Violet Evergarden

The Playwright and the Auto-Memories Doll

Roswell was a beautiful bucolic capital surrounded by greenery. A city located at the foot of a mountain, surrounded by several high others. Its whole territory was something to be contemplated. However, amongst influential people, Roswell was known for its summerhouses – or, in other words, its holiday’s villas.

In spring, the mountains and rivers overflowing with flowers entertained people’s eyes. In summer, many sought the biggest waterfall, which was a touristic point, to learn about local history. In autumn, everyone’s hearts were struck by the rain of decaying leaves. In winter, the whole scenery was enveloped into silent tranquility. As the transition of the four seasons was very easily distinguishable, it was a land that had more than enough to offer for pleasing the people who visited during the change of periods for sightseeing.

Many villas had been built connected to the mountain-foot city, which consisted of wooden cottages painted in many colors. From the smallest to the biggest lots, the cost of land in the area was quite a large sum, and therefore, having a villa be made there was a proof of wealth in itself.

The city was cramped with shops for tourists. On holidays, the main street interconnected to said shops would be crowded, pleasant tunes playing in the background. With such assortment, no one could make fun of the place, even with it being the countryside. People would usually build villas in the city for the sake of convenience, and anyone who built them anywhere else was viewed as an oddball.

The current season was an autumn of drifting clouds in a tall-looking sky. Away from the mountain foot, located near a lake that was not highly regarded as a sightseeing point, there was a single cottage.

It was a traditional-style house with remarkable traits, as though to express it belonged to a profitable person. But as if it also belonged to an uncaring person, it was in poor condition, with an aspect of abandonment. Beyond the arch-shaped gate colored in washed-out white paint, a garden filled with weeds and nameless flowers could be found, as well as a rotting red brick wall that did not seem like it would be repaired. Roof tiles cracked here and there, looking like they used to be perfectly aligned in the past but had been cruelly pared. Next to the house’s entrance was a swing covered in entangled ivies, seemingly no longer movable. It was a cue there used to be children around, as well as a cue that there were not anymore.

The house’s proprietary was a middle-aged man named Oscar. With said name, he had maintained a career in the writing industry as a playwright. He was a redhead of many habits who wore heavy-lensed, black-rimmed glasses. He was child-faced and a little bent forward, which made him look younger than he really was, and always wore a sweater, as he was sensitive to cold. A completely normal man that did not hint he could become a protagonist in any sort of story.

The house was not Oscar’s villa; it had been built with the genuine desire to spend his life in that place. Not him alone, but also his wife and young daughter. It had enough space for the three of them, yet there was no one other than Oscar living there. The other two had long passed away.

The cause of Oscar’s wife’s death had been illness. Its name was too lengthy, to the point one would give up trying to pronounce it. To put it bluntly, it was the rapid clotting of blood vessels and death by clogging. Moreover, it was hereditary, and his wife had inherited it from her father. As she had become an orphan due to the high mortality rate in her family, he had only come to find out the harsh truth regarding his wife, who had been lonely from her lack of relatives, after she had died.

“She was scared that, if you’d known, you might have not wanted to marry a sick woman, so she kept it a secret.”

The one who had told him so had been her best friend. At her funeral, from the moment he had received such revelation from her, one question had constantly echoed in Oscar’s head.

“Why? Why? Why?”

If she had told him beforehand, no matter how much it cost, together, they could have searched for a cure. They could have spent any amount of the extra money they had in their piled-up savings, regardless of the expenses.

It was glaringly obvious that Oscar’s wife had not married him for gold-digging. He had first met her before becoming a playwright, and their meetings took place in the library he frequently visited, while the one who had first noticed her – the former librarian – had been Oscar himself.

――I thought she was… a beautiful person. The corner of new books she was in charge of was always interesting. While I fell in love with those books, I also fell in love with her.

“Why?” was repeated several hundreds of million times. Anything else had disappeared from his mind.

His wife’s best friend was an auspicious person, and while he had lost his heart with the death of his wife, she energetically took care of him and his small daughter. She would prepare hot meals for Oscar, who would forget to eat all day if left alone, and braid the hair of the little girl who cried and mourned the absence of the mother that used to do so.

Perhaps there had been a bit of one-sided love involved. One time, when he was in bed with a high fever, the one who had taken his repeatedly vomiting daughter to the hospital had been her. The one who had found out first that the girl had the same disease as her mother had not been the father, but the mother’s best friend.

What had happened afterwards had progressed slowly, but in Oscar’s eyes, it could not have been faster. They had relied only on famous and unmatched doctors, unlike when his wife had gone through the same hardship. From one big hospital to the other, they bowed their heads to many people, asking for help and gathering information for testing a new drug.

