t was past midnight, the day had shifted from Sunday to Monday, but still sleep wouldn’t come.

Aomame finished her bath, put on pajamas, slipped into bed, and turned out the light. Staying up late wouldn’t accomplish a thing. For the time being she had left it all up to Tamaru. Much better to get some sleep and think again in the morning when her mind was fresh. But she was wide awake, and her body wanted to be up and moving. It didn’t look like she would be getting to sleep anytime soon.

She gave up, got out of bed, and threw a robe over her pajamas. She boiled water, made herbal tea, and sat at the dining table, slowly sipping it. A thought came to her, but what it was exactly, she couldn’t say. It had a thick, furtive form, like far-off rain clouds. She could make out its shape but not its outline. There was a disconnect of some kind between shape and outline. Mug in hand, she went over to the window, and looked out at the playground through a gap in the curtains.

There was no one there, of course. Past one a.m. now, the sandbox, swings, and slide were deserted. It was a particularly silent night. The wind had died down, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, just the two moons floating above the frozen branches of the trees. The position of the moons had shifted with the earth’s rotation, but they were still visible.

Aomame stood there, thinking about Bobblehead’s run-down apartment building, and the name card in the slot on the door of apartment 303. A white card with the typed name Kawana. The card wasn’t new, by any means. The edges were curled up, and there were faint moisture stains on it. The card had been in the slot for some time.

Tamaru would find out for her if it was really Tengo Kawana who lived there, or someone else with the same last name. At the latest, he would probably report back by tomorrow. He wasn’t the kind of person who wasted time. Then she would know for sure. Depending on the outcome, she thought, I might actually see Tengo before much longer. The possibility made it hard to breathe, like the air around her had suddenly gotten thin.

But things might not work out that easily. Even if the person living in 303 was Tengo Kawana, Bobblehead was hidden away somewhere in the same building. And he was planning something—what, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good. He was undoubtedly hatching a clever plan, breathing down their necks, doing what he could to prevent them from seeing each other.

No, there’s nothing to worry about, Aomame told herself. Tamaru can be trusted. He’s more meticulous, capable, and experienced than anyone I know. If I leave it up to him, he will fend off Bobblehead for me. Bobblehead is a danger not just to me, but to Tamaru as well, a risk factor that has to be eliminated.

But what if Tamaru decides that it isn’t advisable for Tengo and me to meet, then what will I do? If that happens, then Tamaru will surely cut off any possibility of Tengo and me ever seeing each other. Tamaru and I are pretty friendly, but his top priority is what will benefit the dowager and keep her out of harm’s way. That’s his real job—he isn’t doing all this for my sake.

This made her uneasy. Getting Tengo and her together, letting them see each other again—where did this fall on Tamaru’s list of priorities? She had no way of knowing. Maybe telling Tamaru about Tengo had been a fatal mistake. Shouldn’t I have taken care of everything myself?

But what’s done is done. I’ve told Tamaru everything. I had no choice. Bobblehead must be lying in wait for me, and it would be suicide to waltz right in all alone. Time is ticking away and I don’t have the leisure to put things on hold and see how they might develop. Opening up to Tamaru about everything, and putting it all in his hands, was the best choice at the time.

Aomame decided to stop thinking about Tengo—and stop looking at the moons. The moonlight wreaked havoc on her mind. It changed the tides in inlets, stirred up life in the woods. She drank the last of her herbal tea, left the window, went to the kitchen, and rinsed out the mug. She longed for a sip of brandy, but she knew she shouldn’t have any alcohol while pregnant.

She sat on the sofa, switched on the small reading lamp beside it, and began rereading Air Chrysalis. She had read the novel at least ten times. It wasn’t a long book, and by now she had nearly memorized it. But she wanted to read it again, slowly, attentively. She figured she might as well, since she wasn’t about to get to sleep. There might be something in it she had overlooked.

Air Chrysalis was like a book with a secret code, and Eriko Fukada must have told the story in order to get a message across. Tengo rewrote it, creating something more polished, more effective. They had formed a team to create a novel with a wider appeal. As Leader had said, it was a collaborative effort. If Leader was to be believed, when Air Chrysalis became a bestseller and certain secrets were revealed within, the Little People lost their power, and the voice no longer spoke. Because of this, the well dried up, the flow was cut off. This is how much influence the novel had exerted.

She focused on each line as she read.

By the time the clock showed 2:30, she was already two-thirds of the way through the novel. She closed the book and tried to put into words the strong emotions she was feeling. Though she wouldn’t go so far as to call it a revelation, she had a strong, specific image in her mind.

