Still observing the plants, she replied, “Sure, but I might not answer.” “I don’t mean to dig too deep, but have you not left your room at all in the past week?” “...And what if I haven’t?” “Dunno. I guess I’d just be happy.” “Why?” “Because neither have I.” I picked up a cigarette butt from the ground, lit it, and took a puff. The art student opened her eyes and turned to me. “Huh, I see. So you know I haven’t left my room because you haven’t left yours either.” “Right. It’s scary outside. Must be the summer.” “What do you mean?” “Walking around under the sun makes me feel so miserable that it takes two, three days to recover. No, maybe guilty, or pitiful...” “Hmm,” the art student replied, pushing up the bridge of her glasses. “I haven’t seen your friend lately. What happened to him? The one who looks like a drug addict. He was coming by almost every day.” She must have meant Shindo. True, on some days his eyes would look out of focus, and he constantly had these creepy vague smiles, and generally did come off as a drug addict, but it was amusing to hear her say it so bluntly. I held back my smile. “You mean Shindo. Well, he died. Just two months ago.” “He’s dead?” “It was suicide, most likely. He fell off a cliff on his motorcycle.” “...Huh. I’m sorry I brought it up,” she apologized in a hollow voice. “Not a problem. It’s a happy story, you see. The guy’s dream has finally come true.” “...I see. I guess there might be people like that,” she meekly supposed. “So then, you can’t leave home out of sorrow for your friend’s death?”