Medicines and side effects were two sides of the same coin. His daughter would cry every time she took them. As he could not take his eyes off the suffering of his loved one, his nursing days gnawed his already corroded heart even more.

No matter what kind of new remedies they tried, his daughter’s situation did not become better. In the end, out of resources, the medics gave up and declared her as incurable.

“I wonder if my wife is feeling forlorn after being beckoned to the underworld…” he wondered about that and similar idiotic things over and over eventually. “Please don’t take her with you.” he supplicated in front of her grave, but the dead do not have mouths to reply.

Oscar was mentally exhausted, but the one who broke down first had been his wife’s best friend, who had followed them through the many hospitals until then. Overwrought from taking care of his unstable daughter, she gradually distanced herself from the hospital until, finally, Oscar and his daughter were truly all alone.

Thanks to a daily routine of many prescriptions, his daughter’s cheeks, which had previously resembled rose petals over white milk, had become yellow and hideously puny. Her hair that used to smell sweet and look like honey had quickly fallen off.

He… could not bear to see her. It was truly a figure he could not endure staring at.

At last, Oscar had a futile argument with one of the doctors, so that his daughter would have to take nothing but painkillers. He did not wish for the rest of her short life to be engrossed in affliction.

From then on was a little bit of peace. Easygoing days. Seeing his daughter’s smile for the first time in a while. Remnants of their fortunate days continued after that.

The weather had been wonderful the day she passed away – an autumn that brought out the color of everything around. The sky had been clear. Red and yellow-dyed trees could be seen from the hospital’s windows.

In the hospital’s premises, there was a fountain that looked like an oasis, and on its water’s surface, the leaves fallen from the surroundings quietly floated. Upon falling, they drifted and fluctuated on the water, gathering as though they had been pulled by a magnet. His daughter had said that was ‘pretty’.

“The yellow of the leaves mixing with the blue of the water is very pretty. Hey, could I walk on them without falling?”

Such a child-like idea. It was a clear that the leaves would soon lose to gravity and her weight and sink. Still, Oscar did not voice that.

“If you had an umbrella, you could use the wind and the chances of managing that would increase, huh?” He had jokingly answered, wanting to spoil that child who could not be saved, even if just slightly.

Hearing that, his daughter had laughed with glowing eyes.

“You’ll show it to me someday, right? In that lake close to our house, when the leaves that fall in autumn gather together on the water surface.”

Someday.

Someday, she would show him.

After that, his daughter, upon having a coughing fit, suddenly died.

As he had embraced her lifeless body, he realized how light it was. Even for a corpse that no longer had a soul, it had been too light. Had she really ever been alive or had he merely been having a long dream, Oscar had asked himself as he shed tears.

He had buried his daughter in the same cemetery as his wife, returning to the place where the three of them had once lived together and resumed his life quietly. Oscar had economic power enough to live without anything affecting him, as the scripts he wrote were used everywhere, so the savings accumulated from his payments made it impossible for him to die from starvation.

After years of mourning for his daughter and wife, he was approached by a colleague of his former job, who had asked him if he could write a screenplay again. For Oscar, who had only had his name left in the industry and his existence itself erased from it, a request from a theatre group that everyone admired was an honor.

Lazy, dissolute, grief-indulged days. Humans are creatures that become tired easily of being sad or happy, and cannot continue either way forever. That is their nature.

Oscar had accepted the offer with an immediate feedback, deciding to hold onto a pen once more. However, from then was when his problem had started.

For the sake of escaping from the ugly reality, Oscar had started drinking. It had also served as a medicine for being able to have good dreams. Thanks to the assistance of a doctor, he had been able to overcome the alcohol and drugs, but was left with a tremor in his hand. Whether he wrote on paper or with a typewriter, he simply could not properly progress.

The desire to write, however, remained in his chest. All he had to do was find a means to put it into words.

As he asked for advice from the old work colleague that had made him the request, the latter had told him, “There’s something that could work. You should use an Auto-Memories Doll.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re so disconnected from the world… no, more like your reclusion from it is of a worrisome level. They’re famous. Nowadays, you can rent them for a relatively low price. That’s right, you should order one.”

“A doll… could help me?”

“They’re special secretaries.”

Oscar had then decided to use the tool which name he had only just memorized. That is, an ‘Auto-Memories Doll’. His encounter with her started from there.

A woman climbed the mountain road. Her soft, braided hair was held by a dark red ribbon, while her thin body was wrapped in a snow-white ribbon-tie dress. Her silk pleats skirt swayed neatly as she walked, the emerald brooch on her chest glittered in sparkles. The jacket she wore over the dress was of a contrasting Prussian blue. Her long leather boots, included for practicality, were of a deep cocoa brown.

