The Playwright and the Auto-Memories Doll

Roswell was a beautiful bucolic capital surrounded by greenery. The town was situated at the base of tall mountains. It was a representative of the land in its entirety. However, amongst people of supple wealth, Roswell's name was known for its summer houses – in other words, its villas.

In spring, the landscape would overflow with flowers and entertain people's eyes; in summer, many would seek rest in an enormous waterfall that bore long-standing history as a famous spot; in autumn, the rain of decaying leaves would strike everyone's hearts; and winter would grant a tranquility that made the whole area dead-silent. As the change of seasons was very easily distinguishable, this territory had more than enough to divert the eyes of those who visited during any period for sightseeing.

The villas were built linked to the mountain-foot town. Wooden cottages, painted in a variety of colors. From the smallest to the biggest lots, the cost of property in the area was quite a large sum, thus having a villa made there was a proof of wealth in itself.

The town was filled with shops for tourists. On weekends, the main street, lined with rows of shops, would be crowded, pleasant tunes playing in the background. With such assortment of goods, no one could make fun of the place just for it being in the countryside.

Most people would build villas in town for the sake of convenience, and anyone who erected their home anywhere else was treated as an oddball.

The current season was an autumn of cirrocumulus clouds drifting high in the sky. Away from the mountain-foot town, next to a small lake that was not greatly regarded amongst the town's touristic attractions, sat an inconspicuous, lone cottage.

On the bright side, it was a traditional style house with tastefulness in its refined traits. On the bad side, with an aspect of abandonment, the house found itself in poor condition. Beyond its arch-shaped gate of washed-out white paint was the panoramic view of a garden overtaken by weeds and nameless flowers. The rotting red brick walls did not seem like they would ever be repaired. Roof tiles cracked here and there, probably using to be aligned perfectly in the past but having become atrociously chipped.

Next to the house's entrance was a swing covered in entangled ivies, which no one could make move anymore. It was a clue that there used to be a child around, and that there was not anymore.

The house's owner was a middle-aged man named Oscar. With said name, he worked in the writing industry as a playwright. He had wavy red hair and wore heavy-lensed black-rimmed glasses. He was baby-faced, which made him look younger than his actual age, and a little bent-forward. Due to cold sensitivity, he wore a sweater at all times. He was a completely normal man that did not hint he could become a protagonist in any sort of story.

Oscar had the house built not as a villa, but with the genuine desire to spend his life there. Not him alone, but also his wife and young daughter. It had enough space for the three of them, yet no one but Oscar lived there. The other two had already passed away.

The cause of Oscar's wife's death had been a disease. Its name was too lengthy, to an unpronounceable extent. Simply put, it consisted of the clotting of blood inside the vessels and death by clogging. It was also hereditary, his wife having inherited it from her father.

With her being an orphan due to the high rate of early deaths in her family, he had only come to find out the harsh truth regarding his wife, lonely as she had been from her lack of relatives, after she was gone.

"She was afraid that, if you'd known, you might have not wanted to marry a sick woman, so she kept it a secret." The one who had told him so was her best friend.

From the moment he received the revelation at her funeral, one question had constantly echoed in Oscar's head: "Why? Why? Why?"

――If only… she had told me about that, no matter how much it cost… we could have searched for a cure together, or invested in it any amount of the money that we had uselessly piled up.

It was glaringly obvious that Oscar's wife had not married him for gold digging. He had met her before becoming a playwright, the place of their encounter had been a library that he frequently visited, and the one who had first noticed her – the librarian – was Oscar himself.

――I thought she was… a beautiful person. The corner of new books she was in charge of was always interesting. While I fell in love with those books, I also fell in love with her.

"Why?" had bounced around several hundreds of million times within his head, then disappeared.

His wife's best friend was a responsible person, and as he had lost spirit with his wife's death, the latter had energetically put herself in motion to take care of him and the daughter he had been left with. She would prepare warm meals for Oscar, who would not even eat all day if left alone, and braid the hair of the little girl who cried and mourned the absence of the mother that used to do so.

