was staring vacantly at the ceiling. (Was it because I had gotten carried away and overstayed my welcome?)

“Ah, I must have been quite a bother... I’ll come visit again—” “Huh—”

Taken aback by the abruptness, Morigen looked up in surprise, swallowed back whatever words had risen to his lips with a muffled sound, and—

“I see. Then please do come.” With that, he signaled to Rumi with a glance and escorted me to the automatic sliding door at the entrance. “Ah, right—when I come next time, I’d like you to show me your laboratory once.”

“Well, I don’t have much in the way of proper equipment… but you can take a look sometime soon.” For some reason, Morigen saw me off with a lonely nod of acknowledgment.

Brainwave Manipulation

It was the next day. Thinking that once afternoon came I might go visit Morigen again, I leaned idly against the second-floor railing and gazed at Oku-Izu’s cloudless blue sky—when suddenly, at the edge of my vision, I sensed something vivid. Squinting my eyes, I realized it was Rumi walking toward my house with an airy gait. To describe modern girl Rumi’s walking style as “airy” might seem peculiar, yet in truth her figure moved as if carried by the wind—an oddly languid stride that nevertheless conveyed an intense determination to reach this place as soon as possible.

I immediately ran down from the second floor. Then, throwing on geta, I went out halfway down the path to meet Rumi.

“Oh—”

Having said that, she made her cheeks convulse violently and leaned against my chest as if collapsing. I—though it was a country path (or perhaps precisely because it was a sparsely traveled country path)—found myself flustered by Rumi’s boldness that had taken me by surprise,

“Well, here—come on, come on.”

I dragged her into the house.

At that moment, while supporting Rumi as she leaned against me with her full weight, I felt a strange tactile sensation that puzzled me briefly, but regardless, I brought her back home and sat her in a chair.

“You came after all.”

I finally said with relief.

“…………” The face she lifted in silence was a weeping countenance that revealed intense psychological turmoil. Yet not a single tear had fallen. A tearless, directly upturned weeping face made for a terribly desolate sight.

“What’s wrong? Should I get you some water?” Completely unable to grasp the situation, I stood there dumbfounded, wondering if she had perhaps quarreled with Morigen. Rumi shook her head violently, “I like you, like you, like you…” With that, she let out a strange, vowel-less cry that was neither “ki” nor “ku,” stood up from the chair, and reached out toward me.

I involuntarily took two or three steps back,

“Wh-what’s wrong, Miss Rumi?”

Just as I was about to say, "Pull yourself together," Morigen—who had barged in without waiting for an invitation—paid me no heed,

“Rumi—idiot!”

Having said that, he seemed to have come running with all his might and, still breathing heavily, glared. Then Rumi stiffened rigidly and collapsed onto the floor with a clatter. The sound of her collapse was a clatter, as if a chair fell.

Rumi did not move a muscle from then on.

I looked up fearfully at Morigen’s bloodshot eyes. “What’s happened to you—?”

“…………”

Finally turning toward me, Morigen, “Ah, I must apologize.” “I’m terribly sorry for the disturbance—causing such an unexpected commotion…” “I don’t mind that in the slightest, but she seemed to collapse with a terrible noise—”

“Exactly—the electricity cut out.” “The electricity cut out?!” “My, hadn’t you noticed yet? Rumi—this Rumi is the electric human I devoted half my life’s efforts to finally create—” “Electric human!”

“Yes, this is the electric human I value more than my own life.”

Never before had I been so shocked as I was in that moment. Until this very moment, the one I had thought of—no—rather, had come to feel even the faintest stirrings of affection, of love for—as a beautiful girl who held feelings for me, was in fact an electric human—. Literally stunned, I looked again at Rumi lying on the floor. However, even hearing that, I still couldn’t accept that Rumi was an artificial human.

What an exquisite creation she was—undoubtedly, even among real humans, there were many inferior specimens compared to Rumi.

“This beautiful skin, these eyes—are they artificial?”

“…………”

Morigen nodded deeply as if to say “Exactly,” then began to speak resolutely. Once he began to speak, his words gradually grew heated, and unimaginably bizarre matters began to unfold with the clear, definitive resonance befitting a scientist.

“Exactly. This skin represents an exquisitely crafted rubber membrane—if this technology alone became publicly known, it could revolutionize plastic surgery.” “Scars and burn adhesions would be perfectly restored; people with facial blemishes or ghastly complexions could achieve astonishingly vibrant beauty through its application.” “In short—a complete revolution in cosmetic methodology.” “By applying this artificial dermal layer called rubber skin—complexion tones and hair patterns become fully customizable.” “Moreover—it causes absolutely no interference with pores’ natural biological functions.”

