It happened during breakfast on what I thought was day seventeen. Or maybe day twenty-two. Time had gotten slippery, the way it does in dreams where you can't quite remember falling asleep.
I was sitting with Mash, same table, same food, same comfortable silence.
Then she said something wrong.
"Master, can I ask you something?"
That wasn't unusual. But her tone was. There was something... different. Less scripted. More hesitant.
"Of course," I said carefully.
She looked down at her tray, fingers tracing the edge of her plate. "Why do you always sit with me? There are so many other Servants you could spend time with. Stronger ones, more interesting ones. But you're here every morning. With me."
My chopsticks froze halfway to my mouth.
"I..." I didn't know how to answer. Because the truth was complicated. Because I sat with her out of habit, out of familiarity, out of the fact that she was the first person I'd seen in this world and somehow that made her feel like the most real.
But I couldn't say that.
"I like your company," I said instead. Simple. True enough.
She looked up, and her eyes—
They were searching. Actually searching. Looking for something in my face instead of just reflecting my presence back at me.
"Do you ever feel lonely, Master?"
The cafeteria seemed very quiet suddenly. All around us, Servants continued their routines. Eating, talking, existing in their loops. But Mash was looking at me, really looking, and the question hung between us like something fragile.
"Yes," I said.
She nodded slowly. "Me too. I know I shouldn't be. Chaldea is full of people, and everyone is kind, and I have important work to do. But sometimes I feel like..." She struggled for words. "Like I'm watching life happen through glass. Like I'm here but not really here. Does that make sense?"
It made too much sense.
"Mash," I said carefully, "do you remember what you said to me yesterday morning?"
She blinked. "I... I think I told you about the training session scheduled for the afternoon? And we talked about the new recipes Emiya was planning?"
That wasn't what we'd talked about. Yesterday we'd discussed Ancient Roman architecture. But she didn't remember. Of course she didn't. Because to her, every conversation reset. Every day was the first day in some fundamental way.
Except now she was asking me about loneliness.
Now she was breaking the pattern.
"Master?" She tilted her head. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I said automatically. Then, more honestly: "I'm just... surprised. You don't usually ask questions like that."
"I don't?" She looked genuinely confused. "But I think about it all the time. About what it means to be here, to exist like this. About whether..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Sorry. That must sound strange."
"No," I said quickly. "It doesn't sound strange at all."
We finished breakfast in silence, but it felt different. Heavier. More real.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Over the next few days, I started noticing other cracks in the pattern.
Cu stopped mid-form during training and asked me, "Master, do you ever get the feeling you've had the same day twice?"
Emiya paused while preparing dinner and stared at the knife in his hand. "Something feels off," he muttered. "Like I've cut these vegetables before. Exactly like this. But that's impossible, right?"
Artoria looked up from her food one evening, confusion flickering across her face. "How long have I been eating? I feel like I just started, but also like I've been here for hours."
And Medusa...
She found me in the library during our usual afternoon reading time. But instead of settling into her chair with a book, she stood at the window, looking out at the impossible garden.
"It never changes," she said softly.
"What doesn't?"
"The garden. The flowers are always blooming. The trees never shed their leaves. The sun is always setting but never sets." She turned to me. "Master, how long have we been here?"
"I don't know," I admitted.
"Do you ever wonder if we're stuck? If this is..." She gestured vaguely. "...all there is?"
I stood and joined her at the window. The garden swayed in its perpetual breeze, beautiful and still and utterly unchanging.
"Would that be so bad?" I asked. "Being here. Like this."
"I don't know," she said. "But I think... I think I'd like to find out what else there could be. Even if it's frightening. Even if it's painful." She looked at me. "Don't you ever want to see what's beyond the glass?"
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Mash's questions and Cu's confusion and Medusa's garden that never changed.
They were waking up.
Not fully—not yet. But something was shifting. The careful patterns I'd observed, the predictable loops, they were developing... cracks. Imperfections. The NPCs were becoming aware that they were NPCs.
And I had no idea what that meant.
At exactly 2200, Mash knocked on my door.
"Come in," I called.
She entered, same as always. But when she asked, "Is there anything you need, Master?" there was something in her voice. Something searching.
"Mash," I said, sitting up. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"If you could change anything about Chaldea, about your life here, what would it be?"
She stood very still. Processing. I could see her thinking, really thinking, instead of just accessing a pre-programmed response.
Finally, she said, "I'd want to understand why I feel the way I do. Why I'm happy but also sad. Why I feel close to you but also far away. Why every day feels the same but also different." She smiled, but it was uncertain. Vulnerable. "I'd want to know what's real."
I patted the bed beside me. She hesitated, then sat.
We stayed like that for a while. No words. Just two people—or one person and one NPC becoming something more—sitting in comfortable silence while the ceiling hummed overhead and the world outside the window refused to change.
"Master?" Mash said eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being here. Even when nothing makes sense."
"Thank you," I replied. "For being real. Even when you shouldn't be."
She didn't understand what I meant. Not fully. But she squeezed my hand gently, and I squeezed back, and in that moment, it didn't matter what was real and what wasn't.
It just mattered that we were here.
Together.