Perhaps there had been a bit of one-sided love involved. One time, as his daughter had lay in bed with a fever and suddenly started to vomit repeatedly, the one who had taken her to the hospital had been the friend. The one who had found out first that the girl had the same disease as her mother had not been her father, but her mother's best friend.

What occurred afterwards had progressed slowly, but in Oscar's eyes, it had been much too fast.

So as to not let his wife's case happen all over again, he had relied on several renowned doctors. From one prominent hospital to another, they had bowed their heads to many people, asking for help and gathering information for testing new drugs.

Medicines and side effects were two faces of the same coin. His daughter would wail every time she took them. The nursing days where he had been unable to take his eyes off the suffering of his loved one had gnawed his heart, well acquainted with them as he was.

No matter what kind of new remedies they tried, the condition of his daughter's disease had not improved. Eventually, they had run out even of what to depend on, and the medics had given up as well, declaring her as incurable.

"I wonder if my wife is beckoning her to the underworld because she's lonely…" As he later recalled, he had pondered about foolish things like that again and again. Even as he had supplicated, "please don't take her with you" to his wife's grave, the dead do not have mouths to reply.

Oscar had been mentally cornered, yet the one that had broken down faster was his wife's best friend, who had followed them through the hospitals until then. Overwrought from watching over his unstable daughter, before anyone noticed, she had distanced herself from the hospital until, finally, Oscar and his daughter had been truly left on their own.

Due to a daily routine of over-prescriptions, his daughter's cheeks, which had previously resembled rose petals floating on white milk, had become profoundly yellowish and she had grown hideously puny due to weight loss. Her hair that used to smell sweet and look like honey had quickly fallen off.

Seeing it had been unbearable. Hers was truly an appearance he had been unable to endure looking at.

At last, as the outcome of him having repeated a fruitless back-and-forth argument with the doctors, they had settled for administrating nothing but painkillers to his daughter. He had not wanted the rest of her already short life to be engrossed in affliction.

From then on, there had been a touch of peace. Easygoing days. Watching his daughter's smile for the first time in a while.

Their remaining few days of happiness went on.

The weather had been wonderful the day she passed away.

It was an autumn where the surroundings had lost its colors moment by moment. The sky had been clear. Red and yellow-dyed trees could be seen from the hospital's windows as well.

Within the hospital's vicinity, there was a fountain built as a spot for relaxation, and decayed leaves had been drifting onto the water's surface, navigating quietly. The leaves would fall, buoy and wander over the water, accumulating as though pulled by a magnet. They were remnants that had become even more beautiful despite losing their life. His daughter had talked about how "pretty" they were.

"The blue of the water mixing with the yellow of the leaves is very pretty. Hey, if I were on top of those leaves, I wonder if I could walk over the fountain without falling."

Such a child-like conception. In truth, the leaves would give to gravity and her weight, and her body would soon sink into the water.

Not rebuffing her, Oscar had jokingly replied, "If you had an umbrella and used the wind, you'd have even more chances of making it work, huh?"

He had wished to spoil that child who no longer could be saved, even if just a little.

Hearing his response, his daughter had smiled with twinkling eyes. "I'll show it to you one day, okay? On that lake close to our house. During the time in autumn when the fallen leaves drift about the water surface. One day."

One day, she would show it to him.

Later on, after multiple coughs, his daughter had abruptly passed away. She was still only nine years old.

Her lifeless body had been light as he embraced it. Even while lacking a soul, it had been much too light. Shedding tears, Oscar had wondered if she had truly ever been alive or if he had merely been having a long-lasting dream.

He had buried his daughter in the same cemetery as his wife, and then returned to the place that used to be a home for the three of them, resuming his life reticently. Oscar had enough economic power to lead life without doing anything – the scripts he had written were used everywhere and, in turn, he counted with a system where money would come his way from deposit transfer payments, so he could not die from starvation due to his savings running out.

