"Are you a concept too?" I ask.

"A concept?" he asks.

Shirayuki finally looks up from her game. She says, "you can see me, can't you?"

"Yes, I can see you."

"You can see her?"

"Yes, I can see her."

"So what does that make you?"

He puts both hands on the table. "I'm someone you've been waiting for - for a while. Even though we've met already, maybe more than once, that was what might have been curiosity on my part." The Fox's voice is as high as ever. "I just wanted to see what kind of person you are, Mr. Maeda."

I ignore the remark. "Why has it taken so long?"

"Everything is in very sensitive balance." He raises two hands, aligning his manicured fingers to make a line. He lifts one side higher. "There is an order and timing in which things must be done to reach the goal. Like a farmer must wait for the right season to till his land and sow his seeds. Like dealing with certain tendons and meridians first in a massage, or it might cause more damage than good. We can only move on when you've come to terms with some things."

"So, another words, to put it simpler, you know all about the yearbook?"

"Well, yes, I know much more than I should."

I shift uncomfortably. Everyone seems to know much more about me than they should. Perhaps they know more than I know myself.

"Regardless, everything has a purpose, I'm here for a purpose of course. You and I have come a long way. There's just one last thing to do. I'm here to give you something and you need to give me something in return."

"When am I supposed to see the man about the contract?"

"Very soon, but not now."

"Do you work for him?"

"You could say that in layman's terms. I do 'work' for him. But that's not exactly the case."

I don't bother to press further. "Will you give me a name at least?"

"There's no need for names here. You probably don't realize it, but this place is kind of special. You being here is no random occasion at all. In fact, the first time you entered might have been what opened up a few possibilities in your course of life. We stand at cross roads here, and there are multiple choices to make. But if we remain here, we can stay for as long as we want, and nothing will ever come to harm us."

"Why do we not stay here then?"

"It would be dangerous," the Fox says simply. "The world would slowly cease to exist in our point of reference and you would always lose bits of yourself like crumbs falling off of bread. It's not good to stay in one place for too long. Definitely not in limbo. The person you are looking for is still out there. She won't simply appear here if you remain here."

I take a deep breath. "Do you know where she is?"

"No, I don't. But perhaps my superior might."

"What do I have to do?"

"Good question." He pulls out something from beneath the table, as if he had been hiding it all along. It's a jar, a simple glass jar, like one for jam or pickled food. "Take this to this address," he slides a piece of paper the size of a business card over. On it is written Resso Coffee Ltd. and an address out in Chiba. "Fill this jar with soil, and ask them for coffee plant seeds. They will know who it's for and why. Once you've 'planted' the bean, close the cap and bring it back with you."

"There's no way coffee plants will grow here."

"You never know," he says. He sips from his cup.

"So if I do all this, in the right order, we can move on."

"Yes, correct. I would do it myself, but it's important for you to do it. Think of it as a favour for me. Or a favour for yourself. I think the process is what's important. Afterwards, I will take you to the person with the contract. Then there will be answers to some of your questions."

*

That night, in the hostel, I watch the news and find a report of a sexual assault and beating that had been perpetrated by three men in black suits. They had claimed to be acting on behalf of the Cause and would be pleading innocent for the crime, stating it was for "the charity and bettering of society". The three suspects are indeed the three I had seen. But the victim is not the same woman. I don't know if I feel any better.

*

I am on the same patch of grass now, on that same hill, a lump of dark formless earth that rises up off the surface from the rest of the shadows. Above, is the same sky I've been longing to see again. This is the only time I could see the stars, planets, constellations, nebulas, galaxies, all clearly written for me. Yet the stories they tell from lightyears away pass by my ears, and become something I can't comprehend. Something way beyond human understanding. Somehow the awe-filled sensation of being dwarfed by an immense universe in constant fluidity, shrinking, diminishing into nothing as a part of a black nothingness - while bleak - is at the same time liberating. Maybe peaceful. There is no pressure or stress to strive to be something more.

But this is the only place that I can meet her. I am increasingly convinced I have been seeing Shizuka, or a version of Shizuka. She had never confirmed who she was, and her voice wasn't characteristic enough to tell but it wouldn't make much sense otherwise. If dreams are inwardly the key to the soul, or, outwardly, a possible opening to the Collective, who else would pervade my dreams in such a way? There is no one else I had any real connection to. I could barely remember my own mother.

Tonight, no one tells me to lie down. She doesn't climb over me. I can't feel her warmth or her touch. I spin around and there's nothing but darkness. Time is slipping by. The sky above doesn't really provide any light, as if it's a Michelangelo painting hung overhead in some high arching cathedral. Once again, it seems like she had disappeared. As soon as I begin to acclimatize to her presence, she slips just out of grasp, as if a rare and evasive mythological creature. How many times would this have to occur? Is there any stability in our connection?

She had said two miles from here is a bridge that I have to cross. But standing here now, it is impossible to tell in which direction it would be. The hill where I stand on the highest precipice is entirely round and no indication of changing terrain is present. I can't make out any bodies of water or anywhere a bridge would be needed.

Desperation rises from within me like a leaking valve. I struggle to plug it, contain it and gather my composure but to no avail. As before, I feel the vacancy inside me growing in haste without her presence. Like the empty jar, is it even conceivable to nurture a coffee plant within?

