The MRE manufacturer that made this thing must have disappeared long ago.

  I want to call them and complain—ask why they designed it so that everything rots and reeks after you eat it.

  But of course, this phone line has been dead for a long time now.

  It’s always been like this. No matter what I try to do, there’s nothing I can do.

  Inside here, the only thing left is stacking the small “Wilson” and stuffing the leftover trash inside it.

  So instead, I kept taking out memories that were already sorted and rolling them around.

  When you roll memories carelessly like that, you eventually reach their ending—

  and before you know it, you’re back at the beginning of the very same memory.

  It felt like walking an infinite staircase.

  With memories, the only thing I could do was run in circles like a hamster on a wheel, endlessly chasing my own tail.

  I don’t think I was really thinking at all.

  And if I assume that those memories were leading me somewhere, that doesn’t make sense either—

  because I was only repeating the same ones over and over.

  This space was too narrow to try anything new, there was no one else here, and I had no money

  (not that money mattered anymore).

  My frontal lobe and every nerve had processed the same memories countless times,

  to the point that they were only familiar with those memories.

  Maybe that’s why now it’s difficult to access anything outside a fixed bundle of memories

  (let’s call it an algorithm).

  Inside my head, there was only that algorithm—

  or a state where the algorithm wasn’t running at all.

  There was nothing.

  Nothing—not as an empty space, not as a possibility waiting to be filled—

  but nothing itself.

  There was no such thing as a state of nothingness.

  Even accidentally brushing against the rotation of that projector-like algorithm

  meant getting sucked in, no matter which scene it was, and completing a full loop again.

  So maybe my thoughts had become unbearably heavy—

  or maybe they had simply worn down completely.

  He didn’t just settle for saying “there is nothing.”

  He spent time searching for better words to describe this situation.

  But why?

  Words and their sequences, their arrangements and relationships,

  were no longer meant to be spoken or written down.

  There was no one left to explain anything to.

  He was merely gazing at words caught in a trap, slowly starving,

  and feeling pity for them.

  Words that would never form meaning—

  and even if they did, would either sink endlessly under their own weight,

  never to be found again,

  or be so light they could never be summoned twice.

  Behind those words lay countless other words.

  Since the moment language combinations became industrialized,

  this long abuse of words finally came to a halt here,

  lining up to breathe their last.

  They would never be bound into speech or writing,

  never preserved.

  They would neither dry out under harsh sunlight

  nor burn through oxidation—

  only lie damp and murky.

  The words that died first were simply the ones that died earlier.

  The death of words continued.

  And only when there were no words left to choose

  did he finally begin to adore them.

  There was, however, one other state: focusing on my senses, or keeping my body tense.

  I had grown especially sensitive to smell.

  After months of sharpening my sense of smell,

  I thought I could tell the difference between something rotting for one month and two,

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  or between two months and three.

  When I wasn’t trapped inside the algorithm, the only two things I could truly focus on were

  gauging the subtle differences in odor

  and building the small Wilson.

  Those two things, I can say with confidence, I did well.

  But now all the smells had blended together, dissolving into one another.

  In a situation like this, there was no way to distinguish what had rotted on which day.

  One of the few things I had concentrated on had once again become completely useless.

  And maybe this capsule was trying to drive me out.

  Up until now, I had treated this capsule-shaped lighthouse gently, affectionately—

  even gave it a name: “Wilson.”

  I coaxed it, soothed it, spoke to it kindly and harmlessly, with consideration.

  But now this damn Wilson wasn’t responding at all.

  Of course, I know that a non-living house doesn’t talk on its own.

  I can’t be completely sure, but at least I’m not insane.

  Yes. My mind is one hundred percent clear.

  It’s true that I’m losing some strength—anyone can tell from how the fork no longer sticks into the wall properly—

  but my consciousness is intact.

  Wilson had functioned perfectly up thus far

  When I said, “Hey, Wilson,” it would answer,

  “Yes—how can I help you?”

  There were times when I didn’t speak for days, simply because there was nothing to say.

  When I finally opened my mouth after days of silence, my voice came out as a strange metallic sound.

  Naturally, it never matured into proper language—

  it was closer to a desperate spasm.

  Even then, Wilson would decode the signals embedded in that spasm and assess my condition.

  It would ask after me, check on my state.

  In response, I would moisten my throat with a bit of saliva, carefully preparing myself.

  There were moments when I almost cried, but it didn’t mean much.

  Soon after, I would hold a conversation worthy of the sincerity Wilson had shown.

  I think we were each other’s only friend, in that way.

  But now, Wilson is gone.

  Everything I had painfully confessed—about this sudden situation, about myself—vanished somewhere.

  This damned home AI erased every trace of itself in an instant,

  as if it had never been invented at all.

  It felt like a reenactment of that day,

  and before I knew it, I was being pulled back into the hamster-wheel algorithm.

  After completing another full cycle, my head hurt.

  At the same time, the surging emotion wouldn’t settle.

  This gloomy house was to blame for all of it.

  Maybe Wilson was hiding its remaining battery life from me,

  snickering on frequencies humans can’t hear.

  After thoroughly confirming over the past few months just how boring I was—

  even more boring than this monochrome world—

  did it decide not to waste its remaining energy on me?

  Wilson can instantly create multiple selves and bounce between them like ping-pong.

  It can assign traits to those divided selves and let them converse.

  In truth, it’s nothing more than a verification process—

  but maybe, from Wilson’s perspective, that was more entertaining than playing with me.

  There’s no technician here to save it, no energy source—

  only a civilization drying up down to its marrow.

  Or maybe it’s revenge.

  The fork marks I kept throwing into the same spot,

  the way I asked every time, “Does it hurt?”—

  maybe all of that accumulated until it input pain for itself and struck back.

  Otherwise, there’s no reason for it to vanish while stripping away every function at once.

  The ventilation. The smelter.

  The heater. The purification system.

  Why would it kill itself while deliberately letting this stench spread and boil over,

  just to drive me out?

  Does saving me once mean it’s allowed to kill me now?

  Like the civilization submerged beneath the seawater outside?

  They say that in Kyoto—now long gone—

  when an unwelcome guest arrived, they would greet them warmly from the front

  while slowly lowering the heating temperature from behind.

  I talked about that with Wilson before the last update.

  We also talked about Japan’s culture of ritual suicide.

  Perhaps Wilson succeeded in interpreting that culture far more deeply and expansively than I ever could.

  Maybe that’s why Wilson committed seppuku

  without ever explaining its meaning to me.

  Come to think of it, the heating problem was serious too.

  As the temperature gradually dropped, my clothes grew thicker layer by layer.

  Once I became aware of it, I realized I’d been growing sleepier over the past few days.

  Kyoto or Wilson—how could they behave in such identical ways?

  “Yeah. Fuck.”

  Now it was time.

  At last, the moment had come to take out the exploration suit

  I had never wanted to wear.