(Than You'll Ever Know)
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Once you put on your indoor slippers, straighten out your personal gown, take that one last step out from Akemi Homura's hospital suite. Turn west.
"Are you sure we shouldn't try contacting your guardian again?"
There you'll find a long well-lit cream-walled hallway with a speckled grass-green floor. Look to your left through the glass, as one hand traces the lacquered wood and metal handrails. The afternoon sun comes down at an angle, shining halfway up your gown, and only the very bottom of your red-rimmed glasses glimmer as they hang off your chest pocket, swaying left and right to a steady amble.
You might remember that this isn't the first time you've walked down this hallway. Trepidation might have been what you first felt walking down these hallways. Even as the months fold into each other, even if you lose sight of everything you've ever dreamed of, you will probably never forget what it is was like the first time. At this point, you might feel like stopping to take in the scene. You may do so. Time is still aplenty.
"It's quite alright. I can handle myself from here."
Look out. The residential and business districts of Mitakihara unfurl beneath the blue sky outside these cold glass panes. Perhaps you might want to etch every detail of this cityscape into your memory; but there's no point to that. You'll always be able to revisit this scene whenever times get hard. Instead, let the moment sink in. The city will never change, but you will. Everyone might come back to life, but you won't. As long as you are alive, everything can always find its way. Take this precious time of silence to reflect on your mistakes, ready your heart, and find your resolve again before you carry on. You are alone here. No one will pass by this place for another hour or so.
"But it's not alright! What if you start feeling faint halfway through?"
If you stop a bit before the nurse's station, you'll find yourself right outside Watanabe-san's suite. Whenever you walk in, you'll normally hear an old, charming song play from the radio. Calling on your conscience, the words catch you as strongly as they ever did:
神様にワイロを贈り
天国へのパスポートを
ねだるなんて本気なのか?
Do you really think you
can bribe God for
a passport straight to Heaven?
"I don't think that will happen. Besides, that shouldn't stop anyone from trying."
Though her hair is hardly greying out and her spirit is more than lively, the choice of song is telling of her age. And by now, it is almost telling of yours too. You might remember that she will pass away in 5 weeks' and 2 days' time, at around 4 p.m usually. She won't be lonely, surrounded by her favourite teddy bears and family. But do pay her a few visits before it's too late. You probably won't have time to attend her funeral either, since the week before Walpurgisnacht tends to see an anomalous explosion in Witch occurrences. By then, you're probably the only magical girl left alive anyways, so you'll have to pull your weight. Just be sure to never show your weakness to Madoka.
"But you know, you shouldn't push yourself too hard. You shouldn't push yourself at all! It's only been a week since your condition's stabilised!"
Each time you visit Watanabe-san, you go through the same routine, always starting with, "You're not wearing your glasses today?", and replying, "Maybe it's the after-effects of the operation, but I get quite dizzy when I'm wearing them," and replying, "Is that so? Well, you do look quite beautiful like this." Then, down the line, the exact words change. Sometimes, it's "They don't pickle umeboshi here to my taste. I prefer it slightly sweeter." Sometimes, it's "If you drop by the food court, won't you get me something? I hate how bland all this fare is." But you always learn something new through these brief conversations: titbits of Mitakihara's history, minutiae of past events, a brief but encyclopaedic summary of the prefecture in time. You might even learn something new about yourself. "The nurses sometimes tell me you cry in your sleep." And then she puts her large pianist hands on top of your head, ruffling your hair wildly. "I've only heard of people crying themselves to sleep, never in their sleep. You're something special, aren'tcha?"
When you were first starting out, she was the one who pointed you in the right direction to go: the used bookstores in Yamanomizu District. You've been out of school for so long, it would've been hard to do your own independent research on ballistics right off the bat. Much time has passed since then though. By now, much of what she's said about cordoned-off underground tunnels built as war contingencies or how natural disaster exigency plans are intrinsically woven into the city's infrastructure, you've already read in government documents and the many civil planning working papers shelved away across the decades in the National Diet Library at Chiyoda.
"There's no need to worry so much when all I'll be doing is take the bus back home."
After the brief chat with Watanabe-san, it is time to go. Continue down the hallway and report to the nurse's station. A bit ahead to your left, there is the cosy ward lounge. There's no one here at the station nor the lounge at this time of day. Miyahara-kun, Kuroyanagi-san, and Takeshi-kun are probably a few stories down at the park right now, taking pictures of butterflies and playing film director by the indoor waterfall with the smartphone Kuroyanagi's parents bought for her last week. Old Man Inoue is probably practicing his karaoke skills in his room; the last you've heard he was trying out boy-band rap, much to the bemusement of all the ward staff.
The children's kamishibai troupe which gives bimonthly performances won't be coming today. Don't bother waiting for them, for they're preparing for a big show. You'll find this out if you happen to wander into Uebanashi District, 4-chou-me around 3 p.m. next Wednesday, where you'll bump into them heading home. But if you feel like it, the bookshelves are half-filled with their stories for reading. And Tanaka-san, who always reads the papers while rolling around in the papasan chair, pretending to be a kappa or a turtle, was already discharged a few days before your surgery. Now it is your turn to leave.
