The Living Ghost becomes an overnight best-seller, but Eika is still bitter about it.

"It's not selling because it's well-written," she complains, "It's selling because people think it's semi-autobiographical, and they're clamoring to know 'the real Eika Ishihara.'" She taps her uneven but growing nails over an old copy of Masks.

The café manager, Touka, who stands behind the counter drying off a teacup, laughs softly. "I'd wish them luck, but I already know that's a hopeless endeavor. You can't blame them for being curious, though."

Indeed, she can't; whenever she catches a glimpse of a TV special about her newest book, her name is inseparable from the moniker "recluse novelist," something that's stuck with her for the last two years as she's gradually faded from the public eye, refusing to make television appearances, give interviews or even do book signings. The letters she used to get were filled with concern and well-wishes, assumptions about whatever tragedy must have befallen her to cause her sudden change in demeanor.

"I've seen you nearly every day for the last couple years," Touka says, "But I can't claim to know you at all."

Eika shrugs, taking a sip of her caramel coffee. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't do it on purpose."

"I don't know if I believe that."

They fall silent for a moment, and Eika smiles. "You know me better than most, then."

"I wouldn't say that. I'm just careful, and I don't trust easily."

Eika sets her coffee down, cup clinking gently against the porcelain plate. "I really appreciate that about you," she says, "Your honesty, I mean. I wish we'd spoken sooner."

"We spoke back in Anteiku," Touka points out.

"We exchanged a sentence or two, that hardly counts."

Touka laughs. "You wouldn't have wanted to know me in high school, anyway. I'm nothing like I used to be."

"I like to think the same about myself."

Eika receives a skeptical look from the manager and just smiles peaceably in response. This is her new daily routine, a regular stop on her way home from Kamii, meaningless conversation sandwiched between all of the other meaningless things she does the rest of the day. It's strange, she thinks, for everything to be so devoid of passion or significance, for all of her academic papers and social interactions and even the novels she pens to feel so utterly meaningless when she, as a student of literature, should be able to find meaning in even the most inane things.

She hesitates to call Touka a friend, but the two of them take solace in one another's company despite holding so many unspoken words in their eyes, never quite saying what they mean yet sympathetic to each other's woes. She's certain that Touka knows, somehow, that she's mindful of Eika's disappointed glance around the café when she walks in.

"This isn't Anteiku," she'd told her on one of her first visits, without ever being asked.

He's not here, she meant.

Eika thinks they must be kindred spirits, or at least two strangers who knew someone in common, because they never speak his name.

Touka puts the clean dish away and leans over the counter. "You graduate soon, don't you? What do you think you'll do after that?"

"Nothing interesting," Eika says, "Keep writing and start saving for a better apartment, I guess."

"Will you keep coming here?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Touka hesitates, breaking her gaze. "Just asking," she says, "Sometimes, people just leave. At least give me a heads up if you decide to take off."

Eika's gaze softens. She hears the bells above the café door jingle as someone comes in. "I would let you know."

Touka opens her mouth to say something but the lingering silence makes her glance over at the silver-haired waiter loitering at the counter instead. "Yomo, you're supposed to welcome customers."

She's met by silence. Eika follows her gaze and finds the man staring intently at the café door.

"Just a minute," Touka mutters in frustration, walking away to scold her coworker.

Eika opens Masks and tries to distract herself with the story but has trouble focusing. It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thinks, she wasn't supposed to be sitting here alone and being eaten alive by her regrets. She really had tried her hardest to find any trace of him, had gone to some dark, unpleasant places and scoured every corner of Tokyo for any bit of hearsay she could find, but she'd come up empty and more frustrated than before.

In Noh, she thinks, this would have been a divine play in honor of the god of misfortune, one tragedy begetting another.

She feels someone staring and turns to look over her shoulder with a frown.

Her heart stops.

"Oh," the young man behind her says sheepishly, startled at the intensity of her gaze, "Sorry, I was being nosy. I just wanted to know what you were reading."

It can't be. His hair is white at the tips but black at the roots, eyes a soft gray, wearing the crisp trench coat of a CCG investigator, but his face is so, so familiar. It can't be.

"Masks," Eika says stiffly, "By Fumiko Enchi."

"Ah, I don't know if I've read that one yet. Would you recommend it?"

She takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "Yes," she says, "I really would. It's one of my favorites."

"Hey," someone calls harshly from the next table, another investigator, by the looks of it, "Are you gonna order or what? We don't have all day."

"I know," he says back, and gives Eika an apologetic smile, "Do you come by here a lot? I'll try to catch you some other time, maybe when I'm off work."

"I don't really know you," Eika says uneasily, the words intended more for herself than for him, because surely this isn't what she thinks it is. He isn't who she's looking for.

"No," he allows, touching his chin thoughtfully, "But I can tell you really like to read by the condition your book's in, so we already have something in common."

She glances down self-consciously at Masks, the pen marks, the margin notes, the folded corners. She feels her heart beating faster.

He doesn't even give his name, walking back to the other table where two other Investigators are waiting, and Eika watches—watches the way he looks at Touka and pauses as if unsure of something, watches his face redden and tears bubble to the surface, and then he's overcome with confusion at his own reaction.

Eika watches, and she decides that she was right.

The curtain has lifted and the first act of a new play begins, all of the actors assembled, all of their masks in place. Ken Kaneki is alive and well, wearing a different mask than before, one that's already beginning to fall apart, paint flaking off and cracks appearing in the surface. Eika, sitting a world away with a cold cup of coffee and a new mask on her face, is determined to tear his mask away, to find Ken underneath it all, because she knows that what she wants—who she wants—is in there somewhere.

All she has to do is tear this stranger apart to find him.

It looks like I have a trilogy on my hands, but I want to get caught up with the manga a bit before launching into that. Chances are that, like last time, it'll be a while before I'm ready with the next (and final) part of this series, but I really will try to be back. A huge thank you to all of my readers, everyone who left reviews and enjoyed the story.