I wasn’t brought here by chance.

This is what the image told her.

I’m here because I’m supposed to be.

Up until now, she thought, I believed I was dragged into this 1Q84 world not by my own will. Something had intentionally engaged the switch so the train I was on was diverted from the main line and entered this strange new world. Suddenly I realized I was here—a world of two moons, haunted by Little People. Where there is an entrance, but no exit.

Leader had explained it this way just before he died. The train is the story that Tengo wrote, and I was trapped inside that tale. Which explains exactly why I am here now—entirely passive, a confused, clueless bit player wandering in a thick fog.

But that’s not the whole picture, Aomame told herself. That’s not the whole picture at all.

I am not just some passive being mixed up in this because someone else willed it. That might be partly true. But at the same time I chose to be here. I chose to be here of my own free will. She was sure of this.

And there’s a clear reason I’m here. One reason alone: so I can meet Tengo again. If you look at it the other way around, that’s the only reason why this world is inside of me. Maybe it’s a paradox, like an image reflected to infinity in a pair of facing mirrors. I am a part of this world, and this world is a part of me.

There was no way for Aomame to know what sort of plot Tengo’s new story contained. Most likely there were two moons in that world, and it was frequented by Little People. That was about as far as she could speculate. This might be Tengo’s story, she thought, but it’s my story, too. This much she understood.

She realized this when she got to the scene where the young girl, the protagonist, was working to create an air chrysalis every night in the shed with the Little People. As she read through this detailed, clear description, she felt something warm and oozy in her abdomen, a sort of melting warmth with a strange depth. Though tiny, there was an intense heat source there. What that heat source was, and what it meant, was obvious to her—she didn’t need to think about it. The little one. It was emitting heat in response to the scene in which the protagonist and the Little People together weaved the air chrysalis.

Aomame put the book on the table next to her, unbuttoned her pajama top, and rested a hand on her belly. She could feel the heat being given off, almost like a dim orange light was there inside her. She switched off the reading lamp, and in the darkened bedroom stared hard at that spot, a luminescence almost too faint to see. But the light was definitely there—no mistake about it. I am not alone. We are connected through this, by experiencing the same story simultaneously.

And if that story is mine as well as Tengo’s, then I should be able to write the story line too. I should be able to comment on what’s there, maybe even rewrite part of it. I have to be able to. Most of all, I should be able to decide how it’s going to turn out. Right?

She considered the possibility.

Okay, but how do I do it?

Aomame didn’t know, though she knew it had to be possible. At this point it was a mere theory. In the silent darkness she pursed her lips and contemplated. This was critical, and she had to put her mind to it.

The two of us are a team. Like Tengo and Eriko Fukada made up a brilliant team when they created Air Chrysalis, Tengo and I are a team for this new story. Our wills—or maybe some undercurrent of our wills—are becoming one, creating this complex story and propelling it forward. This process probably takes place on some deep, invisible level. Even if we aren’t physically together, we are connected, as one. We create the story, and at the same time the story is what sets us in motion. Right?

But I have a question. A very important question.

In this story that the two of us are writing, what could be the significance of this little one? What sort of role will it play?

Inside my womb is a subtle yet tangible heat that is emitting a faint orange light, exactly like an air chrysalis. Is my womb playing the role of an air chrysalis? Am I the maza, and the little one my dohta? Is the Little People’s will involved in all this—in my being pregnant with Tengo’s child, although we didn’t have sex? Have they cleverly usurped my womb to use as an air chrysalis? Using me as a device to extract another new dohta?

No. That’s not what’s going on. She was positive about it. That’s not possible.

The Little People have lost their power. Leader said so. The popularity of the novel Air Chrysalis essentially blocked what they normally do. So they must not know about this pregnancy. But who—or what power—made this pregnancy possible? And why?

Aomame had no idea.

What she did know was that this little one was something she and Tengo had formed. That it was a precious, priceless life. She placed her hand on her abdomen again, pressing gently against the outline of that faint orange glow. She let the warmth she felt there slowly permeate her whole body. I’ve got to protect this little one, at all costs, she told herself. Nobody is ever going to take it away from me, or harm it. The two of us have to keep it safe. In the darkness, she made up her mind.

She went into the bedroom, took off her robe, and got into bed. She lay faceup, and once more touched her abdomen and felt the warmth there. Her feeling of unease was gone. She knew what had to be done. I have to be stronger, she told herself. My mind and body have to be one. Finally sleep came, silently, like smoke, and wrapped her in its embrace. Two moons were still floating in the sky, side by side.