The nurse on-duty right now is the newcomer, Iida-san, barely half a year in her position. You probably knew more about the patients than she did. She isn't professional per se, but she's a hard worker and optimistic to boot. She just needs more experience under her belt before she can keep pace with everyone. Since Iida-san would get a fright if you call out to her from behind, so be sure to go up to ring the bell for her attention. Otherwise, she'd spill her boba tea all over the floor, and you get to watch the head nurse walk past at just the right timing.
"You could barely walk around the ward two days ago without support; how can you just go out like that on your own?"
Your time with her was short, but memorable. After telling her you'd be leaving, she will try to find your certificate of discharge. Since it's still with Dr. Matsubara, the effort's all in vain. But you can't tell her that. You're not supposed to tell her that. You might try to perform your duty as one who is privy to the knowledge. You might nudge her in the right direction by suggesting – maybe it's still with Dr. Matsubara? And she would nod along but still spend the next 10 minutes making a mess of the whole place. Because she is just performing her duty as a nurse. And because to her, the future is nothing but an open scroll of endless possibilities, like rain which pours from the sky in and crawls into every crevice. This is not true, of course. But you can't tell anyone that. You're not supposed to tell anyone that.
"Well, what can I say… The papers are all signed. There are those who need this ward more than me."
Remember to pick a caramel from the candy bowl while you're waiting. The sweetness will never change. Perhaps take a seat by the lounge too. You might glance at the many physical case files and documents slotted all along the wall behind the nurse's station. All of them are tagged with names and ward numbers sticking out. If you linger on any further, more detailed memories might come rushing back to you of each and every one of these individuals. It is a good way to jog your memory. You wouldn't want to be forgetting the past after all, all the people you've done wrong by. And you haven't met some of them in over 20 years now. You probably aren't going to go out of your way to see them anymore. After all, they will without exception die in a few months' time. By now, to you, these files are simply gravestones with no date. The least you can do is pray for their souls. By doing the bare minimum, you will at least bring yourself some peace of mind. And then you can turn your backs on them with some semblance of an intact conscience.
Do you remember the one timeline when Walpurgisnacht blew up the hospital shortly after first descent? It was all your fault.
"But after years, you're just supposed to enter school in the middle of the semester just like this? And it's that school. There's no way you can keep up!"
Having stuck with anti-aircraft artillery for the most part, this was your first time using surface-to-air missiles. Attempting to conserve magic, you failed to launch the missiles under stopped time. You failed to account for the heavy wind currents around Walpurgisnacht diverting the missiles off-course. In that one moment, the spinning gears of Walpurgisnacht whirred to life, forming a visible column of air piercing the stratosphere.
Then the missiles stalled, before beginning to orbit around the witch, picking up speed. And then the next moment, time stopped. Yet the manic laughter of Walpurgisnacht would not cease, having buried itself deep into your mind with all the echoes of voices of those you've left behind in the future. You found yourself rushing for the hospital, not quite sure of what was happening, your feet unsteady and weak while the missiles hung still gracefully in the air. One rocket had its body disintegrating in the hurricane with its warhead flying recklessly off towards the residential district. One was gliding towards the train station, rotating azimuthally along its centre of mass in an erratic motion. The last missile was headed straight for your destination. You already knew how it was going to end.
If you had lingered any longer on the sight, you might have been hit by how much the missile resembled your childhood impression of Voyager I. You might have, very fuzzily, recalled the stories your father told you at bedtime with the yellow nightlight and the thin blankets on a cold autumn day and the faint smell of smoke hanging onto his grey shirt and the occasional muted strumming of the double bass from the neighbours practicing late into the night of the year 1977 when Voyager I was launched. Interstellar exploration was a technological triumph for humanity, but with every step forward, what were we leaving behind? This was the question your father left behind for you. Your father felt somewhat sad for the Voyager, destined to wander the Milky Way alone for the hundreds of thousands of years to follow. He followed up by saying that in this world, a lot of people lived quite like that. But you were still young then, and you didn't know what to make of it.
"We all must start somewhere. I'll make do."
You were still young then, and you didn't know what to make of it. So when you reached the foyer of the main building and when you looked up in the sky and when you saw the rocket frozen barely a few kilometres away, all you did was stare blankly and tremble as the sands of time were sinking to never return. You had never prepared for this. You should have been. Then you turned back and saw the staff and patients hurrying into the building to take cover from the supercell. And when the situation finally sank in, you made your reluctant choice.
You decide to take away the pain. Never forget: this is the humane option to take. Pistol in sweaty hands, you walked right up to each person and raised the barrel to their foreheads. Remember that while gunshot wounds to the head are almost always fatal, always be doubly sure next time. Bullets impacting in the sagittal direction are generally less lethal than those in the coronal direction. You need not be so meticulous for those who would perish due to the direct blast. But for those who would end up getting buried in rubble and never rise to see the light of day again, focus.