“To put it simply, outdated medical practices like stripping skin from thighs to patch facial wounds will undoubtedly be the first to become obsolete.” “Even her eyes—through the action of phototubes embedded deep within—physiologically adjust the iris aperture.” “As for the prosthetic hands and legs covered with rubber skin and such—all of them have wires spread throughout just like human nerves there, and through the electric current acting on them, they perform flawless movements as you know. And thanks to the gyroscope, she stands with even greater stability than we do…”

Now that I thought about it, I too had noticed something. The reason being, when Rumi had leaned against my chest earlier, her body was soft like a girl's yet not warm, and I had indeed sensed a resonance different from a heartbeat. That strange sensation I felt back then—this was it. “...Moreover, regarding this electric human Rumi, the first thing I want to boast about is the method of command transmission from me to her. This is what constitutes her vital essence—unlike those old toy-like artificial humans that had to remain stationary in one spot, where pressing this switch would raise their right hand and pressing that switch would make them speak. Rather than wired control or even wireless control, I’ve adopted an innovative method that might better be termed mystical—‘brainwave manipulation.’”

Morigen loftily raised his eyes.

“Brainwave manipulation—?”

I inadvertently looked back at Morigen’s eyes. “Exactly—brainwave manipulation. You’ve probably never heard such a term before—no wonder, since it’s my own creation.” “In short—when a human activates their brain, a kind of electricity is generated there.” “It is extremely minute, but with sensitive electrodes, not only can its existence be confirmed, but it can also be amplified and recorded on an oscillograph—” “However, upon observing with that oscillograph, I discovered that the electromagnetic waves emitted by the brain—in other words, brainwaves—change in the same way as sound waves.”

“In simple terms, just as the sound waves of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ are clearly different—they must be different, otherwise you couldn’t distinguish them—in the same way, when you think ‘yes’ and think ‘no,’ the brainwaves produced by those thoughts differ.” “The emitted brainwaves—she receives them with the receiving device in her head, amplifies them, and operates each mechanism just like wireless control—this is brainwave manipulation.”

Morigen paused briefly and checked whether I understood his explanation,

“Therefore, to control her—Rumi—if I think ‘Stand’ in my mind, she stands; if I think ‘Raise your right hand,’ she raises her right hand.” “I don’t need to voice commands aloud—I just have to think them in my head.” “Hmm—”

I inadvertently let out a cry of admiration. What an exquisitely crafted electric human she was. Without a word spoken or a question asked—to think he could control her through what you might call "heart-to-heart communication"—. This was truly beyond human! Such was her nature. ……I looked down at Rumi, who had been lying at my feet, with new eyes.

Suicide Note "π"

“However...”

Morigen twisted his mouth in anguish. "However—perhaps because this Rumi was too exquisitely crafted—it seems you've been shown more than ordinary affection by her—" "…………" Though mortified, I couldn't deny it. Seeing my faint nod, Morigen pressed on. "And what's even more tragic—it appears Rumi too has come to feel love for you."

“Wh-what—?” I inadvertently looked up at Morigen. “But… I admit that I felt something akin to love for Miss Rumi—no, rather, because I didn’t know Miss Rumi was an electric human, I saw her as a beautiful woman. But even so—how can she, who should be nothing but a pitiable machine, possibly fall in love with me? —I don’t know how your genius technology built her, but can a machine—an artificial human—possess the ‘will’ to love?”

While half-doubting, I—as a man who had loved and been loved by an artificial human—could not help but be thrown into violent turmoil within my heart. (Is Morigen joking?)

However, he still wore a pained expression, “No—it’s the truth. Despite my will having no part in it, Rumi came to your house alone.” “The fact that she came this far is unmistakably Rumi’s own will.” Now that I thought about it, there was one thing that came to my mind. The reason being—those were Rumi’s words when she came here, that “I like you, like you, like you” she uttered. While it had an undeniably strange resonance to it, that peculiar quality was exactly like the unnatural repetition of a needle circling the same record groove over and over. Most likely, her words of love had no other variations recorded. Her desperate enunciation must have been frantically repeating across that single recording. I began to feel a shuddering sensation.

I was personally enacting a fact yet unheard of in this world—a bizarre romance with an artificial human. Even so, no matter how I thought about it, what I couldn’t comprehend was Rumi’s emotions—her will. I didn’t know how exquisitely crafted an Electric Human she might be, but the fact that she already possessed her own will—it seemed even Morigen’s science could never explain such a thing.

(How would Morigen explain that—) I stared wordlessly at her lying at my feet.

