Page 136 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

I’ve done it…she thought back.

How?he thought, amazed.You broke the machine?

Yes,she replied.

I’m coming to you,he thought, running up to the shroud as it—amazingly—began to crumble away.Where are you?

In return, he sensed only regret.

Nikaro,she said.Do you remember…what you said about sad stories…

“No,” he whispered, falling to his knees. “No…”

Yumi felt herselfgoing as it all unraveled.

I’m sorry,she thought to him.But sometimes…sometimes it has to be sad.

Her arms became smoke, her beautiful dress melding with the pieces of her as they streamed off. For a brief moment, she felt the thanks of the other yoki-hijo, finally relieved from their service, allowed to vanish. And the others beyond them, the thousands upon thousands of people who had made up the shroud. Their souls were now free.

Why?Painter asked, so pained it made her shudder.Why must it be sad?

Because this is what I have to do,she whispered back, feeling her entire essence unravel. Memories vanishing. Experiences vaporizing. She couldn’t remember her own face any longer. She was…just smoke. From that smoke came old thoughts, echoes. Lies drilled into her from long ago.

I was created to serve,she said.My life is not my own.

It doesn’t have to be that way,Painter sent to her.Your lifecanbelong to you. It should.

Around her, the spirits continued to exult, their emotions so strange to her in contrast to her own pain.

I’m losing myself, Nikaro,she thought.No one knows me anymore. I don’t even know myself. I’m sorry. It was always a dream. Such a wonderful dream. Perhaps the first such ever given by a nightmare…

Yumi,he sent.I love you.

Finally a good emotion.

I love you, Painter,she thought back.Please. Remember me.

And at last, the sole remaining yoki-hijo—chosen as a baby, designated to give her life—did exactly that. Evaporating away into nothing.

Why do wetell stories?

They are a universal human experience. Every culture I’ve ever visited, every people I’ve met, every human on every planet in every situation I’ve seen…they all tell stories. Men trapped alone for years tell them to themselves. Ancients leave them painted on the walls. Women whisper them to their babies.

Stories explain us. You want to define what makes a human different from an animal? I can do it in one word or a hundred thousand. Sad stories. Exultant stories. Didactic morality tales. Frivolous yarns that, paradoxically, carry too much meaning.

Weneedstories.

I’m sorry I had to bring this ending to you. But the more you think about it, the more you’ll realize that our tale today had to end in such a way. Stories demand certain endings. It’s part of their nature.

I wish I could have explained this to Painter, kneeling as he did on the cobbles, staring out as his world turned upside down. Because he didn’t understand.

Hethought the story wasn’t finished.

Painter stood up, then seized his brush in fingers that ached from his extended battle. He took Akane’s ink as she cowered down, looking up as the sky opened and the darkness vanished. He strode past terrified police, among wounded painters, past people who cried out at the strange light. He reached a blank wall. The one that had been left for him. The masterpiece he had never finished.

There, as a city panicked—full of people seeing the sun for the first time—he started painting.

Horribly inconsiderate of him. We were all ready to go home. The story should have been done.

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