Gensou of Logic

Sesame oil and miso. That smell always got into everything.

Shion sat with both hands around her teacup. Kazuya was across the table shoving manuscript proofs into his briefcase, coffee cup balanced right on the edge like it was daring him. Shiya was in her high chair, jabbing at a piece of tamagoyaki with a fork that looked ridiculous in her hand. The stuffed rabbit had fallen over and one ear was stuck in a drop of tea.

Akari was at the stove. She’d come over early to help get Shiya ready for nursery.

“You look terrible, Sis. Did you even sleep?”

“Morning.”

“I’m serious. You look like something chewed you up and spat you out.”

Kazuya looked up. “She was tired when she got in last night.”

He went back to the briefcase, then said under his breath, “I don’t snore.”

Akari laughed. “Nobody accused you.”

Shiya held up a piece of egg before they could keep going.

“Mama, eat!”

Shion leaned over and took the bite like it was serious business.

“Mm. Good.”

Shiya grinned like she’d just won something. Shion felt the tightness in her chest ease a little. She righted the rabbit and glanced at the photo by the balcony doors. Kazuya laughing in the park with Shiya on his shoulders, popsicle half-melted in the girl’s hand. She remembered that day easily. Sticky fingers. Akari complaining the whole walk home. Normal stuff.

Kazuya came around, kissed her forehead, and left for work. Akari wiped Shiya’s hands, put the backpack on her, and followed.

When it got quiet Shion stayed at the table. The tea was cold. Outside looked grey already.

Black shirt. Those half-asleep eyes. Blue biscuit tin with the dent.

You still go there?

She put the cup down and stood up. She had slept badly and worked too many late nights. That was enough of an explanation for this morning.

By half past eight she was at her desk. Light was coming through the blinds in thin stripes. The visitor’s chair sat empty. Everything in the room looked the way it always did.

She hung up her coat, opened the schedule, and stopped at the nine o’clock slot.

Junpei.

She hit the intercom.

“Ishida, can you come in?”

He showed up with his tablet.

“Morning, Doctor.”

“Last night you said Mr. Junpei cancelled. I need the details. What time did the call come in? Was it logged properly?”

“Reception put it down at four-oh-six,” Ishida said. “I can pull the record.”

“Please. And send me the CCTV from this office between eight fifty-five and nine ten.”

He gave her a look but didn’t ask.

“I’ll send both.”

When he left she looked at the empty chair for a second, then made herself turn back to the screen.

The footage came through a few minutes later. She opened it and dragged the timeline to 20:59:45.

There she was at the desk going through a document. At 21:00:06 she put the paper down and looked up. Her eyes fixed on the empty chair.

She watched herself just sit there. She didn’t reach for another file or check the time. She simply stared.

At 21:02:17 her right hand went to the glass. She drank, put it down, then wiped the back of her hand across her lower lip without ever looking away from the chair.

Shion stopped the video.

She remembered the cold. The damp feeling. That faint pressure that stayed after he said he’d touched her.

She did not remember drinking.

She hit play again.

At 21:04:12 her hand grabbed the pen. She started writing, slow at first, then faster, the same short strokes over and over until the page was full. Even from that angle she recognised the motion. That wasn’t note-taking. That was something else.

At 21:05:00 Ishida opened the door.

She stopped the recording.

Five minutes.

In her head it had felt like half an hour. His voice. The tin. That question that wouldn’t leave her alone. The feeling that something had been done to her while she was sitting right there.

The camera showed none of it.

Shion rubbed her thumb against her finger and stared at the frozen picture of her own hand on the pen. Stress and bad sleep could mess with memory. She’d told patients that for years. Never thought she’d be the one sitting here watching the tape.

She opened the cancellation record. It matched what Ishida said. Then she took the number from Junpei’s file and dialled.

A man answered after three rings.

“Hello? Junpei speaking.”

“Morning, Mr. Junpei. This is Dr. Shion Kuroki. I’m checking our records after your cancellation yesterday.”

