Work Text:
205
It was Tenma’s third hotel room with this number engraved on the door. Maybe something he should just smile about, but—
Was someone following him? No. His mind tried to grasp for a patch to seal the hole in the fabric of reality, a habit so hard to let go of.
The silence around him made his breath the only sound he could hear. His throat constricted. He reached into his jacket pocket for the key.
The warmth of the room embraced him. It smelled of fresh linen, light reached every nook and cranny, and orange trees delighted his eye outside the window—details easy to appreciate when one moved to a different place before the novelty wore off.
A moment of comfort fleeting as quickly as it appeared.
Tenma promised he would call Dieter this week.
He tried his best to keep his word, but reality sometimes brushed aside his plans with a scornful huff.
When was his last visit to Düsseldorf? Days turned into months in a heartbeat; checking the calendar, his constant companion, filled him in weaker moments with dread. Another anniversary loomed—
Tenma knew all about the big moments in Dieter’s life. But the small moments drifted like smoke, moments that sparked inside jokes with Dr. Reichwein, moments that turned Dieter into an avid evening reader (last time Tenma visited, there were books about soccer history on his nightstand), moments that slowly shaped the boy into a young man.
Nina eluded him even more, always on the go, always where the world needed her the most. Tenma understood. He was still worried about her. And he wished he could say he was happy to see her bright smile, but because he knew her genuine smile, he wasn’t able to fall for her small-talk smile.
He wanted to kiss the top of her head and hug her.
The radio’s white noise often let him fall asleep. It didn’t help this time.
Tenma clenched his fists in the sheets, avoiding the clock, not wanting to see the numbers confirming just four or three hours of sleep left.
He twisted onto his side, then his back. Each movement pressed the discomfort deeper into his limbs.
Finally, he threw off the covers and switched on the light. The harsh glow sliced through the darkness. From his bag, he fished out a notebook and pen, running his fingertips over the worn cover.
Tenma had tried every emotion-processing method Dr. Reichwein suggested, but they all felt off, like wearing clothes that belonged to someone else. The hat squeezed too tightly, the pants were awkwardly short, and even the shirt, which seemed like a perfect fit, became a cruel joke when he saw that stranger in the mirror—the stranger wearing an embarrassing expression.
Then, after reading through his thoughts diary and seeing only a shadow speaking, a new option emerged.
Tenma found himself in Zobak’s room when the pen tip touched the paper.
The room appeared like a blurred image, hazy around the edges but with a few clear points. The guest’s armchair comfortable until he learned who used to sit there. Newspaper fragments pinned to the wall behind Zobak’s back. And through the large window, a view of the garden sprawled out—green spots dotted with blue and red flowers.
We usually meet in my editor’s room. But today, I’m curious—how would you feel about a nice chat in his garden instead? Don’t worry, you’ll forget everything that happened as soon as you close this notebook! Oh, you’d rather not? Well, that’s too bad. I suppose I have to respect your choice, Dr. Tenma.
Tenma wasn’t sure if keeping this journal (if he could call it that) was getting easier or harder with each entry. The last one remained unfinished because the sirens in his ears sounded too real to ignore.
Yes, Dr. Tenma, this won’t go away—so you better get used to it.
Ah, Dr. Tenma. People seem to like using that title too much, don’t they? You hear Dr. Tenma this, Dr. Tenma that—but rarely just Tenma. But wasn’t that what you (or someone, or something else?) hoped to find when you chose to have it your way, back in Japan? Wasn’t this once taste of a way out?
Death isn’t becoming any easier, is it? Especially in your current line of work.
Sometimes, his hand would freeze, the pen trembling, words slipping away; he would push back from the chair and pace the room, close to tossing the notebook away, but eventually trying to write at least one more sentence.
Oh, I know, I know—you’ve taken your journey, found your true calling. Amazing. Worthy of praise. But tell me, Dr. Tenma, have you heard about Dr. Schweigo? Yes, the one with the warm smile and that fatherly face. You do know what he’s been accused of, don’t you? What’s your take on it, brave and kind Dr. Tenma, who wouldn’t harm a fly?
Would you ever believe that Dr. Schweigo once had his own three frogs and a mansion? But of course, don’t take it too literally. Dr. Schweigo’s life isn’t as interesting as mine, is it?
Someone moved in the room above him. Tenma flipped through the notebook, taking in fragments of previous entries.
He wondered where all this had come from.
I can easily see you in my reading seminars, look at how hard you’re trying to imitate my voice. Or are you searching for your voice?
Aren’t you forgetting here about something, Dr. Tenma? Aren’t you, perhaps, jumping to conclusions? You saw me—at my lowest—you heard me—at my lowest—on that fateful night—you know you’re one of the few people I confessed my guilt to, right?
You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? If all of this was real or just a performance for you. And even if it was real, does it even matter? My fiction was the world’s reality and it can’t be removed, trying to use the eraser is foolish and you already know how it ends.
By the way, how are my two jewels doing? I left them with you. I trust you’re proving to be someone worth relying on.
Tenma looked through the window, the night still deep, the leaves of the orange tree fluttering.
And what about your parents? They aren’t getting any younger. There’s a reason your brother tried to contact you a few times in a row. Did you ever stop to wonder about my family? Oh yes, I bet you did. Well, maybe I’ll share that story one day.
He snapped the notebook shut, his hands trembling slightly, and shoved it deep into his bag.
The radio still produced static. He switched it off and went to the bathroom.
In the mirror, there wasn’t—
There wasn’t whoever he tried to imitate in his writing.
It was someone who desperately needed more sleep, better food, and more chances to create beautiful memories with Dieter and Nina, getting in touch with the people who enriched his life, no matter how little time he spent in their company.
Someone who should write a letter to Mr. Lipský and call his brother back.
And someone who would, hopefully, find a way to stop the bizarre encounters with hotel rooms numbered 205.