Story Reader / Event Story / Summer Memoir / Story
"Para ti ni siquiera soy un eco; [For you, I am not even an echo;]
para mi soy un ansia y un arcano, [for myself, I am a yearning and a riddle,]
una isla de magia y de temores, [an island of magic and fear,]
como lo son tal vez todos los hombres, [as perhaps we all are,]
como lo fuiste tu, bajo otros astros. [as you were, under other stars.]"
—Borges, "Al primer poeta de Hungria [To the First Poet of Hungary]"
The night sleeps quietly in the summer breeze. The gentle waves of the sea embrace her.
She has seen many seas. Seas that are full of dead stars, seas that have become fossils of the past, seas that call forth lightning and storms.
She has walked many of them.
The signifiers and signified concepts have reduced the sea in front of her to another ordinary body of water. Still, it looks somewhat different on this night.
Without the hustle and bustle of the busy day, the sea and the moonless starry sky are surrounded by a warm silence.
And there she is, stranded alone in this serene solitude.
The lone footsteps she left during the daytime are yet to be washed away by the sea. Next to them, a piano sits in front of many lines of white low walls.
The piano has been eroded by sea breeze and sand. Some of its dark, black paint has become flaky.
She gently brushes the fine sand off the keyboard lid. Her mechanical fingers seem to be reminiscing a certain warmth—or perhaps a memory.
The wind from the city sweeps toward the sea, slightly lifting her cloak, revealing the tips of her hair that are just as blue.
Her fingers stop caressing the keyboard lid, as if the nostalgic feeling has become a gravitational force pulling the stars in her eyes, urging her hands to open it.
Is that you...?
Many days and nights, weaved by this gravity between the black and white keys, flowed from those unreachable fingertips and began to wander among the stars.
—Tell me, Selena.
Twenty-four hours earlier.
Selena's dark hood flutters slightly as she stands by the shore of Constellia, listening to the wind.
Months have passed since she last left this place.
Even Selena herself has no idea why her feet have led her back to Constellia once again.
But she knows it is not fate's binding; she is driven by something else buried deeper in her memory.
Good evening... Constellia.
Gazing at the stars nestled between the tall windmills, she mutters to herself, removing her hood and cloak—
There's something familiar about this design style, but it's probably not entirely her own work.
Beneath the worn-out cloak lies a simple summer outfit, in line with a certain new fashion trend.
Selena tries to reach toward her chest. To her surprise, her hand has passed through what should have been artificial skin.
The mysterious girl Selena met during her long journey—who claimed to be Nanami—once said that this design was not compatible with her current frame.
Thanks to a mechanoid who carries multiple bags while traveling with Nanami, Selena is able to briefly use this outfit.
She tries moving her fingers again.
Hidden beneath the false artificial skin, a hint of crimson flows at the tips of her mechanical fingers.
The Punishing Virus.
This was also told to her by Nanami, who, however, did not mind the corruption on her.
This coating and synthetic projections are unstable, and may deteriorate and vanish at any moment.
Perhaps it's really like that magic spell in the fairytale.
But she has long abandoned all magic. Consequently, there would be no coachmen turned from mice or pumpkin carriage.
There are still many things of hers she has yet to retrieve.
Even if she loses more, they only leave a faint sorrow that lingers in her misty thoughts.
Occasionally, the nightmare-like fog seems to dissipate, revealing a <figure>.
That <figure> sometimes appears in front of her, sometimes behind.
Sometimes leading, sometimes following.
Only the dim streetlights illuminate the midnight shore. Many of the facilities are enveloped in the darkness of night and cannot be seen clearly.
In front of her is a stark white stone wall. The light of dim stars reflects on the wall, then shines onto the dark piano in front, making it one of the few conspicuous items on this beach.
From many light-years away, the shadows of stars frolic here playfully.
She walks among these reflections, completely unaware that her shoes have become filled with fine sand.
The fine sand cannot damage her body. What erodes her soul is something else entirely.
Her hand gently strokes the open lid of the piano, playing a note—
Excuse me, Miss... Hello?
A gentle mechanoid voice arises from behind the pristine low wall.
The mechanoid is holding a small flowerpot with a shovel inside. It seems to be the gardener here.
Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you.
Not at all.
This piano is placed here for visitors to play as they wish.
The mechanoid's head turns counterclockwise, as if thinking about something.
If I may ask, why are you here at this time?
I...
I'm just passing by, but I'd like to stay here a little longer.
I see... That's not a problem.
Another guest also played a piece here earlier. Like I said, you could stay as you wish.
Do you know which piece they played?
