Page 83 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

But the ending music started playing. The hour was over. He wasleaving?

“That’s terrible!” she said, pointing. “We waited all this time, and now he’s justgoing away?”

“He’s ronin,” Painter said. “That is the way of his kind.”

Yumi glared at him, but…well, he turned away, wiping a tear fromhis eye. He didn’t like it any more than she did. And Painter wasn’t to blame for what the people who made the drama had done.

She collapsed into a heap of blankets and pillows on the futon. She’d discovered at last that it wasn’t an altar. Painter had chuckled for a day after she’d finally thought to ask.

“But…” she said. “But why?”

“Some stories end this way.” Painter stood up and stretched. “Depends on what the writer wants. It’s good that they’re all a little different. You don’t want them all to be happy.”

“Yes. I.Do.” Her voice grew softer. “They could create anything. Make anything. Why would they make somethingsad?”

“I’ve heard people find it more realistic.”

“Is it?” Yumi asked, pulling her blankets tighter. “Is sadness realistic?” That felt more depressing than the ending itself.

“I used to think so,” Painter said. “And Yumi, many things in life are sad. So it’s realistic at least to some experiences. It’s good that some stories are happy, some are sad. That partisrealistic.”

She shook her head and dried her tears in the blanket.

“Sometimes,” Painter said, “the more you think about it, the better an ending like this seems. It can be right, even if it’s painful.”

“There’s still hope,” Yumi said, fierce. “The program isn’t finished. Something might happen tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” Painter said. “That was the end of the arc—you can see it in the extra-long credits. Tomorrow they’ll switch to a different set of characters.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not over. You’ll see…”

She said it with more confidence than she felt. Ten hours awake in each body made for an odd schedule in some ways, but at least she could catch a drama each day. This one could turn out to be happy.

Couldn’t it?

Painter walked to the viewer to turn it off—he liked experimenting with what he could accomplish while a spirit. Yumi trailed over to the window to look out at the pure black sky. With its single point of light, distant as last night’s dreams.

(Unfortunately, you’re not going to get an answer for why “the star” could pierce the shroud when the sun and stars could not. I don’t yet know. I have some answers about the shroud itself, and the nature of what was happening to Yumi’s and Painter’s lands. I’ll give you those when it’s appropriate.

But the way that one planet could filter through the darkness and reach longing eyes in Kilahito? No idea what was going on. I’m sorry to leave you with this mystery, but think of it as—instead of a hole—a promise for future stories yet undiscovered.)

“Want to get back to training?” Painter said, gesturing to the stacks of paper.

“No,” she said, turning away from the window and putting aside silly thoughts about a silly drama, even if her eyes were still wet. “I think it’s time for me to go out. Hunting nightmares.”

“You’re not ready.”

“You’ve said this is all I need to learn,” she said, waving to the stacks of painted bamboo. “You said I mastered it aweekago, Painter. You’ve been having me do nothing more than bamboo for days and days and days now!”

“Knowing how to paint,” he said, “is different from being able to do it in a stressful situation. That requires reflex and instinct. Like hitting a ball.”

“A ball?” she asked, picking up the small bowl of soup she’d forgotten as the ending of the drama arrived. She frowned as she sat down on the futon. “What ball?”

“You know,” he said, making a motion with his hand—as if that explained it. “Hitting a ball? With a snap-racket? You…don’t have that on your world.”

“Obviously,” she said, tasting her noodles.

Hey! Theyalmostweren’t terrible.

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