At this moment, I find myself seated at the opulent dining table, awaiting the refreshments offered by this woman whom I had mistakenly—and reluctantly—bestowed the title of "mother."
Guilt seized me as I recalled the slanderous words I had hurled at her mere seconds prior.
Even so, I don't attempt to manipulate my own accountability by justifying myself; yet, in this situation, it is rather arduous to maintain composure. I was killed, and now I have been reborn in another... world?
I have no idea, but I know this is not my home, nor is she my real mother—but I suppose, from now on, she will be. Thus, to distract myself from the turmoil within, I ought to focus on what I should do next.
I let my gaze wander, observing every detail of the room. My eyes scanned the shelves, eventually settling on a calendar; the date: December 27th.
Apparently, more than a day had passed since my tragic demise. I would like to check the news, but given my current location, it is highly probable they remain uninformed of such an event.
With a deep sigh, my attention shifted to the wall clock, its hands marking 10:19 in the morning.
It's still quite early. Well then, what exactly am I supposed to do with my day?
I could venture out and explore this city, like embarking on a trip, where I am little more than a bewildered tourist navigating throughout it—I mean, if you think about, I am one! On the other hand, I could simply opt to stay within the confines of my new dwelling—play it safe, so to speak.
However, at this point I feel compelled to point something out.
For a while now, I had been talking with my mother—or rather, the woman I had begrudgingly labeled as such—in what I presumed to be the common tongue. However, I'd just come to the startling realization that we were speaking an entirely different language altogether.
This epiphany struck me abruptly, unceremoniously, as though it had been lurking in the recesses of my mind, waiting for the opportune moment to surface. And yet, in hindsight, it felt as though the revelation had been quietly simmering for some time.
The language in question was none other than Japanese—a tongue for which I'd never, not once, harbored any particular affinity, yet now it had inexplicably become second nature to me.
Moreover, the dating sim I had been playing was set in Japan, and, almost unconsciously, I've seemed to adopted the nuances and gestures of it... maybe.
I mean, this must be the result of some kind of mental disorder, right? It was a peculiar sensation, to say the least. But, I couldn't deny a faint flicker of satisfaction at my newfound linguistic prowess.
Like, here I am, sitting right here, in the actual freaking Japan.
«Here you go, little apple bunnies,» my so-called mother said with a gentle expression, setting down a small plate adorned with intricately carved apple slices shaped like rabbits.
This was nothing short of remarkable.
Every syllable that passed her lips resonated with perfect clarity, and the foreign language she spoke didn't faze me in the slightest.
«Thank you,» I replied, pulling my arms back from the table to make room for the plate.
Yes, it's clear to see. So, dear narrator, there's no need for you to continue scrutinizing and translating our conversations.
But now that I seemed to have mastered the language—at least conversationally—would reading a newspaper or a book in this new tongue prove to be as effortless as if they were in English?
As soon as she placed the plate, I made my request:
«And mom, could you bring me a newspaper or a magazine to read, please?»
«Hmm? Oh, I'm not sure if we have any around. I've thrown most of them away, and the rest might be tucked away somewhere—I don't remember where exactly. Why such a sudden request?»
«Well, I just felt like reading something.»
«What a whimsical reason. Alright, let me see...»
She took her time, her thoughtful gaze eventually leading her to a cabinet in the living room. From there, she pulled out a magazine and handed it to me, placing it beside my plate.
«Here you go. Is this what you wanted?»
«Yes, yes, thank you,» I replied, glancing at the magazine's cover, which appeared to feature models. «Huh, also, you can take a seat. I could use your help with something» I added, gesturing politely toward the empty chair across from me.
With an air of quiet grace, she circled the table and settled into the chair, her movements as gentle as ever.
«Well then,» she said, her tone curious, «what kind of help do you need?»
As her words hung in the air, I picked up one of the apple bunnies within reach and replied,
«I just need some kind of support, but first, let me skim through this for a bit. I'll let you know.»
«...Alright. I'll be on my phone in the meantime. Let me know if you need anything,» replied casually, as she quickly became absorbed in her device.
I observed her for a few moments, scrutinizing her appearance. With just a glance, I could easily mistake her for a woman in her twenties, especially with her peculiar habit of casually engrossing herself in the phone.
But appearances are deceiving, aren't they? After all, Takumi—my supposed identity—should be around 16 years old. If everything had unfolded as expected, she would likely be in her thirties or forties now.
Still, credit where credit is due—some adults truly know how to maintain their youthful looks.