“Oh, Doctor. Sorry about that. I called reception around four. Emergency presentation came up and I had to stay late. Hope there wasn’t any mix-up.”

“Reception logged the call. I just wanted to confirm.”

“Yes, I definitely called. Sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble. Contact reception when you want to reschedule.”

She hung up.

The cancellation had been logged. The office footage showed an empty chair and no one entering the room. That was all she could confirm. Five minutes she couldn’t explain, and a page of writing she barely remembered producing.

She opened a blank document and typed two lines.

Possible stress-related memory disturbance. Review sleep. Monitor.

She saved the note and closed the file. If it happened again she would get someone to look at her properly. For now she had enough to get through the day without inventing diagnoses from a video.

A knock.

“Come in.”

Ishida came in with a thin blue folder.

“Miss Asako is here for her follow-up.”

Shion looked at the name. “Miss Asako?”

“Yume Asako. You interviewed her last week and had her do the practical assessment. You asked me to set this meeting after you looked at her results.”

He put the folder on the desk.

She opened it. Her own handwriting covered the first page. Notes on qualifications, scores for the test and the scheduling exercise, a short recommendation at the bottom with her initials.

Strong candidate. Good judgement under pressure. Invite back for final meeting.

She recognised the marks and could follow the thinking behind them. She just couldn’t remember the conversation that had produced any of it.

“She’s still waiting?”

“Yes.”

“Send her in.”

Yume came in with a quiet greeting and a precise bow. Black blazer, dark hair tied back. She sat, put her bag beside the chair, and folded her hands.

Something about her face felt familiar. Everything else stayed blank.

“I’ve reviewed your assessment,” Shion said. “Your results were excellent.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“The position is yours if you still want it.”

Yume bowed. “I do. Thank you.”

“Ishida will show you the workstation and the paperwork. You can start looking at the schedule today.”

“I’ll do that.”

At the door Yume paused.

“You told me last week that if I wasn’t sure about something, you’d rather I asked than pretended I knew.”

Shion looked up.

“Did I?”

A small smile showed on Yume’s face.

“Yes. You said it after I admitted I didn’t know how the clinic handled late cancellations.”

Shion glanced at the folder. There was a note about Yume admitting a gap in her experience.

“I see.”

Yume bowed again and left.

Shion sat with the open folder under her hand. A whole interview. A finished assessment. Her own writing. And nothing behind it. Like someone had pulled a page out of a book and left the rest sitting there as if nothing was missing.

She closed the folder and pushed it aside.

The office went quiet. A phone rang in reception. Someone walked past in the hallway. Through the wall she could hear Ishida talking about staff schedules with the new secretary.

Shion reached for her pen, then stopped. She remembered the page she had put away the night before. After Ishida returned and eventually left her alone again, she had torn the sheet from the notepad, folded it twice, and pushed it under an old appointment book in the top drawer. She hadn’t wanted to look at it again. She also hadn’t been able to throw it away.

She opened the drawer.

The paper was crumpled, edges bent from being forced out of sight. She unfolded it.

The same name filled the page, written over and over in her own handwriting. Lines overlapping until the paper was almost solid with ink.

The Toi. The Toi. The Toi.

She ran her thumb along the edge. In places the ink had gone through to the sheet underneath.

She could keep it. Write everything down. Follow whatever this was. Or she could sit here all day staring at a name that belonged to no appointment, no file, and no person anyone else remembered.

Shion folded the page once, then again. She pressed until it became a tight little ball.

At the window she stopped with her hand on the latch. The sky was grey and the traffic moved steadily below. She opened the window, threw the paper out, and closed it again without watching where it landed.

Cool air had brushed her face for a second. She went back to her desk, opened her schedule, and started on the next file.

Patients were waiting. Records needed finishing. A new secretary had to be settled in. If the missing pieces came back she would deal with them then.

For now the page stayed outside...