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Some nights, after Yugi’s gone to sleep, Yami projects himself outside of the puzzle. He sits at the desk more often than not, but once in a while he settles back on the middle of the floor and counts the stars through the sky light.
Yugi’s teacher once said that stars were like everything: they are born, they mature, and they die. Yami stretches his hand out in front of him. Through it he can see the same ceiling. The same sky. He is not like the stars.
So he counts them. Each night they represent something new: the number of times Yugi laughed, the number of times they’d been in danger, the number of cards he could name. Tonight, they are lifetimes.
An average life spans 83 years in Japan. It only takes sixty stars for him to reach 5,000 years: barely an hour passes. Sixty lifetimes, he thinks. He looks over at the outline of Yugi sleeping on the bed. Sixty lifetimes until you. Before you. Only now does it feel like living.
He turns back to the stars and starts again, this time with years. He finishes by morning.