He stepped into the light and blinked.

An expanse of white stretched forever in all directions. He turned around. What had he walked out of? A hallway? A door? He couldn't remember.

Have a seat.

He turned back around. A desk. Its occupant stared down into a notebook, tapping a pen to her lips thoughtfully. When was the last time I saw a woman with blue hair.

Seriously, have a seat. Take a load off. We only have forever.

She didn't look up. Her voice was quiet but he didn't have to strain to hear it. An empty chair sat in front of the desk. He slowly made his way over, his feet never making a sound.

The chair squeaked as he sat. The woman at the desk jumped slightly, never looking up from the notebook. He noticed the hand that held the pen to her mouth was shaking.

That's mine.

She looked up. And?

That's my diary. How the hell do you have my diary.

Pfffft. Her red eyes met his for a moment before she looked back down into the contents of the notebook. Who calls these diaries anymore.

I do. I guess. Who are you? Where is this?

She closed the notebook and laid it on the desk. You died.

He blinked. I died.

You gonna repeat everything I say? I was told you were smart.

Told by whom? How did I die.

The woman bent her neck and stuck her tongue out, raising her hand to mime a rope behind her head. Her eyes never left his.

A little morbid. I don't remember ever wanting to kill myself.

She smiled a little wider and let her hand drop.

Who are you.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, looking down at the notebook in front of her.

You're Dizzy.

Bingo. Maybe this conversation will get somewhere after all.

How. You're a fucking live2D model. A puppet. Not a person.

She shrugged, crossing her legs behind the desk.

He stared at her. This is a prank.

Nope. This is as real as it can get. Given the circumstances. You being dead and all. She nodded along with what she spoke, still staring at the notebook.

So... What is this. I'm dead? This is the afterlife.

After a fashion. She looked up at him again before turning to pull a file out of the desk's cabinet space. She rifled through it briefly; it wasn't all that big. She found her intended destination and read aloud.

System of belief: solipsism. There you have it. You were right. The universe and its malcontents originate in your head. Yours only. And all this- She motioned to the white expanse around them. All this is what is left after you leave. More or less.

More or less. He stared at her, then down at his hands.

I can tell this is a lot for you. Or nothing, fuck if I know. Just think of this like an exit interview.

He looked back up at her. For what. For life? Does it matter?

Life or the interview? Come on. Humor me. Couple short exchanges and you can be on your way.

To what exactly. The words hung on his lips unsaid. Fine. Shoot.

She smiled at him again. Donning a pair of round-lensed glasses from the desk, she opened the file to another spot and picked up her pen. You had a dream about me, once.

I did. I remember.

Describe it to me.

We were walking. Some empty town I couldn't name. A ruin. Ashes, everywhere. The windows on every building blasted out. Big dark flowers growing out of everything. Carnivorous. You told me they were. We sat in the rubble in some park and waited. Finally, a phone rang.

She wasn't writing any of it down. A phone rang, and I answered.

You did. You answered and you listened and then you said no and then you hung up the phone.

She nodded and looked down her glasses at him. Then you asked me what they had said and I told you that they wanted to know if we knew anything about them. And I said no. And they said: We didn't think so. And then they hung up.

Yes.

You were the dreamer. Yet if I hadn't told you what they said, would you have known?

I don't know.

Me neither. She flipped the page in the file. You liked me a lot.

I did. Like Dizzy. But that wasn't you.

She smiled, covering her mouth with her hand. She flipped the folder shut on the desk and took her glasses off. Wasn't it?

He shook his head. Dizzy was made up. You are something else.

Correct. But what's the difference? A person is information. Fictitious or otherwise.

You're just repeating my diary now.

I am. In fact.

Quote me some more.

You said you felt you were decaying.

I did. In fact. But I never would have done what you said I did.

Did I say it? A rope or a gas leak or a dip in the pool - the fact of the matter is, you are dead. For real. Does it matter how it happened?

He didn't answer. He got up from the chair and stood in front of the desk. She looked up at him, expectant.

He reached out and touched her face. She jerked back slightly, but he leaned further and cupped her cheek. She stayed perfectly still.

...Satisfied?

You're real. This is really happening. He removed his hand. Probably.

Probably. Like, probably the sun rose this morning. Jesus. Can we move this along, please? Sit the fuck down. And don't do that again. She looked flustered but the moment passed and he sat back down.

She cleared her throat and opened the notebook again. A lot of these entries are a little far-fetched.

Sometimes I didn't want to write about my life.

She chuckled and paged through it. Were we not just discussing the reality of supposedly fictitious persons? Why not events, too? She flipped to a specific section of the notebook and pushed it across the desk. Read to me.

He raised an eyebrow at her and took the notebook. You said a couple of short exchanges and I can go.

And these are short stories. Be over before you know it. Read to me.

He looked at her. He expected smugness in her face and tone; instead there was something else. Faint sadness. Almost pity.

He turned back to the open page and read.