After years of mourning his daughter and wife, he was approached by an old companion from his former job with the proposal of writing a screenplay again. The task was from an elite troupe admired by anyone who worked with theatre, and for Oscar, who only had his name left in the industry and had been attempting to erase his existence, such a job was an honor.

His days were nothing but indolent, dissolute and grief-indulged. Humans are creatures that grow weary of things, unable to stay sad or happy forever. Such is their nature.

Oscar had accepted the offer with a two-worded reply, deciding to hold onto a pen once more. However, it was from then that trouble began.

For the sake of escaping from the harsh reality, Oscar had turned into quite a drinker. It had also served as a bit of a medicine for him to have good dreams when he smoked. He had managed to overcome the alcohol and drugs thanks to the assistance of doctors, but was left with a tremor in his hands. Be it on paper or with a typewriter, he had been simply unable to progress soundly with his writing. Only the desire to write had properly remained in his chest.

All he had to do was find a means to put it into words.

As he asked for advice from the work colleague who had made him the writing proposal, the latter had told him, "I've got something nice for you. You should use an Auto-Memories Doll."

"What's that?"

"You're so disconnected from the ways of the world… More like your alienation from it is at a worrisome level. They're popular. Nowadays, you can commission them for a considerably low price. That's right; let's request one to test it out."

"A doll… could help me?"

"A special one can."

Oscar then decided to use the tool of which only name had entered his ears. An "Auto-Memories Doll".

His encounter with her started from there.

A woman climbed up the mountain road. Dark red ribbons decorated her soft braided hairdo, her slim body enveloped in a snow-white ribbon-tie one-piece dress. Her skirt of silk pleats swayed gracefully as she walked, the emerald brooch on her chest glittering in sparkles. The jacket she wore over her dress was of a Prussian blue that braced the white. Her long boots, worn on long term, were made of leather that emanated a deep cocoa-brown hue. With a heavy-looking trolley bag in hand, she made her way through the white arch gate of Oscar's house and moved forward.

Just as she stepped into the residence's front yard, a gust of autumn wind blew by noisily. Red, yellow and brown decayed leaves floated about as if dancing, revolving around the woman. Perhaps due to the debris of leaves in fall colors casting a curtain over her eyes, her field of vision was lost.

The woman firmly gripped the brooch on her chest. She muttered something lowly, and as her voice was quieter than the rustling of the decayed leaves, it melted into the air without reverberating or anyone being able to hear it.

Once the mischievous wind settled down, the woman's earlier atmosphere of caution was left behind somewhere and, upon reaching the front entrance, without any particular aspect of hesitation, she pressed the house's buzzer with a finger covered in a black glove. The grating sound of the buzzer echoed like a scream from hell, and after a short while, the door opened. The house's owner – the redhead Oscar – revealed himself. Perhaps he had just woken up or not slept, but his garments and face were unbecoming to welcome a visitor either way.

As Oscar looked at the woman, he had on a slightly perplexed expression. Was it because the outfit she wore was much too strange? Or was it because she was so very stunning?

Whichever it was, he dry-swallowed for an instant. "Are you… the Auto-Memories Doll?"

"Precisely. I rush to wherever my customers might desire. I am from the Auto-Memories Dolls service, Violet Evergarden," the blonde, blue-eyed woman who possessed a beauty that seemed to have jumped out of a fairytale answered with a clear voice, not putting on a fake smile.

The woman named Violet Evergarden had an appearance as fine-looking and reticent as an actual doll. Framed by golden lashes, her blue irises had a gleam like the bottom of the ocean, with cherry-pink cheeks over milky white skin and bewitchingly lustrous rouge lips. She was a woman of a beauty akin to the Full Moon, not at all lacking in anything anywhere. Were it not for her blinking, she would turn into a mere object of appreciation.