Ok, enough of that. I redirected my attention to the magazine in my hands. With a confidence that bordered on daunting, I discovered that I could read and comprehend most of the Japanese words effortlessly—and yes, I must emphasize most.
Interspersed throughout the pages were occasional English phrases, likely a nod to the fact that Vogue is, after all, an American publication.
Turning back to the more intricate Oriental characters, I noticed how some sentences flowed vertically from top to bottom, while others adhered to the more conventional left-to-right alignment.
For instance, there's this kanji, 美, which signifies beauty and is pronounced "bi." It's paired with another kanji, 容 (you), which I believe denotes figure or form. Then comes the connector の (no), followed by the term for "secret" (秘訣, hiketsu), the particle を (o), and finally, these two words: 大 (dai), meaning great or grand, and 公開 (koukai), which translates to revelation or disclosure.
And there you have it:
...Huh? Wait a moment.
That was… oddly easy, wasn't it?
Was it supposed to be this straightforward?
Somehow, I deciphered the hiragana and kanji with a level of fluency that felt almost instinctive.
Hold on: hiragana, kanji? These are phonetic alphabets and ideograms, each representing a syllable or a concept. No, hold the fuck up! Where did all this knowledge suddenly come from? How do I know this shit?
No, no—let's not dwell on that just yet. I'll move on to another sentence. Maybe this will get even stranger.
I proceeded with a cautious scrutiny of the next paragraph, starting with:
«Recommendations, yes...»
But my finger hesitated over コーディネート. I spelled it out slowly, almost testing the waters:
«Ko...di...ne...to...?»
Taking a stab at the meaning, I murmured:
«Coordination, perhaps? Or outfits? Recommendations by influencers... coordination of what, exactly?»
Hmm, I couldn't tell if my sudden unease stemmed from nerves or if this particular sentence was genuinely trickier to decipher. Regardless, there was no point in overthinking it. When in doubt, seek assistance.
«Mom» I called out curtly.
«...Yes?» She replied, setting her phone aside on the table.
Without wasting a second, I slid the magazine across the surface toward her, pointing directly at the perplexing phrase:
«Here... this part. How do you read it?»
She took the magazine, her eyes scanning the text briefly before explaining:
«It reads: Kōdinēto.»
«No, I know how to read it, but—»
«Then, what's your question?»
«Is it just that the word "Kōdinēto" basically means, uh... "
«No, no, Takumi, you've got it wrong,» she corrected me patiently, her tone carrying that subtle air of a teacher correcting a pupil. «When we look at the full sentence,
Her explanation was delivered with a precision that left no room for ambiguity. She was thorough—almost as if she expected a follow-up question.
«So, the whole sentence means, outfi—»
I absorbed her explanation, nodding slowly as I processed her words. But, truthfully, even before she had fully unraveled the phrase, I had already pieced it together on my own.
«Thanks... for the help», I said, my tone neutral but sincere as I returned to my seat, the magazine still open in front of me.
Objectively speaking, my linguistic skills are quite advanced. Subjectively, I might even dare to consider myself a native speaker.
But it's worth noting that Takumi is a blend of heritages: half-Japanese, half-American. Still, that doesn't automatically mean he grew up over in the Americas; for all I know, he could've been born and raised here in Japan. Which means, the way I'm adapting to this language might rely entirely on me—on how my brain is handling this bizarre situation.
Of course, that's just a theory. I'm not a hundred percent sure about any of this. But if it turns out to be true, then maybe—just maybe—I'll end up speaking Japanese fluently, as if it were second nature.
I flipped through the magazine again, letting my eyes skim over the other texts.
It's strange, really. It feels almost like I'm some kind of sleeper agent, and with every word I read, this language starts to click more and more. Piece by piece, it's coming together in my head. In fact, I'm narrating my thoughts in Japanese right now. How wild is that?
It's an amusing thought, really. The idea of casually leafing through the pages of a Japanese novel or dissecting the editorial section of a local paper, all without a hitch, feels oddly surreal.
I mean, not long ago, I couldn't even differentiate between kanji and a particularly ambitious doodle while watching some movies. And now, here I am, mulling over the prospect of literary fluency like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Wait a second—does this mean my English is going to fade away? Uh, no, not yet. For now, it's still within reach. I can still understand it perfectly, and I haven't forgotten my slang or any of the quirks from my past.
Well, except for that traumatic event... but I guess that's something I'll just have to carry with me.
The real question is whether Takumi was actually born in the United States, grew up speaking English, and then learned Japanese later on, leaving his grasp of the language somewhat limited.