Holding a heavy-looking trolley bag, she made her way through Oscar’s house’s white arch gate. Right by the moment she stepped into the house’s front yard, a gust of autumn wind blew by noisily. Red, yellow and brown decayed leaves danced around her where she stood.

Perhaps because of the curtain of autumn leaves, her field of vision was momentarily clouded. The woman then firmly gripped the brooch on her chest. She muttered something in a low voice – lower than the fluttering sound of the rain of leaves, which melted into the air without anyone being able to hear.

As the mischievous wind calmed down, the woman’s cautious atmosphere was gone, and without any hesitation, she pressed the house’s buzzer with a finger protected by a black glove. The groaning buzzer resounded like a scream from the depths of hell, and after a short while, the door was opened. The house’s owner, the redhead Oscar, showed his face. He wore messy garments in front of the guest, as if he had either just woken up or not slept at all.

As Oscar looked at the woman, he was slightly perplexed. Was it because she had such a whimsical get-up? Or was it because she was too stunning? Whichever it was, he had to take a deep breath.

“Are you… the Auto-Memories Doll?”

“Precisely. I rush anywhere to provide service for a client. I’m the Auto-Memories Doll Violet Evergarden.” The blonde, blue-eyed woman who possessed a beauty that seemed to have come straight out of a fairytale answered in monotone, without putting on a fake smile.

The woman named Violet Evergarden was a figure as reticent and charming as an ordinary doll. Her blue orbs partially covered by golden locks shone like the ocean, with cherry blossom pink-tinted cheeks over milky-white skin and glossy, lustrous rouge-dyed lips. A woman with a fairness akin to the full moon, not lacking in anything. Were it not for her blinking, she could easily become an artifact in some gallery.

Oscar had absolutely no knowledge regarding the Auto-Memories Dolls, and so had asked his old work colleague to arrange one for him.

“She’ll be sent there within a few days.” Was what he had been told, and after he did his waiting, he was visited by her.

――I was sure I was going to receive from the mailman a box containing a small, robotic-like doll. To think it would be an android so similar to a human… Just how much has civilization improved ever since I’ve secluded myself here?

Oscar only kept in distant touch with the rest of the world. He did not read newspapers or magazines and rarely hung out with anyone. Other than friends of his, the only people he would have contact with were the cashier at the grocery store and the deliveryman that occasionally brought him packages.

He soon regretted not looking for information and arranging everything himself. To have something that resembled a person in that house once meant for three felt extremely incongruous and somehow brought back a bitter aftertaste.

――It feels like I’m doing something terrible to my family…

Without trying to understand Oscar’s thinking, Violet sat on the expansive couch of the living room she had been directed to. Upon being offered black tea, she drank all of it neatly, which seemed to point that the current machines had developed splendidly.

“What happens to the black tea you drank?”

Feeling herself being questioned, Violet tilted her head a little. “It will eventually be discharged from my body… and return to the earth?” she replied. It was a very machine doll-like answer.

“Honestly… I’m shocked. Hum, you’re a bit different… from what I had imagined.”

Violet examined her own appearance with a glance, and then looked back at Oscar, who stared at her without sitting on the adjacent chair.

“Would there have been any extra credits in case I was in accordance with your hopes?”

“No… it’s not exactly ‘hopes’…”

“If Master would not mind waiting, I could ask the Company to send another doll.”

“That’s not what I meant… no, forget it. As long as you can work, it’s fine. You don’t seem like the loud type.”

“If you wish, I could also breathe more quietly.”

“You don’t have… to do that much.”

“I’ve come here to be Master’s assistant. I shall work to please you so that I will not stain the name of Auto-Memories Dolls. I don’t mind whether the tools I have at my disposition are pen and paper or a typewriter. Please, use me as you will.”

As she said so with her huge gem-like blue eyes staring at him intensely, Oscar’s heart raced a little, and he nodded with an “okay”.

The period she had been rented for was two weeks. In that meantime, they had to finish a story no matter what. Oscar renewed his will, taking her to his study and planning to start working immediately. Yet, as things turned out, what Violet ended up doing first was not writing, but cleaning up the room.

The study that was also a bedroom had Oscar’s previously worn clothes and a pan with leftovers from his last meal all over the floor in a disastrous fashion. Simply put, there had been no space for even one foot to step inside.

Violet gazed at him with her big pupils. “You called me here with the place in this condition?” her eyes seemed to say.

“I’m sorry…”

It was clear that it was not a room someone would work in. Ever since he became alone, he had not used the living room, which was why it was still clean, but the bedroom he frequently entered and exited, the kitchen and the bathroom were in atrocious state.

