Question marks and dust

A question mark.

A huge, silent question mark, condensed from a cold, rotten, cloyingly sweet presence, hovered in the air before me for an instant so brief I almost wondered whether it was an illusion, then vanished completely.

No anger, no threat, no further interference.

Only a question mark.

A question mark filled with boundless antiquity, indifference, and even a trace of... pure curiosity.

Were They asking me?

Asking me what? Asking why I did this? Asking... what I truly wanted?

The corners of my mouth tugged upward uncontrollably, but it was not a smile. It was a cold spasm of facial muscles brought on by extreme excitement.

Curiosity.

More dangerous than anger, more unsettling than a threat.

Did this mean that, within Their incomprehensible, ancient understanding, I had finally risen from a "pest" to be exterminated, a "variable" to be traded, into an... existence worth "questioning"?

Ryuk finally recovered from his rigid stupor in the corner. His massive body relaxed slightly, but his scarlet eyes still held the profound shock of seeing that question mark and... some indescribable excitement? He rubbed his rough claws together, making a dry, rustling sound.

"A question mark... heh heh... They... actually had a question about you..." He chuckled hoarsely, his voice filled with a sense of absurdity and a strange, vicarious exhilaration. "All these years... all those fools dying and rotting... They couldn't even be bothered to lift Their eyelids... and you actually... made Them... wonder..."

His laughter grew shriller and more grating.

"Curiosity! It's poison! To Them! The sweetest poison! They'll watch you! Observe you! Analyze you! Until They see right through you... or... you drive Them mad! Hahahaha!"

I ignored his madness. My gaze returned to the Death Note, lying quietly closed on the table.

It still radiated that restrained yet full-bodied "presence," as though the question mark had nothing to do with it. But I knew it was the energy it had absorbed from the Core of Harmony, together with the "bridge" instruction I had written, that had finally drawn this incomprehensible "question."

The notebook was a key. And bait.

Then how should I respond to this "question mark" next?

Keep attacking? What would the target be? What else could provoke a "response" more effectively than connecting directly to Their primary consciousness?

Or... try another approach? Since I had stirred Their "curiosity," perhaps I could use it?

I needed a target. The target itself might not matter, but the manner of their death had to carry my "reply." A ritual that could proclaim my existence, my will, my... "answer" to that indifferent, ancient "question mark."

My gaze went vacant, piercing through the screen, searching the underlying flow of information. Not for evil, but for... symbolism. For a "symbol" that could carry meaning.

I found it.

The "Association of Forgetting and Records." An exceptionally discreet, almost legendary nongovernmental organization. They took part in no other affairs and did only one thing: through various means, including illegal intrusions, they collected and preserved authentic records that mainstream history had deliberately forgotten, erased, or distorted, from across the globe. From the true figures behind war crimes to suppressed scientific discoveries, from the last remnants of vanished cultures to politicians' candid private remarks. They were the "dark-web backup" of humanity's collective memory.

Its founder and chief archivist was an elderly woman named Eloise Finch. She almost never appeared in public, like a ghost.

Her death should be... a manifestation of memory.

I walked to the table. My fingers touched the notebook's warm, smooth cover again. That slow, powerful pulse was still there.

I opened it. The pages were supple.

The pen touched down. Writing was still effortless, and the notebook's cooperation could almost be called "delighted."

[Eloise Finch]

Cause of death: the weight of truth. Time: before dawn tomorrow, inside her secret chamber beneath an abandoned library, where the most essential original archives are preserved. Cause of death: the weight of the "truth" contained in every original record she has spent her life collecting and protecting-paper, film, and digital media-will be made manifest in an instant by the notebook's power, pressing her gently and completely into the ground, merging her with those records to become a silent monument made of information and dust. Before her death, all her encrypted archives will grant every internet user worldwide unconditional access for twenty-four hours, requiring no decryption and displaying their contents directly.

Location: Memory Grave. Cause of death: assimilation by the truth she protected. Outcome: becomes a monument. Effect: global memory unlocked.

No pain, no destruction. Only an ultimate act of union and devotion.

Let the guardian remain forever with the truth she protected. Let buried memories see daylight again for twenty-four hours.

This was my answer.

I was not chaos, not destruction.

I was... memory. I was... truth. I was... for every attempt to conceal, distort, or forget...

The final judgment.

The pen left the page.

The notebook closed.

Snap.

The sound was still muted and full.

I waited.

Waited for dawn.

Waited for the floodgates of global memory to open.

And waited, too...

To see whether that question mark

Would appear again.

The next day, before dawn.

The global internet.

Hundreds of millions of users, whether jolted awake by alerts from their devices or working in the early morning, discovered to their shock that their computers, phones, tablets... every connected device had automatically opened an unmarked interface that could not be closed.

Inside was a vast trove of horrifying, authentic documents, photographs, videos, and audio recordings that had never been made public...

The truth of war. The filth of deals. History made to disappear. Cries that had been silenced.

Humanity's entire collective memory had been forcibly injected with an enormous, indigestible dose of... truth serum.

The world did not immediately descend into chaos. First, it fell into a strange, immense... silence.

As though everyone was trying to digest this unbearable truth at once.

Only then did panic, anger, reflection, revolution... begin erupting like tsunamis, slowly but inexorably, in every corner.

In my room, the screen showed charts of global data traffic surging wildly and countless "unable to access" messages from government websites.

Forgetting had been forcibly suspended for twenty-four hours.

I was waiting.

Waiting for the question mark's response.

Sunlight filtered through the filthy window, gradually illuminating the room.

In the air,

No abnormal presence gathered.

There was no question mark.

Only, from outside the window,

The distant,

Indistinct noise

Of the waking city.

As though yesterday's question mark

Really had been nothing but an illusion.

But just as the sunlight was about to illuminate the entire tabletop-

I noticed,

On the table,

On the black notebook's cover,

There lay an extremely fine layer of

Seemingly freshly fallen,

Ancient...

Dust.

The distribution of those specks

Vaguely formed

An exceedingly indistinct,

Yet unmistakably present,

Outline of an exclamation mark.

It lasted less than a second.

A breeze passed through-the window was not open-

And the dust dispersed.

As though it had never existed.

Leaving only the notebook's cover,

As spotless as before.

So,

Was this your response?

"Deep Nest."

An...

Exclamation mark?

To the...

Answer I had given?