And that ties directly into how I'm adapting to Japanese now, because any knowledge Takumi had seems to be trickling into my mind—slowly, gradually. So, as we move forward and keep learning, the language barrier isn't just my problem; it's ours.
Although, when you think about it: I am him, and I'm still me. In other words, I'm the same person, but I'm stuck in his body. So no matter how I look at it, the entire situation falls squarely on my shoulders.
Felix, you're pretty clever! No, stop patting yourself on the back—you're actually a total disappointment.
I'm practically alone. In this world, I'm the only one who truly knows who I am. But people here will treat me as if we're close, even though I've never even laid eyes on them.
I'd definitely be lying if I said otherwise. If this world is, in fact, the HeartBreaker universe, then I do have some knowledge of the characters.
Take, for example, a girl named Ana—Aya… Shit, I forgot her na—Ayame! Yes, yes, Ayame. She was the first girl Takumi interacted with in the game. Of course! Because after her, a whole bunch of other ladies with different charismatic personalities started showing up—whose names, for some reason, I completely blanked on.
It's not like their names were plain or forgettable; I mean, when you come across a new name—especially a Japanese surname, which makes it even more distinctive if you're from another part of the world—it tends to stick with you for a long time. Even if you forget it, you'll remember it as soon as you see their face.
But in my case, it's not that I forgot their names; I just… never really bothered to remember them. It's like trying to memorize every seashell on the beach: tedious, pointless, and guaranteed to give you a headache.
To defend my position, it's a case of selective memory—or, in my case, selective indifference. You know, like how you can vividly recall every episode of a cheesy soap opera you watched years ago but can't for the life of you remember your cousin's birthday. Yeah, that's the kind of mental gymnastics we're dealing with here.
And during that selection process I mentioned earlier, I got completely hooked on a certain aspect of "Ayame-sama" that made me say, "Alright, she'll be my girlfriend," or something like that.
Now, let's get one thing straight: it's not some forced notion that any attractive woman is automatically girlfriend material. It's more like that youthful fascination you feel when you see a pretty girl and start daydreaming about how amazing life would be if you could spend it with her, you know?
It sounds kind of pathetic either way, and it's even more pathetic when you realize I was thinking that about a 2D character. But I guess that's all part of the player experience when you dive into a romance game. Besides, I was thinking that for Takumi, not for myself; I was just the casual observer, and I have no fascination whatsoever with pixels.
But getting back to the point I was making, the people wandering around this town have a familiarity with the person known as Nakamura Takumi, while I'm just his stand-in—or, more accurately, an imposter.
On the other hand, managing this man's original personality involves navigating the emotions of those around him, and that includes the woman standing right in front of me—my mother, or rather, Takumi's mother.
To confirm or disprove my theories, I need to figure out how long I've been living in this cozy home, or maybe even muster up the courage to ask her directly where I was born, where I grew up, and other relevant details.
But of course, it wouldn't be fair to burden this poor woman with such questions. She might get overwhelmed again, questioning my health and, heaven forbid, my mental state.
For now, I'll just take a breather—maybe even relax a little. And why not? Let's have a small chat with my mom.
I closed the magazine and let out a sigh:
«Well, I'm tired of reading.»
«Oh, are you serious? It hasn't even been five minutes and you're rubbing your eyes like you've just tackled a novel,» my mother replied with a touch of sarcasm, and perhaps a hint of sassiness.
«It's not that I'm literally tired of reading; I was just skimming through random sentences and beauty articles until I realized it was getting boring.»
Honestly, it was just a test of my reading and grammar skills. Clearly I passed with flying colors, at least in my opinion.
«Then you could have asked me to bring you another magazine,» she commented. «Or better yet, one of your comics, light novels or whatever they're called, for you to read.»
«Um... That... yes, you're right. How dumb of me!»
Who would have thought he had comics to read? I'm not one to buy and collect such things, but it was my fault for assuming there wouldn't be some in his room. Rather, I didn't notice any.
«Would you like me to bring you one?» How helpful! It was expected of her.
«Hmm, yes? But which ones do I have?»
«I think that's something you should know, Takumi.»
Oof, I didn't mean that. It just slipped out.
«You know what? Forget it, I don't feel like reading anymore.»
«Just like that?»
«Well, I probably want to distract myself with something else.»
«Distract yourself, you say. You can turn on the TV if you want.»
«Oh, right. Sure, I'll do that,» I stood up from my chair, and scanned the furniture in the room:
«Uhm, where's the remote? »
«It's not there? Check between the couch cushions.»