Oscar thought he was glad Violet was a mechanical doll. Her body age seemed to be from someone in her 10’s to her mid-20’s; he did not wish to show something so embarrassing to a real woman that young. Even though he was getting old, for a man, it was just deplorable.

“Master, I’m a secretary, not a maid.” She said as she contradictorily pulled out of her bag a white frilly apron, willingly proceeding to tidy everything up.

The first day was over just like that.

On the second day, the two of them sat in the study and started their work. Oscar lay on his bed while Violet sat on a chair and used the typewriter on the desk.

“She… said:” as Oscar dictated, a blind touch silently wrote down each letter with terrifying speed. He observed, thoroughly surprised. “Pretty… fast, huh.”

Upon being complimented, Violet removed one of the black gloves that went up to her sleeves and showed one of her arms. It was metallic. The fingers seemed to be even stiffer and more robotic-like than the other parts.

“I’m employed by a brand that sells practicality. These are the standards of Esterk Company, so my levels of endurance are high, and it’s possible to make moves and use physical force that a human body normally would not be able to, which is very fascinating. I can register any word Master says without omissions.”

“Is that so? Ah, hey, you don’t have to write what I just said, only the words meant for the script.”

Oscar continued to dictate. In the process, they took many breaks, but things went well for the first day. After all, the story’s concept had only been stored within him, and he had not been able to record it anywhere.

As Oscar spoke, he realized that Violet was great as a story listener and secretary. She had given off an impression of serenity from the start, and during work, that was even more apparent. Even though he had not requested it, he really could not hear her breathing, only the clacking of the typewriter. If he averted his eyes, he had the impression the typewriter was typing all by itself. Whenever he asked until what point she had written, she would read it to him, her tempered voice and good reciting something fun to listen to. If she was the narrator, anything sounded like a solemn fictional story.

――I see, of course these would become popular.

Oscar was able to keenly witness the greatness of Auto-Memories Dolls. However, although things had gone smoothly until the third day, from the fourth day on, there was a period of writer’s block. It was something common amongst writers. There are times where the contents to be written down are already thought of, but the right words to put them in are not.

From his many years of experience, Oscar had a method to cope with when he could not write. That is, to avoid writing. He had the fact that nothing he forced himself to write would come off good enough internalized within himself.

He felt bad for Violet, but had to leave her in waiting. For the sake of not making her sit idly, he asked her do the cleaning, laundry and cooking. Naturally, she was powered by the spontaneous disposition of a hardworker.

It had been a long time since he had eaten a steamy warm meal made by someone else. He did order from delivery services and ate out, but the meals he had cooked for himself due to being busy from work were different from those.

An omelet rice’s egg coat that melted creamily into his mouth. A tofu hamburger recipe from the East. A top-notch pilaf of colorful vegetables over rice mixed in a spicy sauce. A gratin with seafood that was hard to find in a land surrounded by mountains. As side dishes, there would always be salads and soups he would always ask what had been made of. He was a little moved by all of that.

While Oscar ate, Violet only watched, without tasting any of it. She would not budge as the mealtime went on, saying she would eat later.

It was confirmed that she could ingest liquids, but it could be that she could not eat anything solid. If that was so, what if she drank oil while he was not looking? As he tried to picture it, a surreal image came to his mind.

――There would still be no problem… if we ate together.

He wished so in his thoughts, without saying it aloud.

She was completely different from his wife, but something in the figure of her back as she cooked brought a familiar feeling. As he observed her, for some reason, he was assaulted by excessive sadness and the corners of his eyes felt hot. With that, he came to understand awfully well how it was to let an outsider into his routine.

――Meaning… the lifestyle I have right now is really lonely.

The elation of seeing Violet come back home from an errand. The relief of knowing he was not alone as he felt himself falling asleep at night. The fact that she would be there when he opened his eyes again, even without doing anything. All of it made Oscar become aware of how much of a solitary person he was.

He had money and no economic troubles in his life. However, that was nothing more than a psychological shield to sugarcoat reality and prevent his heart from hardening even more. It was not guaranteed to cure any wounds. To have someone whom he knew nothing of other than her temperament so close, to be there beside him the same way he had left her as he woke up, pierced through the once-shut heart of Oscar, who had been alone all this time.

Violet coming into his life had been like ripples on water. A small change in a still lake. The only things caught in such flow are insignificant pebbles, but for a life as tasteless as his, it had been like a great change for a wind-less lake.

Was it a good or bad change? If he were to decide, he would say it had been good. At least, the tears overflowing from the sorrow he felt when she was around were much warmer than any he had shed so far.