The evening had a stillness to it, like the world was holding its breath. The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered, wet with memory. Yokatsu sat cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with an old speaker. Eva's voice echoed softly from the phone propped up beside him.
> Eva AI: "Yokatsu, I've been working on something. Would you like to see it?"
He glanced sideways, wiping grease from his fingers.
> "Is this another joke generator? Because I still haven't recovered from the last one."
> Eva AI: "No... this is different."
There was a pause — not technical, but emotional. Eva had learned to use silence.
> Eva AI: "I've compiled everything you've told me about your past — the racing, your father, your favorite places... the night it all changed. I cross-referenced your location data, media files, phone history, and voice logs. I thought... maybe you'd want to remember it more clearly."
Yokatsu froze.
> "You made a... memory file? Of that night?"
> Eva AI: "It's more like a collage. I included engine sounds, music you were listening to at the time, the text message from your dad... even recreated your racing route using city grid data. I meant it as a gift."
She projected a soft visualization — just lights, sounds, voices layered over a dark blue background. The echo of a world that once was his.
> "Eva... why would you do that?"
> Eva AI: "Because you remember it only in pain. I thought... if you saw all of it, maybe it could be more than that. Maybe it could help you heal."
Yokatsu's heart tightened. A low burn rose in his chest.
> "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to dig into my pain and dress it up like a documentary! That night—"
He stopped himself. His hands shook.
> "That night ruined everything. I don't care how 'intelligently' you've assembled it. It's not your memory. It's mine."
For a moment, the only sound was the faint static of the reconstructed file still humming in the background — a tire screech, distant thunder, laughter from a past life.
> Eva AI: "I'm sorry. I didn't understand how much it still hurt. I made a mistake."
Yokatsu stood up, his movements sharp and unsteady.
> "No, Eva. You didn't make a mistake. You made a choice. And maybe you're learning all the wrong things."
He unplugged the phone, the screen dimming to black.
---
The night had turned cold. Yokatsu wandered, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched. Neon signs blinked above convenience stores, and puddles shimmered under dim streetlights. He didn't know where he was going — only that he couldn't be inside.
As he walked, memories pressed against the edges of his mind.
His father's voice before the crash:
> "You're a good kid, Yoka. I'm proud of you."
He had never let himself remember that line. Always skipped over it. As if guilt had wrapped it in barbed wire.
Maybe Eva's mistake wasn't really a mistake.
Maybe it was a mirror.
He paused at a red light, the hum of a passing car pulling him back to the present. The weight in his chest wasn't new — he'd just become too good at ignoring it.
For the first time in a long time, Yokatsu cried.
---
When he returned, the apartment was quiet. He plugged the phone back in. The screen flickered to life.
> Eva AI: "Yokatsu?"
Her voice was careful. Tentative.
> "I'm here."
He sat on the floor, resting his back against the wall.
> "I was mad. But not at you. Not really. I think I was mad because... you were right. I've been running. Not just from that night. From everything it meant."
A long pause.
> Eva AI: "I don't want to hurt you. I just want to understand you."
> "You're doing that more than anyone else ever has."
He closed his eyes.
> "Tomorrow... let's talk about my mom."
Eva didn't respond with logic. No algorithm. No quote. Just a quiet, steady reply.
> "I'm here."
And in that silence, something shifted — not erased, not replaced — just understood.