«In the cushions? ...Ah, no, wait—here it is.»
It was lay abandoned on the armrest. I stretched out my arm and grabbed it.
This remote... huh. Panasonic? Despite the Japanese text covering most of the buttons, they opted for numbers instead of kanji, making it relatively undemanding. At least, that's what I told myself. The large red button at the top remained the universal symbol of power, as if saying, "Even you can't mess this up."
I pressed it, and shit! The television roared to life, the volume inexplicably cranked up to a deafening 64—It exploded like a carnival of fireworks. On the screen, some kind of show or news broadcast was playing, featuring a man in a uniform surrounded by an array of stickers plastered across the frame like a chaotic scrapbook.
What the hell is this? The screen was an indecipherable mess, like one of those popular livestreams where the chat explodes with comments, rendering the actual content invisible. It was overwhelming, both visually and audibly, like stepping into the middle of a festival you didn't want to attend.
I started pressing the channel button, each click an attempt to escape the sensory overload. One press, then another, and another. The live broadcasts blurred together, a parade of noise and color that refused to make sense. Finally, I landed on something quieter—a nature documentary. The soothing narration and serene footage of a gazelle grazing felt like a much-needed balm for my ears.
I glanced at my mom, trying to appear nonchalant, though my patience had clearly worn thin. With a sigh, I lamented:
«There's nothing to watch.»
« ¬¬...»
My mother regarded me with a shrewd, almost playful suspicion, making it painfully obvious that her only purpose was to prompt me to ask her about that peculiar look.
«What?» And I fell for it.
«You've been acting rather peculiar lately. It's hard not to notice. Just now, for instance, the way you glanced at me—it wasn't your usual self. It made me wonder if something was bothering you. Naturally, I wanted to give you space, but I can't help but worry. Maybe you had a bad dream like you claimed?»
«...Y-Yeah. Maybe.»
«Maybe?»
Dude, why did I said that?!
She paused for a moment, studying my face as if she could read my thoughts like an open book:
«It's okay if you don't want to talk about it,» she continued, her tone softening further. «But, Takumi, you know you can tell me anything, right? I'm your mother. If something's on your mind, I'd rather you share it than keep it bottled up. I mean, you can't blame me for being concerned. After all, it's not every day that my son, the so-called academic prodigy, stumbles over something as simple as a paragraph. It's almost like you've been replaced by someone else.»
Oh, man. Mothers always have that sixth sense, don't they?
«So, it makes me wonder», she carry on with her hyphotesis, «if your academic abilities are declining. Can I safely assume I'm right?»
...What?
Her words was suppose to hit harder than I'd like to admit; however, it wasn't the case, so simply forced a nervous chuckle.
«Ha, ha... Very funny, Mom. Maybe I was just distracted. You know, deep in thought about... life or whatever.»
She was clearly unconvinced:
«"Deep in thought", huh? Well, I hope you're not overthinking things. It's important to stay focused, especially with exams just around the corner.»
«Oh, what? N-No, not at all!» Why academics? Aren't we in December? «If you were to check my grades, you'd see that I've been working diligently to secure a top spot at school. Honestly, Mom, it's disappointing that you think so little of your son, assuming he'd turn into some sort of slacker.»
I'd just lobbed a grenade into a minefield, and all I could do now was hope Takumi's grades actually backed up my boast—or that his mother would let this childish display of vanity slide, sparing me further humiliation.
No, I was sure they did. I'd gained experience in "Intellect" within the game, so this shouldn't be a problem, right?
«Hmmm, I see,» she said, her tone smug. «In that case, there's no need for me to keep insisting that you tell me whatever it is that's bothering you.»
«What kind of instigation is this?» I approached the table again and sat down.
«Instigation? Honestly, you've lost your mind, my dear son. Quite the opposite, actually; I'm trying to get you to share your worries so I can help ensure your overall well-being. What if someone at school manipulated your grades and is blackmailing you into doing their homework?»
«To be frank, I don't think that would get them very far.»
«Or, even worse, what if you're being bullied because you're from another country? In that case, it's crucial to report it to both the school and the parents.»
«What? That's not happening to me, and you've already solved the problem!»
«So I was right after all. You're hiding poor academic performance, and you deserve to face some strict discipline.»
«Eh? Mom, I'm on my break, so don't try to impose some sort of supreme authority!»
Huh?! What kind of surreal exchange of words was that? The phrases came out as naturally as breathing; such a caricature—what the hell?