Thus, one by one, you went to every resident and visitor in the hospital and ended their lives. Unfortunately, you only had enough time to finish five out of seven buildings. No – not "unfortunately": never leave anything to fate that you cannot leave up to yourself. It was your miscalculation. We are guilty of all the good we do not do. Especially someone as privileged as you: the only small person in this wide world to get all the second chances you could ever want: to be free from the flow of time and karma.
Perhaps with this in mind, the next timeline, you instead decided to transport everyone to the shelter before Walpurgisnacht struck. But look at what happened to Madoka while you weren't looking. She died in the most mundane of ways: by falling off a long flight of stairs and hitting her head. And you were so happy when you first found her in the intact portions of the main evacuation centre, before you drew closer and saw the small pool of blood. Who knows if you'll have the luxury to worry for the welfare of others this time? You must know your priorities. You must prioritise which sins to let commit. Never forget where your responsibilities and duty lie.
There is a verse you never understood when you were still young:
天地不仁
以萬物爲芻狗
聖人不仁
以百姓爲芻狗
The heavens and the earth are inhumane.
They regard all things as straw dogs.
The sages were inhumane.
They regard all people as straw dogs.
You cannot be young anymore.
After about half an hour of rumination or relaxation, Iida-san will come hurrying back from the laboratories upstairs, slightly flustered. Muttering under her breath something or other about her superiors, she calls you over to finish the procedure. All that's left is to sign a few more half-complete discharge papers that your guardians faxed over, confirm that you've returned all hospital equipment and paraphernalia not for rent, and receive your certificate of discharge.
But at the very last step, you find that Iida-san's grip on the certificate doesn't loosen.
Nothing changes hands.
Look back up.
Then she takes your hand in hers, then she leans closer to you, then she looks you in the eyes.
Then, like a little marionette, her body slouched over as her limbs one by one fell slack, grew cold. Her clammy skin pressed against you, in jerky motion, she brought a bloodstained hand to gently caress your face, and with what of little breath was left, she whispered: "… because… I love you… more…
"So you're really leaving today?"
Homura snapped back into the present.
She stretched her free hand lying slack by her side, and then she balled it up tightly. She stretched her free hand lying slack by her side, and then she balled it up tightly. Cycling between these two actions at a constant pace, the heavy fog in her mind gradually began to dissipate.
Now, Homura starts to take in her surroundings once more. The first thing she sees is Iida-san, facing her with all her sincerity.
The thermostat is always set to a comfortable 26°C, and the floor glimmers softly in the colour of high noon.
"Are you sure we shouldn't try contacting your guardian again?" Iida-san asks.
"It's quite alright. I can handle myself from here."
"But it's not alright! What if you start feeling faint halfway through?"
Homura smiles politely. She reads out her next lines as if from a script.
"I don't think that will happen. But still, that shouldn't stop anyone from trying."
"But you know, you shouldn't push yourself too hard. You shouldn't push yourself at all! It's only been a week since your condition's stabilised!"
"There's no need to worry so much when all I'll be doing is take the bus back home."
Each time she went back in time, this exchange would always repeat itself, almost word for word.
"You could barely walk around the ward two days ago without support; how can you just go out like that on your own?"
"Well, what can I say… The papers are all signed. There are those who need this ward more than me."
In a world where everything could change in the twinkling of an eye, when the same month could twist and turn in so many myriad ways, this moment alone was one that would never change.
"But after years, you're just supposed to enter school in the middle of the semester just like this? And it's that school. There's no way you can keep up!"
Homura smiles politely.
"We all must start somewhere. I'll make do."
"That's still no good. Maybe I should go along with you and-"
"Trying to skip on work again?" a voice calls out.
Dr. Matsubara, who had been creeping up behind Iida-san since the start of the conversation, rolled up a nearby magazine and whacked her on the head.
"Aiyayaya!"
Iida-san squelched, covering her arms over her head before spinning around. Her initial look of annoyance swapped for surprise.
"Get back to your work already! She can handle herself."
"I got it! I got it! Geez, it's not like there's anything to do right now."
Iida-san shoots Homura one last wave goodbye before scampering off into the ward. Homura waves back.
"Some people are really asking for a pay cut…"
Dr. Matsubara holds his back as he bends down to pick up the dropped certificate from the floor. Dusting it off, he faces Homura and extends the paper to her.
"Anyways, here you go. It's been tough on you."
"Thank you."
Homura receives the certificate with both hands, clutching as firmly as she did the first time round. She lingers for a few seconds for Dr. Matsubara to find his last words.
And they come.
"Akemi-san. Congratulations on graduating from hospital."
Dr. Matsubara smiles in encouragement.
Homura bows to thank him one last time.
Then, without looking back, she heads out of the ward, into the lift lobby, waits, enters, then goes down to the ground floor, and upon reaching the lobby entrance, she takes her first step towards the outdoors once more.
Today is a new day, the start of a new story.