I Run the Protagonist’s Favorite Café in a Hopelessly Depressing Game World - V1 Chapter 8

The Gear

I turn the page.

My eyes scan the scribbled handwriting.

My fingertips feel dry blood.

The pages stick together from the blood, and every time I turn one, it makes a peeling sound.

I lost continuity as the price for magic.

Short-term memory works, but long-term doesn’t. The hippocampus probably got taken. That’s why I have to check my own tracks like this on a regular basis, or I lose track of where I’m even headed.

Keeping a diary started after I became a witch.

After the first price I paid for magic.

After I could no longer store memories.

“So this happened too, huh.”

The diary has passionate entries.

They must have been important memories to me back then.

Now they’re no different from someone else’s records.

Just strings of letters. No sentimentality.

On top of that, I still can’t see this world as real.

It has nothing to do with my game knowledge.

It’s called depersonalization or derealization. I haven’t lost the ability to test reality, so I understand that the world I’m in isn’t a dream or delusion, but I can’t interpret the scenes in front of me as real. It’s like I’m watching everything through a screen.

That did have the upside of letting me use life-risking magic without much hesitation… but the downside of life feeling painful is much bigger.

Every time a witch uses magic, she moves further away from being human.

You could even say she pays with her humanity.

Losing sight, losing an arm, things like that.

She drifts away from the proper shape of a human.

“What should I do about Shikiko and Tamaki…”

I let out a sigh.

These are the rules Aoi Komeiji set so the witch Aoi Komeiji wouldn’t forget the human Aoi Komeiji.

One of them says “Aoi Komeiji cannot interfere in situations that have no illegality.”

Should I go against the rules my past self made and help them?

Or should I just pretend I don’t know and keep going?

…It all started feeling like too much trouble.

I decide to stop checking future events.

I shove the diary into the drawer and stand up from the chair.

“Guess I’ll open the shop like usual.”

As long as the world doesn’t end, that’s fine.

Just like Aoi Komeiji once wished.

Even if it means sacrificing myself or anyone else.

If humanity continues on to tomorrow, then it follows the rules.

I don’t remember it, but my body must. The café opening routine went really smoothly. It only took about thirty minutes, and then there was nothing left but waiting for customers who never come. Same as always. No change from the daily life in the records.

But there was something out of place in the shop.

Two folded aprons on the table.

The ones I had given to Shikiko Komuta and Tamaki Omuta.

“Did they come to return them? They could’ve just handed them to me in person.”

No, that was probably impossible.

Sophia must have restricted them.

Told them not to meet the café owner again or something.

“…?”

I tilt my head.

Why?

For a second there, it felt like a sharp pain in my chest.

“Must be my imagination.”

Aoi Komeiji lost the sense of pain.

So it has to be my imagination.

I sigh and sit down at the counter.

After that it’s really just the usual. I don’t even pretend to wait for customers who won’t show up and just lose myself in reading.

At some point I wonder how many times I’ve read this book. Once memory is gone, I can’t remember the contents, so I can read the same book over and over. It lets me.

I pull out the bookmark, not knowing which read-through this is, and start again from page one.

I’m probably going to forget about those two like this.

And a blank Aoi Komeiji will just keep stacking up ordinary days.

The version of me that lost any affection for them.

…When I think about it that way, it feels pretty bad.

I don’t know why.

That’s when it happens.

The bell on the door rings. Proof of a customer.

Did Sophia come back?

I look up from my book.

“Good morning. It’s been a while.”

“…Yeah, good morning.”

I almost said “Nice to meet you” instead of “It’s been a while.”

Because right now I don’t know her.

She wasn’t even in the diary. No name, no personality, no photo.

Having someone I just met talk to me so familiarly feels surprisingly unpleasant.

Even if it’s completely my fault.

“Could I get the morning special?”

“Please take a seat and wait.”

“Fufu. Still the same sour face, I see.”

“It’s just how I am.”

I show her to a seat and start preparing coffee and the food.

I can judge the coffee okay by the smell, but cooking is harder.

I really need someone to taste it for me, but…

There’s no one left who can do that.

Feeling a bit bitter about it, I finish the order without any mistakes.

I carefully avoid mixing up salt and sugar like last time.