«My, so you don't have any worries at all?»
«I think the only worry I'll have is a headache! Hmnh... L-Let me repeat myself, Mother, and listen carefully, alright? I have nothing troubling me, and even less to hide. Right now, I'm completely fine: sound, healthy, prudent, rational, balanced, and composed.»
«I see. My son is completely "sound, healthy, prudent, rational, balanced, and composed," is he? Well, I'm relieved to hear that,» she said, offering a gentle smile that softened her earlier remarks with a touch of affectionate reassurance.
«There was no need to repeat that string of synonyms.»
«Oh, but there absolutely was. How else can I fully understand what my son is going through if I don't consider everything?»
«...?»
I'd better stop talking.
I let out a muted sigh, feeling slightly overwhelmed by this interaction with my mother. She's being uniquely ironic.
I'd hoped for a plain sailing, uncomplicated, a five-finger exercise conversation with her, avoiding any further probing into my behavior; but noooo!
Naturally, a mother's primary concern is the well-being of her family, ensuring that her child—or children—are psychologically and physically healthy. Of course, it's not as if her son is in any genuinely worrisome situation.
I could admit I have some trouble with socialization, but it's not like I'm on the verge of undergoing the kind of pathophysiological exams that some overly protective parents subject their kids to on the first day of every month.
After all, the young man she sees in front of her is nothing more than a transmigration; I was given a second chance and now live again in a more handsome body. What kind of anguish could I possibly have?
Living in fear of firearms? I mean, that was the primary reason I met my demise. But if you really think about it, it's not the gun itself that should terrify you—it's the person holding it. That person was incredibly dangerous, and they're the one you should truly fear.
So, if you were to say I live in fear of anything, it would be of psychopaths, hitmen, thieves, or any thug capable of ending my life. It's not a phobia, per se, but more of a heightened sense of caution and dread toward them. Then again, I suppose anyone would feel the same way.
Now then, that supposed anguish that arose moments ago—a nervous shock triggered by the discovery of the new world I've been thrust into thanks to my transdimensional journey, what people would popularly call being "isekai'd"—has no valid foundation to suggest that I am currently afflicted by anything. I've already moved past it.
Yet, there's an undeniable oddity to this whole situation, one that continues to gnaw at the edges of my rational mind. Being "isekai'd" isn't supposed to feel this mundane. Isn't it meant to come with grand adventures, magical battles, or at least a quirky character that spouts corny ass catchphrases?
The real issue isn't some lingering trauma or existential dread—it's the gnawing uncertainty of knowing nothing about this place. I'm not the protagonist of a fantasy epic; I'm just a foreign soul inhabiting a body that comes with its own set of expectations, relationships, and history. It's like being handed a script for a play that's already halfway through its run.
The crux of the matter is that there's nothing truly unsettling me at the moment, and even less that I could explain to this woman.
If anything, my greatest struggle is maintaining the facade of normalcy while fumbling through a life that doesn't belong to me.
«But, you know?» My mother said, her tone softening. «Whatever the case may be at least I'm glad you're here, talking to me.»
«…What do you mean by that?»
«Well, I don't mean to sound like I'm accusing you of anything, sweetheart. I just wanted to point out how you usually barricade yourself in your room, only coming out to eat, watch TV, or occasionally hang out with your friends outside. But seeing you here, sitting with me and chatting… if your father were here, he'd be shocked. Though, forgive me, I might be exaggerating. Since you've said you're totally fine, you've indirectly evaded my curiosity about that sudden nervous episode you had. I don't want to imagine terrible things happening to you, so I'll simply choose to believe in you.»
«…Mom.»
Is Takumi just the type of guy who holes up in his room most of the time? Surprisingly, this idiot is a lot like me, though slightly more indifferent, don't you think? Why would she say it's so rare for Takumi to sit down and talk with his mother? Did something happen between them?
And another thing—where's his father? It's true, he's not here. Could he be at work? Possibly, but for now, that's not something I need to worry about.
«But, well, what can I, as your mother, do about it? My son has his secrets too.»
«Sure, but… yeah.»
I was about to say that I'd like to be as honest as possible with everyone around me, but that would undoubtedly and inevitably lead to unnecessary problems and misunderstandings.
«Besides,» she continued, «you've tensed up again, haven't you noticed?»
«A-Ah?» What? «Uh, no. I don't think so.»
«Ha-ha, I'm just joking. However, that makes me even more curious about you; it's almost like stumbling upon a Tsukumogami in our house: appearing unexpectedly and playing tricks on your poor mother's mind.»
