She gazed down at the cityscape.
Streetlights, headlights, fluorescent lamps, and the vivid glow of neon signs and electronic billboards.
The kaleidoscope of colors blending together in an abstract dance was undeniably beautiful.
Hidden in the shadows, she watched the spectacle from a great height.
She was atop a transmission tower. Above her, a red warning light blinked rhythmically, and beneath her, the floor and railings were made of grated steel plates.
She sat in a place where no one but a maintenance worker would ever have a reason to visit.
Perched on the very edge of the railing, she swung her legs back and forth, oblivious to the dizzying drop that made the ground vanish from sight.
She wasn't kicking her feet into the empty air out of sheer boredom.
On the contrary, she was focusing on a trivial physical action to momentarily clear the complex tangle of thoughts in her mind.
"Haa..."
As she sighed, her breath turned white, unable to withstand the biting winter air.
Watching the white mist vanish into the darkness, she reflected on the root of the dilemma that had been plaguing her lately.
It had started with something insignificant.
A novel series she had been reading for ten years had simply come to an end.
The problem was that it hadn't been a happy ending.
In the end, the protagonist died, and the dragon he had sought to protect, consumed by rage over that death, became an evil dragon that devoured the world.
As the dragon finally met its own end, it closed its eyes while recalling the warmth of the protagonist who had sheltered it in its youth.
It was a plausible conclusion.
Foreshadowing that the story would end in tragedy had been scattered throughout the work, and sometimes a sad ending lends more depth and completion to a piece than a happy one.
However, regardless of the artistic depth or completion, from the perspective of a devoted reader who had empathized with and cheered for the characters, it was a truly regrettable conclusion.
Perhaps she felt this way because she had projected the characters' situations onto her own.
She wasn't the only one who felt this way.
Her father, who had read the series along with her, had worn a profoundly bitter expression when he turned the final page.
Perhaps that was why she decided to pick up a pen.
She wanted to create a story that led to the happy ending the protagonists never reached.
It wasn't anything grand.
She had simply scribbled a modest story in the blank pages of her school notebook.
She showed the resulting story to her father.
At first, her father was surprised to hear that she had written something, but he soon became delighted by the intriguing tale. Seeing his smiling face, she felt that writing had been the right choice.
However, her father's reactions, which had been filled with laughter at every sentence, gradually subsided.
At first, she wondered if he disliked the story, but it turned out he had simply become so immersed in the narrative that his reactions diminished. She was relieved to know he didn't hate it.
Yet, even after reading to the very end, her father's expression remained solemn.
Rubbing his chin as if deep in thought while scanning the notebook, he eventually seemed to reach a decision.
Then, he asked her a question.
He asked if she would like to try writing a novel for a competition.
The proposal was shocking. She hadn't expected him to value a story written on a whim so highly, calling it too precious to let fade into obscurity.
For a child, parents occupy a vast portion of their world.
Though she was of an age to enter high school after this winter, her father remained an indispensable and towering presence in her world.
How could she possibly refuse when her father was cheering her on?
In a state of half-excitement, she had readily accepted.
And that led to the present.
"Haaaa..."
She sighed again.
As if mocking her for sighing yet again, the white breath flickered before her eyes and vanished.
She spun her body around on the precarious railing. Then, as if lying down in a bed, she let her upper body lean out over the edge.
She wasn't suddenly attempting suicide. As proof, her legs remained firmly locked around the railing.
It was merely a foolish hope that if blood rushed to her head, these complicated feelings might finally settle.
Performing a circus-like stunt without a single safety measure, she looked out at the city once more.
The world was upside down.
The glittering night view was above, and the sky—where not a single star could be seen, swallowed by the light—was below.
Nothing in the world had changed. Only her perspective had shifted. Yet, that alone made the world seem entirely different.
In this way, a single world could be expressed in completely different ways depending on the point of view.
Writing was the same. Even the same story could take on a completely different atmosphere depending on the perspective and the subject.
Right now, various stories were swirling in her head. They were like fetuses struggling to be born first.
Consequently, she had no idea which one to write first.
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Unlike when she wrote in her notebook for the sake of curiosity, the pen now felt heavy, and her thoughts felt sluggish.
"Haa... What should I even write?"
Hanging upside down, she pulled a sheet of manuscript paper from her chest.
Even though the contest deadline was drawing closer, the page remained blank.
If there was any writing on it at all, it was only one thing: the pen name, "Takaki Eto."