Chapter Text
When I knocked on that door, I could faintly hear the soft rustle of paper and the hard, crisp clatter of dice rolling across a surface.
"Excuse me."
I steadied my breath and quietly opened the door.
The room was piled high with old furniture and thick volumes—brought in by him, it seemed—and on the desk, strangely shaped dice, polyhedral dice, lay scattered about without ceremony.
Aleph.
He sat sunken deep into a leather chair, his form contained within the confines of his prisoner's uniform. It was a profoundly decadent, hazy sort of presence—less a matter of being there and more of maintaining a shape, existing in that space, as though those were the only accurate terms for it.
I closed the door behind me and stepped toward him.
The desk at his side was dark-grained wood with rusted hardware affixed to it, and across its surface lay the disorder of old leather-bound books and fresh white ones, blank paper and pens alongside small trinkets and instruments—everything opened and scattered without particular arrangement.
He had been reading something. Without warning, he closed it and reached across the desk. He set a die rolling atop the laid-down book, then fixed the result with a gaze that suggested it meant something.
The arm that emerged from the sleeve of his worn prisoner's uniform stretched out to touch the book and the die in one smooth, straight-line motion. It was a fragile arm, yet one that moved with quiet certainty—and looking at it, I thought of an old bridge, somehow.
"Hello, Mr. Aleph. It's a pleasure to meet you."
When he finally turned to face me, I dipped my head in a small bow, gave my name, and offered him an easy, friendly smile. Through the mask, I could make out the faint sound of his breathing.
"...Hello."
The voice that emerged from him was strange.
"I had predicted that your arrival would coincide with the end of this chapter..."
Slowly. As if reciting something to himself, or murmuring in a daze. Soothing, and yet somehow grating—the sort of voice and cadence that could be read as either.
"Was it a good stopping point? I'm glad, then."
I set that observation aside and smiled at him again.
"As I understand it, the Timekeeper only informed you that 'administrative staff would come to introduce themselves sometime in the morning.' To have predicted the timing so precisely—that's quite remarkable."
I said it with genuine admiration, and waited for his response. If he fell silent, I'd planned to fill the air—but it wasn't his mouth that moved first. It was his arm.
Fingers clad in black gloves closed around the die. The arm that had bridged the gap between his deeply reclined figure and the desk retracted, drawing back as though being reeled in, and came to rest loosely across his knees.
"—And yet, it was nothing more than coincidence."
His voice settled in the ear, vague and lingering.
"I have received many visitors and many questions over the years. Wherever the location, the timing of arrivals tends to follow a certain pattern, depending on their purpose. It is simply a deduction drawn from statistics and experience."
He opened his clenched fist.
His palm was empty—the die had disappeared somewhere without my noticing.
"Ha. Whether coincidence or prediction, the fact remains that you arrived at the correct answer. That is very impressive."
"...I had been organizing my thoughts in preparation for the next question. It is nothing more than a byproduct of that process. ...Though receiving unexpected praise is not entirely uncommon."
He exhaled quietly and let his gaze fall. I couldn't see his eyes behind the mask, but the manner of it conveyed that he was deep in thought.
Then, from his deep-reclined posture, he slowly folded forward. He curved his back, rested his elbows on his knees, lowered his chin—and yet the mask tilted up to regard me.
It was a natural, unhurried movement that completed itself into a forward lean. The posture was somehow reminiscent of a prisoner in a cell awaiting a question—and, in the same breath, of a counselor instinctively settling into position before something grave.
"Ask your question."
I felt his gaze drop to the binder and documents I was carrying. So I lifted them lightly with one hand, shook my head, and smiled.
"No, I'm afraid not. I came only to hear any concerns or questions you might have. If you've been getting along without issue, then I have nothing further."
He seemed mildly surprised by my words.
I waited patiently as he laced his free hands loosely together between his knees and turned something over in his mind.
"...I have no complaints. I am provided sufficient food, permitted access to the Wilderness, and allowed to move freely. Nor do I have any particular questions."
"Then that's good to hear. Please don't hesitate to let me know if anything comes up."
He fell silent again, as though carefully weighing my response. Even hidden behind the mask, his gaze held something probing in it.
After a moment, he parted his lips and, quietly, began to speak.
"...If you have questions, I will answer them. If my answers prove insufficient, I will think further. If there is a problem, I will cooperate."
"Yes. Thank you very much."
That, I decided, was safe to interpret as an overture of goodwill.
Hearing those words, I smiled.
"I am truly grateful for your gracious willingness. I have no need of your assistance at the moment, but I will gladly take you up on your offer should the occasion arise."
He nodded, exhaled softly, and slowly rose to his feet.
"If you came here to confirm my condition and hear any dissatisfactions...then I may interpret your work here as concluded?"
"Yes—this visit also served as a formal introduction, but for the time being, that's the long and short of it."
I nodded. He nodded in return.
"Then I have no reason, at least on my end, to keep you here any longer."
"..."
W-wait—did he just tell me to leave?!
Well, taking it at face value without editorializing: he basically meant there's no reason for you to stick around if you're done. I suppose.
He seemed to have already lost interest in me; he'd pulled an old, leather-bound volume from the aged bookshelf and opened it.
"Well then, thank you very much for your time today. Please feel free to call on me whenever you need anything."
I gave a small bow and quietly left the room.
In the brief moment it took to close the door, I glanced back one last time at his figure. He had the old book open before him and appeared to be lost in thought—whether working through some question he'd already been given, or, as he'd said, organizing his thoughts in preparation for the next, I couldn't say.
Watching him, I found myself quietly paying him a kind of inward respect.
The Respondent. A human being. Multiple personalities.
I already knew, of course, what kind of existence he was—through the Timekeeper, through the briefing materials.
A Respondent, purely and simply. Sincere to a fault. Existing only to be consumed, without any trace of want. Accepting that. Taking it as given, as natural, without question. In his consumption, no self-interest. Noble, rare, precious—the kind of existence one would never encounter in the course of an ordinary lifetime.
This suitcase held at least several such beings, and he was among them.
What an extraordinary thing.
As I made my way down the corridor of the suitcase, I glanced back, just for a moment, at his room growing smaller in the distance.
An unremarkable hallway. Doors lined up on either side. The familiar, ordinary sight of it all.
For no particular reason, I shrugged, and let out a small, quiet exhale—little more than a word to myself.
Next, I'd have to go introduce myself to Ms. Recoleta.
END.
20250621