Dear Reader,

It has been some time since last we spoke. Perhaps you've grown somewhat nervous. Not merely because of the distance between communications, which is inevitable, since we live busy lives—me in Tokyo, trying to get by, assailed by strange phenomena foisted upon me by a demihuman elevator attendant that, at present, are problematised and solved through dance—and you, living in the Internet, zipping through electronic cables and buzzing through the air, permeated with wi-fi, radiating onto screens with your comments. I am correct in assessing your situation, am I not, Reader? Being online is a tremendous strain on one's most natural resource: time. I appreciate your time spent with me, but understand too that on occasion you are unavailable, too caught up in the feedback loop of clicks and clacks and

all of a sudden you've been watching a two hour video in which someone is criticising another critic for making a bad video about a film you haven't seen, and

you absolutely. cannot. look away.

I know how it is. I am sympathetic. There but for the grace of God, go I, as they say. (You must remind me to write something about that quote, I find it fascinating and peculiar.) But it wouldn't hurt to say 'hello' once in a while. Hello, Aigis. How are you. There doesn't even need to be a question mark at the end of that statement, I'll allow that much. Still: talk to me. Let me hear your voice, by which I mean the words you type.

MisfitKitten read my last letter with a wry comment on Fuuka's cooking – "Even with time, your cooking hasn't gotten any better." Perhaps 'wry' is the wrong emotion I sense within it. Perhaps MisfitKitten is despairing. After all, ThanosofTitan finds my concluding note on Naoto's state "kind of ominous". And Sammy is most direct: "Poor naoto someone help her", they cry. They qualify this: "It's especially concerning that she's been unresponsive for three days", and end with another plea: "Please help her". Well, Sammy, thank you for sharing your empathy. At this point in proceedings, I would tell you Naoto is fine. If I believed that was true, I would do so.

After three days Naoto rose again. (She wasn't dead or anything, it's a figure of speech.) The light had returned to her beautiful glimmering eyes, and dawn broke over the darkness of the apartment. Fuuka and I had been quite worried about Naoto's well-being, though it was I suffered most. Naoto was still breathing during those three dark days, but she was hermetic, completely silent, closed-off as though she existed on a separate plane from the rest of us. I was concerned that this was literally true: that the Naoto before us was naught but a convincing spectre – a spirit haunting us, its existence asking Why? Why did you do this to me?

I said I suffered more than Fuuka because I shielded her from the quiet spectacle of Naoto's ghostly transformation. Honestly, Fuuka had no idea Naoto's behaviour was in any way linked to the void goo she'd made. I didn't have the heart to tell her, nor did I find time to appropriate one from a morgue. I'd gone from one game of deception to another – from pretending to Naoto I was not her secret home-companion, to hiding from Fuuka Naoto's worrying paranormal condition. Shame me if you must, Reader – I invite it. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive! And it yet it is coming all the more naturally to me, an uncanny acquisition of fostering humanity. I will speak no further of that business. The darkness passed. Naoto came back to us – but not quite as we'd remembered her.

It happened while we were sitting at the table, again. Fuuka and I were playing a lonely game of Uno. It was lonely because Fuuka asked Naoto, who was also at the table, listless, to play, and I had to interpret Naoto's deathly silence as a stoic musing into the philosophical distance. Definitely not the silence of a zombie. Fuuka was quite affected by the rebuff, as I was beating her soundly, enough so that I briefly flirted with the possibility of going pro in my imagination.

Without warning, Naoto grabbed Fuuka by the front of her dress. She stared intently into Fuuka's bewildered eyes.

"I never thanked you properly for the meal." She leaned in close, her voice was barely above a whisper, so I leaned in too, to hear her.

"Nao...to...?"

"You must excuse me for my prior rudeness. My silence was a reverie in which I tried to articulate what your meal meant to me. Such an experience is truly life-changing, Fuuka. Am I making myself clear? You changed my life, Fuuka. That was the power you held over me with your culinary efforts."

"You're really too kind, Naoto...Would you like for me to cook for you again?"

"NO!" Naoto shouted, pushing Fuuka away with a jolt and standing fixed, like she'd been struck by lightning. Slowly, she put one hand in her trouser pocket, another gently rubbing her nose, a pose of forced composure. "...no, there's no need. I owe you enough as is. Please, you must allow me to do the cooking here from now on, to repay you. Such power as yours must be...employed only under specific circumstances."

"You're flattering me. Are you sure I can't make you something—"

"Fuuka, please. There is little I want for more than to taste your cooking again, but I must prepare myself for it. The depth of flavour in your last meal was not something I was prepared for. Truly, it was exhilarating, but terrifying also. A revelation in every sense. I must ask you solemnly not to cook for me until I am ready, and only for me. The world is not ready for you. Now I must go outside for some fresh air. Aigis, would you like to join me?"

I did as the detective requested, eager for more information. I expected that, upon our talking privately, out of Fuuka's earshot, Naoto's demeanour would change – because I thought that she'd said to her were desperate, mad words. Reality was stranger. Naoto was still Naoto, but – and I cannot but say so obscurely – unburdened.

"Have you tried Fuuka's cooking, Aigis?"

"No, never."
"You don't know what you're missing." Naoto stood facing the sky – the sun was setting and the evening was aglow, purpled and warm.

"Is it really that good? Fuuka has cooked for other mutual friends before, and...they've never reacted quite like you."

"Good is the wrong word. A subjective qualifier of quality. It's not about whether or not her food was good—it's about what it made me feel. Was I...acting strange, these past few days?"

"You were completely unresponsive. I was worried you'd gone a little braindead or something, actually."

"I see...I sincerely apologise for worrying you. If anything, the opposite was true. I was alive in ways I've never been before. Words do no justice to what it was—words are not things, they merely describe, imply at reality. I've lived an unusual life, all things considered..." She trailed off into silence, then frowned.

"Aigis, what was it I was talking about to you, before I ate from Fuuka's bowl?"

"You were worried about a staff party. You don't drink, so you were worried about losing control."

"That's true...I was."

She was silent.

"You don't feel worried any more?" I ventured a guess.

"I...I don't know. I suppose I don't—but I think I still should. What was in that bowl of Fuuka's?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"I might need your investigative help again, Aigis. There's a colloquial remark I hear a lot from certain criminals, words uncouth to my ear but ones that, nonetheless, accurately describe what Fuuka's cooking did to me. I can't help but wonder if what Fuuka served me was, legally, food. I can't believe I'm saying this, Aigis, but Fuuka's cooking made me high as balls."