He, too, was silent. Like someone who had already spat out every necessary word, he simply stared blankly down at Rumi lying disheveled across the floor. In his profile, near the temples, I glimpsed unexpected white strands; realizing Morigen had already reached such an age, I even felt compelled to gently embrace those slumped shoulders.

×

Morigen eventually left, carrying Rumi. I deliberately did not see them off, instead leaning on the second-floor railing as I stared with tearful eyes at the receding figure of Scientist Morigen—half-dragging Rumi, the creation into which he had poured half his life’s soul as he departed.

For Morigen, Rumi—more precious than any biological child—had defied all scientific reason and abandoned him for my sake, a mere passerby on life's roadside. His anguish was something I could well comprehend. All the more because of this, even after Morigen's leaden footsteps had staggered beyond my view, my shadowed heart remained clouded for what felt an eternity.

That night, as I tried to listen to the radio—my sole comfort since coming here—and turned the dial, I was suddenly struck by a horrifying realization. This concerned Rumi's will—. That was not Rumi’s will—it was my own. Morigen had spoken of brainwave manipulation. While adjusting the radio dial, I came to connect brainwaves and radio waves. In other words—Morigen’s brainwaves and mine must have shared the same wavelength. I had heard that even with radios, numerous stations could be cleanly separated precisely because their wavelengths differed. If two stations shared identical wavelengths, a receiver would inevitably pick up transmissions from both.

That’s it—Morigen and I must have had matching brainwaves by sheer coincidence. The thought I had—wondering if Rumi might come visit me—was received by her, and she moved exactly as envisioned; by reflecting my secret affection for her, Rumi must have uttered those words. Yes—there was simply no other explanation possible. Even so, what a fatal coincidence this was. I had no choice but to abandon any further visits to Morigen and even thoughts of Rumi.

I deliberately sent this opinion to Morigen in a letter. Secretly, while waiting for his denial—

However, the postcard that promptly arrived from Morigen had nothing but a single, boldly written *π* on its reverse side. *π*—what on earth could that possibly mean? Faced with this enigmatic character, I tried to recall anything related to it, one by one.

However, the conclusion I reached was still 'pi'. The character π was something I had absolutely no recollection of ever using except to represent pi. Even so, what could 'pi' possibly mean? What kind of message was this irrational number π—3.14…—supposed to convey? I thought he might have imbued the word "impossible" with some hidden meaning, but in the end, that didn’t seem to be the case.

I had no choice but to request books about pi from Tokyo, spending several days to have them sent. However, I still couldn’t discover any hidden meaning. While staring at the array of numbers written as 3.1 4 1 5 9 2 6 5 3 5 8 9 7 9 3 2 3 8 4 6..., I found myself crossing my arms.

As I continued picking out and reciting those numbers, the sounds forming in my mouth seemed to coalesce into a strange melody. Startled, I carefully read through them once more.

Then, it—

It became "mi hitotsu yo hitotsu iku ni muimi iwaku naku mi fumi ya yomu..." and when I forcibly tried assigning kanji characters, "Alone in body, alone in the world—life without meaning, wordlessly I read the sacred text..." That's what it became! "That—it somehow carries a suggestive 'meaning,' doesn't it—"

× Feeling anxiety welling up like a cloud, I hurried to Morigen’s house—a place I had resolved never to visit again. There was no sign of Morigen in the greenhouse either. The automatic sliding door was tightly shut, but without hesitation, I shattered the windowpane and crawled inside. My ominous premonition had come true. In that room, Rumi had been destroyed with a single blow. There was no red blood. However, like a toy box overturned, her internal organs were scattered everywhere. Poor Morigen! However, Morigen was nowhere to be found there.

For a long time I wandered searching for his pitiful form—he who had been compelled to shatter half a lifetime’s hopes and crystallized achievements with one blow. Inadvertently—through the emergence of a man sharing his brainwaves—had Morigen, robbed of Rumi even briefly, already enacted “life without meaning”…? When I—exhausted from searching—unconsciously lit a cigarette and dragged heavy feet into the final greenhouse, nameless tropical flowers bloomed riotously; there amid muskmelons’ rich fragrance I abruptly confronted Morigen’s corpse hanging interminably from a ceiling beam by its neck.

At the same moment, shuddering, I dashed out of the greenhouse in a panic.

×

That night, as I staggered home like one possessed by a nightmare, a fire that had broken out in Morigen’s greenhouse—from some unknown cause—engulfed the entire structure in flames in the blink of an eye. Could it have been from the cigarette I dropped in my panic—? When I think that, even now I am assailed by self-reproach.