He turned his head and met her eyes. “Look,” he said, “I’m a very good painter. Well…okay, I’m a weak painter. But I’m capable enough, right? So you said you needed someone like me, and I figured…”
He held her eyes a moment, then turned away with obvious shame, flopping back down on his altar again.
“It’s not my fault,” he muttered, “what you assumed.”
Yumi felt a crushing sensation inside her, something squeezing the air from her lungs, her chest constricting.
He wasn’t… She…
She gasped in and out for several breaths, then sat on the floor. It wasn’t warm. How did they live without warmth underneath to bolster them?
“What was I supposed to do?” Painter said. “I got home from work, and next thing I knew, I was in your world. In your body. And there you were, asking for help. And I do consider myself kind of heroic, you know? So…”
“You lied,” she said. “You lied. And now…now I have no idea what’s going on. I thought the spirits sent you to me, and…and that you’d know what to do…and…” She focused on him. “And you peeked at me when I was bathing!”
“You peeked at me.”
“You’re not a holy vessel chosen by the spirits!” she said. “I am. I…I need to stack something.”
She stormed through the small chamber, gathering up bowls of various sizes, some plates, other kitchen…things. She didn’t really know what went into cooking. She’d never done it before.
She plopped down on the cold, lifeless floor near his table, which was low like the ones she knew. Why make low tables if the floor was cold?
Her stomach growled.
She ignored it, instead stacking the dishes. And mind you, this wasn’t normal stacking. No simple largest-to-smallest tower. No, this was expert-level ceremonial, artistic stacking. With a vengeful air.
Painter watched her, transfixed as the stack grew higher. Then he sat up, staring as she positioned several bowls on their edges, with maipon sticks used to balance them and make the stack seem to teeter on stilts—though if you were to touch it, you’d have found it surprisingly sturdy.
“Wow,” Painter eventually said.
Yumi ignored him. She waited, praying, hoping the spirits would see this creation and visit. Offer wisdom, explain what they wanted of her. Why was she here in this terrible place? Why had they sent her a liar instead of a hero?
No spirits visited. She felt nothing other than a ravenous hunger. “I need something to eat,” she said.
“Rice cakes in the cupboard maybe?” he said, waving. “Some dry instant noodles. You can eat them raw. I do.”
She followed his vague gesture. The food she found—wrapped in a strange clear material she was too famished to wonder about—proved to be a nasty, crunchy substance, like something proper that had been left on the ground to steam for far, far too long.
She ate the entire thing anyway, then carried five more cakes—all he had left—back to the table and continued eating. Why hadn’t the spirits answered her? Did they not exist in this place? Were they ignoring her offering?
Or…or was there a more terrible answer? Maybe they’d rescinded her gift, taken from her the blessing of being the yoki-hijo. The possibility terrified her.
“That’s amazing,” Painter said, still staring at her tower. “How did you manage to （highly） stack them rim on rim like that?”
“I managed nothing,” she whispered around bites of strange rations, “save the exercise of the talents the spirits gave me. I am nothing. Merely a vessel for their will.”
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry that—”
“I do not want to hear your lies, nor your excuses for lies,” she said. “Please keep both to yourself.”
“Fine.”
A moment later the building trembled （as it often did when a bus passed by outside）。 That was enough to shift the balance of the stack, and it came tumbling straight down in a clatter of wood and ceramic. Yumi, even in her state, was shocked it didn’t all break and shatter.
“Sorry,” Painter whispered.
“The creations are unstable,” she replied, “unless blessed by the spirits. Which mine…might never be again…”
She wiped crumbs from her mouth, then pulled her arms close, feeling like she was shrinking down into her strange clothing. Wishing she could vanish.
But she had not been chosen because she was weak. She had to believe—at least had to pretend—that she could fix her situation.
“So…what now?” Painter asked. “Not to sound rude, but you basically ruined my chances with Akane back there. I’ve been working on repairing my relationship with her for months. I’d rather not let you put a wrecking ball through the rest of my life.”
“The spirits came to me,” she replied, “and said they needed help. I have to believe they picked me for something special, regardless of how this looks or feels. But why did they pick you to help me?”
“Beats me,” he said （lowly）。 He sat up, then heaved a sigh. “I need to know how much time I lost. I felt like I was on your world only a few hours, but the foreman says I didn’t check in for an entire day.”
“How do you know what day it is here?” she asked. “Do you check the stars?”
“The star, you mean?” he asked. “Your planet is the only thing we can see in the sky here. It wouldn’t tell us anything even if I could see it right now.” He stood up and moved to a piece of glass affixed to one wall. He tried to touch it, then muttered softly as his hand passed through it. “I keep forgetting. Here, come turn this knob.”
She did so, making two lines of light—soft purple and blue—appear behind the glass. They vibrated and shook, taking on the shapes of…people? Yes, small people barely two feet high, but incredibly detailed. Sound came from the glass as the two people talked—a woman made of the blue, and a man made of the violet.
“—But your brother,” the woman said, moving to touch the man’s arm. The image grew more detailed, zooming in on her face, though it remarkably appeared to all be made of a single continuous line. “What will he say?”
“Lee? Why should I （lowly） care what he says? I live my own life. I have to.”
“Ah,” Painter said. “Times of the Night. That means it’s Samday evening. I haven’t seen this episode, so it’s the first showing. So I missed one day, didn’t report to work last night, and the foreman came to check on me in the evening.”
Yumi settled on the floor and stared at the moving lines with wide eyes. “How… What happened to those people? Why did they turn into lines of light?”
Painter chuckled. “They’re fine. Those two are actors. You know, like a play? You’ve seen a play, right?”
She shook her head. “Too frivolous for a yoki-hijo,” she whispered. “But I’ve heard of them.”
“Don’t you get any time to relax?”
“I have plenty of time to meditate and pray.”
“No, I mean…have fun?”