I dig my pockets for something, anything that might help my situation. My pockets are empty except for a box of matches and a bottle of water. I wonder what I am to do with a box of matches. It would barely provide enough light.

So instead I begin to scavenge the surface of the hill, on my hands and knees for twigs and branches. All around, cicadas sing in my ear and seem to dance away from me as I draw nearer. It is quite arduous work, since the air is sweltering with heat. I can almost feel the temperature rippling, like I am passing through blankets and curtains of humidity. It is still summer and my body responds lethargically, clearly not well adapted to the weather yet. As I continue on, the air gets heavier and more ominous. The air echoes with static and I suppose a thunderstorm is on its way. Oddly, it never felt this hot when she was with me: our bodies and synchronized motion seemed to balance each other out, an intimate conversation between two polarities. Now that I'm alone, the environment has become hostile and unearthly like an active alien lifeform.

After a while, I've collected a pile of dry grass, branches and twigs. I secure a few for later by tucking them into my belt, and the rest I bundle up with a coiled strip of my shirt that I ripped off and wet thoroughly with some water. On the tips I fill in the gaps with dry grass and lint. I insert a large, thick, half-buried branch I found, still quite wet from the soil, right into the middle of the bundle. Then I light a match and set fire to the torch. It takes two, three matches. Eventually, the dry grass catches fire and smoke burns my eyes. The tips of the dry twigs light up too and it erupts into a powerful blaze. Though the sky is bright with stars, the fire causes momentary blindness. My eyes water from the light. It's much brighter than the universe above, but yet it can barely illuminate the ground.

I shove several handfuls of dry grass into my pockets and I start to walk. I'm sweating both from the heat of the flames and the humidity in the summer air. I don't think, for there is nothing to think about. I don't know how long I would remain here in this dream for. And I knew there would be no conclusion - any direction is better than none. I decide to walk a large perimeter around the hill, once I've found the base of it and try to spot some sign of the bridge – if there is one. If there is any sort of breeze I might be able to catch a scent of water or at least have a point of reference for my bearings.

About five minutes later I come to the foot of the hill. I can see the silhouette of a massive slope above me, rising up to meet the sky as if a towering leviathan, peering down at me. It blocks out half of the stars and it is eerily much darker and quieter than before. Silence starts to resound in my ears. There are no cicadas down here. Under the light from the blazing torch, I can see a few meters in front of me, but in all directions is tall grass. They flicker. I can't tell if it's because there's a secret breeze I can't feel or if the light from the flame is playing with illusions. I wonder if there are any snakes lying in wait or an underground burrow hiding under the brush. Should I step into one, I might not be able to walk from the injury.

It's evidently the bottom of the slope because I can feel the land even out into a flat plain before me. So for what seems a long while, I press on and circle the hill to associate myself with the region. I've found the North Star overhead, clear and brilliant, but it's of no use as I am unsure where the bridge is supposed to be. All I know is that I am traveling approximately north-east.

Time begins to lose its meaning. The passage of time is heavily distorted like I had transcended into an alternate dimension where space time works on a different scale. What should only be a few minutes seems like I had endured a few hours and what might only feel like a small breadth of time could just as likely be extensive. The only real reference I have is how much my muscles burn from labour and how much water I am drinking. I try to save as much water as I can, only sipping to wet my lips and throat. But all the same, I watch the bottle of water slowly deplete like it had sprung a leak.

There is no indication of approaching dawn, or if the sun even exists in this dreamscape. But if I could guess, about half an hour later, I come to a ditch. I nearly fall in, as the ground suddenly gives way without any forewarning. The ditch cuts a tangent line against the circumference of the massive hill. It is quite deep but not so wide like someone had dug an irrigation channel through the land. If there is an irrigation channel, no matter how dry it is, there should be a source of water, a destination and a bridge to cross the gap.

I follow the edge of the channel east, every now and then gazing into the darkness. Even when I raise the torch over the gorge, I can barely make out the bottom. My feet slip a few times, sending rocks and dirt tumbling over the side. I wonder how it would feel to fall down in a dream. Would it hurt much at all? Everything here seems to take on its own form of reality. It doesn't care an ounce about me or my existence, because it's self-confident that it is real. Maybe it is more real than I could ever be. It can be comparable to no other world, for nothing in here has ever been outside, in the waking world I had come in from. The fact that I had such thoughts in the first place is uncanny. I can think and act like I normally do but yet I won't wake up. Am I within my own perceptions or have I myself moved into a different realm?

The fire runs out again and I have to feed new dry grass into its boughs before I light it with a match. I'm running out of grass as well. My feet are growing numb. It seems like the ground is wearing through my shoes, until I can feel every little lump and pebble. After what seem like hours, I finally come to the end of the channel, where there's nothing but a pale metal bucket. It shivers against firelight.

"Do you mind filling the bucket and pouring water into the stream?"

I spin around and see nobody. "Who is it?"

"Would you listen anyway if you don't know who it is?"

"I don't know. Perhaps." It seems like I've always been led this way and that by someone or something else. It probably wouldn't hurt to listen to another. Either way, I am the one who has no clear direction.

"Look down," it says.

I look down and find, to my astonishment, a tabby cat sitting in front of me.