Canned Fish

Was this book written by Number One Hope?

No, that's not right. If he truly wrote it, there shouldn't be so many omissions...

It should be one of Number Two, Number Three, or Number Four Hope.

Comparing the handwriting at the beginning of the book to the end, the writing at the end is noticeably smoother and differs more from the book title I wrote—this is because the writer gradually adapted to writing in New Federation language and incorporated more of their own quirks.

Although written in pencil, the thickness of each word's lines remains almost consistent... The writer might have obsessive-compulsive disorder, a very meticulous person.

Perhaps Number Four Hope can be ruled out. Her newspaper is folded neatly, of course, but the torn edges have many jagged gaps—the result of insufficient folding and using brute force to rip it apart.

Hope strokes his chin... Even with omissions in the book, it's still more detailed and accurate than the memories I've obtained. Perhaps Number One Hope's knowledge suffers partial loss with each "amnesia."

The writer must have recorded this knowledge for this reason, for later users to employ...

For later users to employ?

Hope freezes.

Why would he think there are later users... Number Four Hope happened to write on the newspaper on the very day I arrived here...

She was very certain she would welcome her successor on June 5th, that is, me.

And the Hope who wrote the book should have similarly poor eyesight as I do. Writing a book this thick would take no small amount of time.

Yet he knew before he started writing that he would have a successor...

And I know nothing about my current situation...

Number One Hope's knowledge gradually diminishes with "amnesia." Perhaps it's not just knowledge that decreases, but also some memories that all predecessors possessed but I failed to inherit.

Hope reaches into his pants pocket, feeling the newspaper scrap through the fabric... The message left by Number Four Hope... Encrypted in another world's language...

The Hope who wrote the book prepared such a thick volume for his successor, yet left not a single word about matters related to "amnesia."

And Number Four Hope must have foreseen that I would have no relevant memories, so she left a note, yet risked her successor not understanding it by using an "encrypted language"...

Is this information a secret that cannot be told?

Who are they guarding against?

Damn it, most importantly, where have they all gone... Are they all dead?

A sense of crisis from outside the Whateley family swept through Hope's body.

Time, time, the interval between transitions... This is the easiest to determine. I just need to ask Lavinia or Wilbur about the date of my amnesia.

Then there's the translation of the Russian left by Number Four Hope... For now, I can only rely on Old Williams's Reading Potion and hope it works.

The urgency to know what Number Four Hope actually said made Hope want to go to Old Williams's rooftop right now to brew the potion. But reason told him it wasn't the right time yet.

At least wait until nightfall, preferably until midnight, when the other three have all fallen asleep.

Wilbur and Lavinia probably aren't nocturnal creatures; cultists have more regular schedules than college students. That time should be the safest.

Shocked by his own deductions, Hope lost interest in reading further. He placed the book on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling to suppress his restlessness.

Time was elusive, and without a timekeeping tool, Hope had no idea how long had passed when Lavinia suddenly pushed the door open, holding an open can of peas and a small plate. On the plate seemed to be some meat, but Hope couldn't yet make out what it was.

Dinner time had arrived.

Hope remembered he had only told Wilbur to knock, not Lavinia.

It's not too late to tell her now... With the same expression and tone he used with Wilbur, Hope demanded that Lavinia knock every time she came.

Unlike Wilbur's hesitation, Lavinia quickly nodded in agreement, then set the pea can and plate on the table before saying, "Can I eat these onion rings?"

"Uh... sure." They're already cold anyway.

"Hey, wait!" Hope called out to Lavinia, who was about to leave with the paper bag of onion rings. "How about we chat for a bit? It's way too boring here."

Lavinia readily agreed. Unlike Wilbur, who carried a heavy burden, she seemed the type to delegate all tasks to him, so she had plenty of time.

Hope's room didn't even have a stool or chair. Lavinia sat on one side of the bed, while Hope sat on the other side near the nightstand, which now served as a dining table.

Hope could now see what was on the plate: headless and tailless segments of fish, impossible to identify the species. This time, Wilbur had thoughtfully provided a fork.

But Hope hated eating fish.

He clumsily lifted a piece of fish with the fork, then opened his mouth beside the plate to catch it.

A small piece of fish fell into his mouth. Hope chewed a couple of times, found the bones had been cooked soft, relaxed, chewed a few more times, and swallowed. It was a bit salty, pairing well with a mouthful of peas.

If his guess was right, this was heated canned fish, only this time Wilbur had poured it onto a plate.

Hope glanced sidelong at Lavinia, who was focused on the onion rings in her bag.

Though she had sat down here, she showed no intention of chatting, as if she had just stayed because sitting anywhere was the same.

"Do you eat fish?" Hope put two pieces of fish into the pea can and pushed the rest toward Lavinia.

His original intent was to use this as a conversation starter. After he offered the plate, Lavinia should have declined.

But Lavinia accepted without refusal, not even minding that Hope had used the fork.

Hope blinked. Watching Lavinia eat with relish, he suddenly lost the desire to mask his purpose with small talk.

He swallowed the peas in his mouth: "Do you know when my last amnesia was?"

"I don't know."

"Ah?" Stumbling on the very first question, Hope barely managed to keep his expression in check. "Why... why don't you know?"

"I forgot." Lavinia said it as if it were only natural.

"But it shouldn't have been that long ago, should it?"

"Sometimes you lose your memory, and you and Wilbur don't tell me."

Don't tell...

Meaning you can't even tell for yourself...

Hope had no choice but to settle for less. "Then do you remember when I was locked up?"

"Last summer."

"Can you be more specific?"

"I don't remember."

Last summer... a vague timeframe.

It was now early June, and outside looked like early summer. From last summer to now, that was roughly between twelve and nine months.