I put the plate and cup on a tray and carry it over to her, where she’s waiting with a smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh my. It looks delicious.”

The woman brings her palms together in front of her chest and smiles gently.

It’s just a normal meal—coffee, toast, fried egg, and salad.

She picks up the cup looking like she’s genuinely looking forward to it.

The way she does it overlaps with someone else in my mind.

Maybe it’s the her from the past.

Light black hair, gently closed eyelids, skin so white it’s almost unhealthy. She’s wearing a sister outfit that’s so on-point it almost feels staged.

If I had met someone this memorable, even I would have written it down in the diary. Especially a customer who came to the café.

“…If you stare at me that much, I won’t be able to taste anything.”

“Sorry. Your side profile is just so beautiful.”

“You’re smooth.”

She giggles and her cheeks soften into a smile.

“Or maybe—you’re interested in this outfit?”

“It’s from the Demon Worship Church, right?”

“Well, yes. Calling it an outfit makes it sound like cosplay, so ‘robes’ is probably more accurate.”

The woman pinches her sister outfit.

Her eyes are clear.

“Store owner, do you have any faith?”

“No. Not in this day and age.”

“A lot of people these days feel that way. You don’t need to feel sorry about it.”

There is no god in this world.

At least not the kind of god the religions talk about that protects and saves humanity.

That idea was denied thousands of years ago when monsters appeared.

If a god existed, there would be no need for barriers, and the world wouldn’t be facing destruction.

Religion had become almost nonexistent.

But the Demon Worship Church is different.

The Demon Worship Church—as the name says, a religion that worships monsters. It defines monsters as trials given by god and criticizes the witches who kill them.

It’s extremely escapist teaching, but it was probably the perfect way to look away from the approaching destruction. It seems they existed for thousands of years, but their recent growth has been remarkable. I’ve heard the number of believers has increased a lot.

“By the way.”

Something occurs to me and I ask.

“People from the Demon Worship Church openly criticize witches, right?”

“Well… it sounds bad, but yes. That side does exist.”

“Why?”

It was pure curiosity.

I wasn’t trying to attack their doctrine. I just wondered why they would deny the resolve and desperate will of the witches I saw in the dungeon.

The woman looks down for a while like she’s thinking.

Then she says,

“First of all—what exactly is a witch? A hero who grinds her life to dust to protect the world? A tragic sacrifice who steps forward to save the world? Those sides might exist. But that’s only one aspect. Because a witch is a witch.”

She sips her coffee to wet her dry tongue.

“Do you know why they’re called witches? It seems like it means women who use magic or women with magic power, and that looks correct on the surface, but it’s actually wrong. The etymology is mistaken. …You can tell from the fact that witches can’t have children. The origin of the word witch is—”

Beep beep beep beep.

The woman smiles shyly.

She takes her phone out of her pocket.

“Oh no. Talking with you was so much fun that I completely lost track of time. I have a meeting. I really have to go.”

“Sorry for keeping you when you’re busy.”

“Not at all. I get asked that a lot with the work I do. Don’t worry about it.”

She stands up and starts to leave the shop.

I call out to her back.

“One more rude question… have we met somewhere before?”

“…Ufufu. Yes. I’m not quite a regular, but I’ve visited a few times.”

“Is that so.”

How rude of me.

I’m nothing but embarrassed. Even if I can’t remember the past.

To think I didn’t write down someone who came to this remote café multiple times.

“Could I ask your name? Next time you come, as an apology—not really, but as a sincere gesture—I’ll offer some kind of service.”

“Oh my, ufufu. Is that so? That makes me happy.”

She puts a hand on her cheek and smiles.

She smiles and lets her gaze wander in the air.

“Name, name… right. Then please call me ‘Gear.'”

“Gear?”

“I like gears. They’re small but they work so hard. It’s endearing, don’t you think?”

“I see.”

I don’t really get the special interest, but I understand she wants to be called Gear.

I’ll write in the diary that I met “Gear.”

“Well then, I’ll be going.”

“Come again anytime.”

And with that, Gear leaves the shop.

The sound of the door closing with a patan seems to echo forever in the quiet store.

Or at least it feels that way.

Just feels that way.