Oscar had absolutely no knowledge regarding Auto-Memories Dolls, and so had asked the friend who made his job request to arrange her for him. "She'll be sent there in a few days," was what he had been told, and after he did his waiting, he was at last visited by her.

――I was totally thinking that the postman would bring me a tiny robotic doll in a package.

By no means had he imagined that it would be an android so similar to a human.

――Just how much has civilization evolved while I was secluding myself?

Oscar had a character ignorant of the world in general. He read neither newspapers nor magazines and had scarce social disposition. If he did not have friends who concerned themselves with him, the people he would see would likely be limited to the deliveryman who provided to him from the grocery store.

He soon regretted the fact that it would have been better to ask for the arrangement after doing a more proper research. To have a person other than himself… or something resembling a human being in a house meant for three gave him an awful sense of discomfort, and somehow caused him to remember things that carried a bitter aftertaste.

――Feels like I'm doing something terrible to my family…

Having no idea about such thoughts of Oscar's, Violet sat on the couch of the living room that she had been led to. She neatly sipped away her black tea upon being offered, so it would seem that machines had been developing considerably as of late.

"What happens to the black tea you just drank?"

Sensing it as a question, Violet answered, "It will eventually be discharged from my body… and return to the earth?" while tilting her head a little. It was a mechanic doll-like response.

"To be honest… I'm confused. Hum, because you're a bit different… from what I'd pictured."

Violet examined her own attire with a glance and then looked back at Oscar, who stared at her while remaining on his feet rather than sitting on a chair with her. "Is there any point that was not in accordance with your hopes?"

"No… rather than 'hopes'…"

"If Master would not mind waiting, I could request our company to send a doll other than myself."

"No… that's not what I wanted to say… Well, it's okay… As long as you can do the work, that's fine. You don't seem like a loud one."

"If you so order, I could also breathe as thinly as possible."

"You don't have… to go that far."

"I have come here because you, Master, sought for ghostwriting. I shall work to please you so as not to taint the name of Auto-Memories Dolls. I do not mind whether the tools at my disposition are pen and paper or a typewriter. Please do use me as you plan to."

As she said so with her large gem-like blue orbs gazing at him fixatedly, Oscar nodded with an "okay", his heart racing a little.

The period he had borrowed her for was of two weeks. In that meantime, they had to finish a story no matter what. Oscar switched his feelings over, showing her to his study and starting work immediately. Or so he claimed, yet what Violet ended up doing first was not ghostwriting but cleaning said study.

Oscar's room, which was an integrated study and bedroom, was in a disastrous state where the clothes that he had stripped off and a pan with not entirely eaten food adhered to it had been left all over the floor. Simply put, there was no space for even one foot to step inside.

Violet looked at him silently with her blue orbs. "You called me here and yet what's this situation?" her eyes seemed to say.

"I'm sorry…"

It was certainly not the room of a working person. He hardly used the living room after having become alone, which was why it was clean, but the bedroom, kitchen, toilet and bathroom that he frequently entered and exited had fallen to an atrocious state.

It was a good thing that Violet was an artificial doll, Oscar thought. From what he could see, her body age seemed to be from late teens to mid-twenties, and he did not want to show something so embarrassing to a woman that young. Though he was aging, it was deplorable for him as a man.

"Master, I am a ghostwriter, not a maid."

Despite saying so, she pulled a frilly white apron out of the bag she had brought along and willingly tidied everything up. The first day ended with that.

On the second day, the two of them settled in the study and started their work one way or another. Oscar lay on his bed while Violet sat on a chair, her hands atop the typewriter on his desk.

"'She… said'," Oscar spoke, and she quietly wrote down each letter with terrifying speed in blind touch. Turning his eyes toward it, he was astonished. "Pretty fast, huh."

As he gave the compliment, Violet removed one of the black gloves that overtook the sleeves of her clothes and displayed one of her arms. It was metallic. The fingertips had a constitution even harder and more robot-like than the other parts of her. The coating of paint on the joints in-between a finger and another was also insufficient.