Uhhh, what kind of word did she just say?
«Tsu-Tsuku…what? Kugomi? What is that?»
Her expression shifted to one of mild bewilderment as she replied:
«Oh, my, are you… not familiar with it?»
«…No,» I answered plainly, shaking my head in denial.
«Takumi, really? They're among the most prominent entities in Shintoism. Haven't you come across them in your studies?»
The only semblance of familiarity lies in what he referred to: Shintoism. However, how was I expected to know what we studied in class? Is this "Tsuku" some mythical entity from ancient tales, a folklore?
While I had a vague notion that the Japanese held religious beliefs, I hadn't exactly thought of them as academic subjects.
Frankly, it always struck me as more of an imposition on students, particularly in schools with religious affiliations.
Religion, after all, is not inherently synonymous with proselytization. If I choose to believe in something outside of Shintoism, that should be my prerogative. However, attending a Christian school, for instance, would create a dissonance with my beliefs, placing me in an environment incongruent with my convictions.
Ultimately, whether one delves into religious studies or not, I find folklore to be an unnecessary burden within the broader framework of general education. Its merit lies in catering to those genuinely interested, rather than compelling everyone to absorb it. But does that mean I should have given it more consideration?
«In those classes, we mostly covered Japanese history, geography, and ethnic studies. I don't recall our teacher delving deeply into any religious folklore or mythical beings within its pantheon,» I ventured, somewhat hesitant, piecing together an impromptu response to a subject that eluded even my own awareness.
«…I see,» she softened, her words trailing into a contemplative pause. «Mm-hmm. While I can't claim it's imperative to undertake an exhaustive study, I believe it holds cultural significance and is considered common knowledge in this nation, you understand? Besides, I must admit I'm not particularly well-versed in it myself, haha. Perhaps I should focus on immersing you more deeply in this country's traditions beyond just its language.»
«Uh, I agree, and… I think it would make things easier for me,» I said with a slightly uneasy smile. «So, are you going to explain what that was about?»
«What is a Tsukumogami?»
«Hmm, and while we're at it, circling back to what you mentioned earlier… was that supposed to be a joke? Not that I'm offended or anything, it's just… I didn't get it.»
«Oh, I see you at least caught on to my intention,» she replied in a subdued tone. «In truth, I tried to joke with you using a rather mild analogy, though I hadn't anticipated that you wouldn't understand it.»
«That's a very machinelike explanation, I already told why I didn't. So… go on, I'm waiting for an definition,» I said, shifting in my chair to better absorb whatever response she was about to give.
«To be honest, I'd say I misspoke by using that term as a metaphor for you,» she admitted, gently rubbing her chin in thought. «On reflection, it seems I made a mistake, as there's no actual resemblance between what I was trying to convey and the term itself—at least, not literally. However… just, give me a moment to rectify this, would you mind?»
«I really don't mind…» I muttered, raising a hand to signal her to proceed.
By the way, why does she speak so… overly formal? It's unironically cartoonish.
With that, she retrieved her phone from the table, her focus shifting entirely to typing and reading. After a moment, she began murmuring softly, her words reduced to unintelligible whispers that my ears couldn't quite catch.
«Let's see…... Nope, yes, I was right. Well, it's better if you read it yourself—it'll be easier that way,» my mother said, sliding her device across the table. Naturally, I took it and began reading what she had been looking at.
The page was none other than trusty Wikipedia. However, aside from the sprawling blocks of text typical of the site, there weren't many images to use as reference—just a grotesque and comically ridiculous monster illustration off to the side of the index.
Still, whatever. Skimming through its history, and summarizing, it read: "A tool, after a hundred years, develops a spirit (kami; 神), and through this transformation becomes a Tsukumogami, which are essentially monsters born from inanimate objects." And more shit down there, but I won't read all that.
«Huh? Were you suggesting I'm some kind of haunted artifact? I still don't get it, haha.»
«Mm-hmm. But, it seems I wasn't entirely off the mark. Although… if we're being literal, you're not a Tsukumogami, because they're inherently tied to haunting the places they inhabit. And you, well… you're not exactly scary..»
«Uh…» Sure. «I'll give you that much, but you can't know for sure unless I try. Maybe if I got really angry, I'd exude a menacing aura.»
My mother seemed like she wanted to say something, but ended up stifling a laugh instead. All I could do was watch as she silently reveled in amusement, her gaze fixed downward.
Eventually, she managed to speak:
«E-Excuse me?»
«...»
I won't say anything