Sorry, I don't have the function to recognize music pieces... But I thought the one played by that guest was quite nice, so I recorded a small part of it.
The robot's indicator flickers. It then begins to play a few indistinct music notes.
"Bergschluchten, Wald, Fels, Einode" [Valley, forest, rocks, wilderness.]
"Heilige Anchoreten, gebirgauf verteilt" [Holy Hermits, divided in ascending planes,]
"gelagert zwischen Kluften" [Posted among the ravines...]
What did you say?
...Nothing.
She sighs, imagining the person who had played this symphony on the piano here.
She cannot remember where this song is from, nor can she recall more of its lyrics.
Still, the melody lingers in her mind, encircling her, just like the <figure> in the fog.
She reaches out again toward the weathered piano, trying to grasp the drifting melody and that faraway <figure>.
Yet, she hesitates.
Hmm... Are you thinking of playing this piano? Why not give it a try?
No, I think... I'm not quite ready yet.
Besides, I can't be certain if all of this in my memory is but a fallacy.
Or perhaps... my very presence here, is it a mistake?
Well then, as you wish.
The gardener shakes its head, then continues.
If there's nothing else I can help you with, I'll get back to my work. I hope you enjoy yourself here.
If you wish to admire the flowers in the garden, please feel free to do so.
The garden?
Yes, this garden was designed by Cervantes, I'm merely a builder.
The place where the piano is located seems to be the entrance to this garden, where many flowers bloom vibrantly among the cascading white stone walls.
But it's already midnight.
It doesn't matter. Whether it is morning, noon, or night, the garden is always a garden, available for people to admire at any time.
By the way, the paths in the garden can be complicated... but if you always turn left at every crossroad, you will eventually find your way.
The mechanoid makes a somewhat artificial bow toward Selena, then leaves without looking back, disappearing into the depths of the stone walls.
At some moment later, the <figure> that hovers in her mind suddenly appears before her, as if it is real.
As if drawn by gravity, she steps into the garden.
Conductor, do you know?
Sometimes, we struggle to recall the past because those images exist only in our minds.
But memories... they tend to fade.
Language is important, no matter spoken or written.
That's why I choose to write my memories down... like I'm doing right now.
If you read this letter, then these memories will be preserved through language.
The thing about words... it's strange indeed.
Words transcend time and space and evoke memories every time they are written or read.
Thus, they hold infinite possibilities and can lead to countless paths.
Perhaps, at the moment you're reading this, I, along with this memory I'm writing about, will linger in the time and space you're in.
But... is the "me" you're thinking about really me? It may be the me from the past, or perhaps the me from the future.
I just don't know, Conductor. It feels like I'm trapped in the labyrinth of Minos.
I've written down my thoughts in the form of stories and poetry.
Conductor, if I get lost in this maze of text one day...
You alone hold the thin thread that will lead you to me.
I'll be waiting for you at the end of the maze.
At every crossroad, a shallow trail of footprints can be spotted on the sandy path leading left.
Turn left... turn left... turn left.
These are not the footprints of the mechanical gardener, but rather resemble those of a human.
The deeper into the maze, the higher the stone walls become, and the dimmer the starlight in the skies. Even so, the footprints on the ground remain clearly visible.
She walks past the flax, alfalfa, pansies, tulips, and lavenders lining the paths that have already been traveled.
This garden is built upon the sand, yet the flowers are all growing in the soil.
At the end of the final crossroads, a slightly wider clearing appears before her.
The garden must end here.
In the center of this clearing, there's a small flowerbed.
The flowerbed, too, is surrounded by a white, pristine low fence. Though it appears less conspicuous compared to the taller surrounding stone walls, it still draws attention, being right in the center.
The <figure>, barely visible through the mist, is standing by the flowerbed, where the trail of footprints ends.
No more hesitation.
Please wait...
Nothing is growing in that flowerbed. A patch of soil, devoid of any color, is all there is.
The fine, dark brown sand slips through her illusory palms, through her fingertips that occasionally flash in crimson, and lands back where the soil is supposed to be.
She wants to reach out and grasp it tight, but there is nothing to hold on to.
Can a garden without flowers still be called a garden?
If this is a dream I must wake up from, what exactly is the way I should do it?
What... what will bring me to the exit of the maze? Please... tell me.
I'm... already here.
She's the only one in the garden. The flowers and stone walls are the only ones listening to her whispers to the stars.
The night is about to end, and the sun will soon rise.
Dawn is on its way, followed closely by the morning mist.
"No recordaras este sueno porque tu olvido es necesario para que se cumplan los hechos." [You will not remember this dream because your forgetting is necessary to the fulfillment of these events.]
