"When a ghost speaks, do not listen to its words. Listen to the silence between them."
– An old Kaishi saying
___________________________
KICHIJOJI - MONDAY EVENING
Riku spent Sunday in a state of suspended animation.
He cleaned his small apartment. He read a book. He made a simple meal of rice and pickles.
He did all the mundane things a normal person would do on their day off.
But his mind was not there. It was in a quiet, second-floor coffee shop. It was watching a man behind a counter begin to read.
He had walked away, as planned. He had not let himself linger.
The fisherman does not stand over the water after casting his line. He waits for the tug.
He forced himself to wait until Monday evening. It was the earliest a "normal" person might realize they had left something behind.
Any sooner would betray his desperate urgency. Any later would signal a lack of care.
The timing, like everything else, had to be perfect.
He took the train to Kichijoji after his work at Watanabe & Sons was done. The evening air was cool. The streets of the bohemian district were quieter now. They were bathed in the warm glow of streetlamps and paper lanterns.
He walked to the quiet backstreet where "Tome & Thought" resided. His heart was a steady, cold drum.
He expected to see the black notebook still sitting on the counter. He expected to walk in, retrieve it with a polite apology, and see if Takeda gave any sign.
That was the plan. But the plan was already obsolete.
Taped to the inside of the glass door was a small, white card. A single line was written on it in neat, precise calligraphy.
Regarding the black notebook, please inquire within.
Riku froze. His blood ran cold.
The trap had been turned. The ghost was no longer hiding.
He was inviting him in.
...........
He took a single, deep breath. He calmed his hammering pulse.
He had known this was a possibility. He had provoked a genius. He had to expect a genius's response.
He pushed the door open. The small bell chimed.
The shop was empty of customers. The air was still and smelled of paper.
Takeda Masaru was behind the counter. He was not reading. He was not arranging books.
He was watching the door. He was waiting.
The black notebook was on the counter beside the register. A deliberate and clear signal.
"Good evening," Riku said. His voice was quiet, respectful. "I believe I left something here on Saturday."
Takeda's eyes, the cool embers that held a universe of thought, met his. There was no surprise in them. No confusion. Only a piercing, analytical intensity.
"The notebook," Takeda said. It was not a question.
"Yes," Riku replied. "Thank you for keeping it for me."
He made a move to retrieve it. Takeda placed a hand on it gently. The gesture was both polite and an absolute barrier.
"I read it," Takeda said. His voice was soft, but it carried an immense weight. "It was… interesting."
Riku remained silent. This was Takeda's game now.
"The ideas within," Takeda continued, his eyes never leaving Riku's, "are elegant. They are also impossible."
He paused. "They are the logical, next-generation extension of a project I abandoned five years ago. A project known to only one other person."
"So, you are not a customer. You are not a hobbyist. You are a message."
Takeda gestured to the small, worn chair on the customer's side of the counter. "Sit. And tell me who sent you."
...........
Riku sat. The tiny, quiet bookstore felt like a grand interrogation chamber.
"No one sent me," Riku said. It was the truth. He knew it would sound like a lie.
Takeda's lips pressed into a thin, unconvinced line. "Then how do you know these things? The concepts in this notebook… they are not idle speculation. They are architectural theory. Where did they come from?"
Riku had prepared for this. He would use the same partial truth he had given Arakawa. It was his only shield.
"They came from analysis," Riku said. "I study the history of the technology industry. I read your papers. I found the original design philosophy for Prometheus. The ideas in that notebook are my own. They are my projection of where that philosophy would lead."
Takeda was silent for a long time. He stared at Riku. His gaze seemed to strip away every layer of deception.
"Your projection," Takeda said slowly, tasting the words. "You project a future that requires a dozen technological leaps that have not yet occurred."
"The seeds of them have," Riku countered. "In research papers. In university labs. I just connected the threads."
A long silence settled over the shop. Takeda picked up the notebook, flipping through the pages.
"You are either the most brilliant theoretical engineer of our time," he said softly, "or you are the most elaborate liar I have ever met."
He closed the notebook. "I am no longer interested in which one it is."
Riku's heart sank. Had he failed?
"I am interested," Takeda continued, his voice hardening slightly, "in proof."
...........
Takeda leaned forward. The quiet scholar vanished. He was replaced by the ghost of the driven programmer.
"Talk is cheap. Ideas on paper are a pleasant diversion. The only thing that is real is the code."
He looked at Riku. For the first time, Riku felt the full, crushing weight of the man's intellect.
"You have filled this book with a beautiful dream. A system that learns. A system that predicts. But a dream is nothing until it is built."
He pushed the black notebook across the counter toward Riku.
"So, here is my proposal," Takeda said. His voice was a low, intense challenge. "You want my attention? You want me to believe in your 'analysis'? Then prove it."
"Build it."
Riku stared at him, stunned into silence.
"Not the whole system," Takeda clarified with a dismissive wave. "A piece. A single, elegant piece of it. Write the code for one of the core predictive algorithms you describe."
"Write it in a language I can read. Show me it is not just theory. Show me it works."
He stood up. The meeting was clearly over.
"There is an old computer in the back room. It has a basic compiler. You may use it. You have until next Saturday."
Takeda turned his back, a clear dismissal. He began to straighten a shelf. His focus was absolute.
"If the code is real," he said, without looking back, "we will talk again. If it is not…"
He let the threat hang, unfinished, in the quiet, paper-scented air.
___________________________
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