"I utilize a brand that employs pragmatism. This is the standard of the Estark Company, so my endurance rates are high, and it is possible for me to perform movements and use a level of physical force that the human body would not be able to, which makes these into rather extraordinary products. I shall register Master's words without omissions."

"Is that so…? Ah, hey, you don't have to write down what I said now. Just the words for the script."

Oscar continued to dictate. They took many breaks in the process, but things went well for the starting day. He had the story's concept inside him to begin with. He did not get stuck with the text too often.

While speaking, Oscar realized that Violet was an excellent listener and ghostwriter. She had given off an impression of serenity from the start, and it showed vividly when she entered work mode. Although he had not ordered her to, he really could not hear the sound of her breathing. All he picked on was the clacking noise that her typing produced. He could even feel as if he was the one using the typewriter if he closed his eyes. Whenever he asked until what point she had written, it was fun to have her read it out to him, for her voice was temperate and her reciting skillful.

Any text seemed like a solemn fictional story if she was the one narrating.

――I see; of course these would turn out popular.

Oscar was able to learn the greatness of Auto-Memories Dolls keenly. Yet though things went smoothly until the third day, a period of being unable to write anything persisted from the fourth day on. It was something common amongst writers. There were times when one could not properly come up with words despite having already decided on the contents to be written.

From his many years of experience, Oscar knew of a coping method for whenever he was not able to write. That was to avoid writing. He had internalized a rule that nothing he managed to write through forcing himself was remarkable.

He felt sorry for Violet, but had to leave her in waiting. Left with nothing to do, she expressionlessly took care of the cleaning and cooking once requested to. She was most likely originally equipped with the disposition of a hardworker.

It had been a long while ever since he had last eaten a meal made by someone else, let alone one with warm steam wafting from it. He did order from delivery services and ate out, but those were different from the cooking that an amateur had spent time and effort to make.

A rice omelet with of which the eggs melted creamily in his mouth. A tofu Hamburg steak recipe from the Orient. A first-rate pilaf with vegetables of rich colors mixed with rice in a spicy sauce. A gratin of seafood difficult to find in a land surrounded by mountains. As side dishes, there would always be salads, soups and other things. He was a little moved by it all.

While Oscar ate, Violet would merely watch without bringing anything into her mouth. Even as he suggested her to taste the meals, she would say, "I shall eat on my own afterwards" without yielding.

He had confirmed that she was able to ingest liquids, but perhaps she could not consume anything solid. If that was so, had she been drinking oil or something without his knowledge? As he tried to picture it, a surreal image came to his mind.

――It'd still be okay for us to eat together.

He only ever thought about it and did not say so aloud, yet he wound up wishing for it.

She was completely different from his wife, but he felt that something resembled her in the silhouette of Violet's back while she cooked. For some reason, looking at it caused him to well up with excessive sorrow and the corners of his eyes to grow hot. He wound up understanding something much too well after letting an outsider into his routine like that.

――I'm living a pretty lonely life right now, that is.

The elation of welcoming Violet at the front door as she returned from an errand. The relief of not being alone now, which he would feel when falling asleep at night. The fact that she would be there when he opened his eyes, even without him doing anything. All of it made Oscar self-aware about how much of a solitary person he was.

He had money and no troubles in his daily affairs. However, rather than nurture his life, that served as nothing but a protection measure to prevent his heart from hardening even more. It was not guaranteed to heal any wounds.

Although he did not know her temperament that well, he had someone there beside him, who was immediately close by whenever he woke up as usual. This penetrated the heart of Oscar, which had shut off due to him being alone for so long.

Violet coming into his life had been like ripples on water. A small change that had arrived to a lake devoid of waves. The only thing thrown into it had been an inorganic pebble, but for a life as tasteless as his, it had brought change to a wind-less lake. Had the change been a good or a bad one? If he were to say it, he would probably go with "good".

At the very least, the tears that overflowed from the sadness he felt whenever she was around were much warmer than any that he had shed so far.