I waited for 60 seconds, that 60 seconds was longer than everything, and then, the world didn't shatter, didn't dissolve into pixels or static. When Shou's thumb finally pressed CONFIRM, the universe responded with a profound, almost sorrowful WHUMMMM. It was the sound of a grand, cosmic sigh, exhaling not just the immediate past, but an entire tangled tapestry of existence. Shou felt himself pulled back, not violently, but with an irresistible, melancholic gravity, deeper than any loop he had initiated before. This wasn't merely a reset; it was an unmaking, stripping away layers of consequence, pushing him back, back, back…
And then, just like that, he was back. The familiar scent of dust and stale air filled his nostrils, the soft, worn texture of his own sheets beneath his fingers. He was in his room, exactly as it had been on that fateful night. The digital clock on his bedside table glowed faintly: 7:00 PM. The night before the fated, catastrophic day. His heart, which had been a drumbeat of frantic activity for weeks, settled into a slow, steady rhythm, like a pendulum finally at rest. He waited. Sixty seconds crawled by, each one a silent testament to the vast emptiness that now stretched before him.
He knew what was supposed to happen. He knew the precise moment his restless fingers would wander to his desktop, drawn by an unseen digital thread, searching, hacking, stumbling upon the encrypted government database. He knew the flash of the black-and-red icon, the moment E.R.I.S. would unfurl its terrifying, seductive power. But he did nothing. He didn't move. He lay in his bed, allowing his gaze to drift over the familiar clutter of his room. The computer hummed softly in the corner, a dormant beast, its siren call ignored. His burner phone wasn't there; it hadn't existed yet. He had simply gone back to the beginning.
This was it. The 635th loop. The ultimate reset. He remembered everything. Every triumph, every failure, every agonizing death, every stolen moment of joy. The memory of Airi was not a phantom ache, but a vivid, searing brand on his soul. Her laugh, her smile, the exact shade of her eyes, the warmth of her hand in his—all of it was fiercely, painfully intact. He was carrying the impossible burden of a thousand erased realities, a ghost of timelines that only he could recall. The house was quiet, a stillness that mirrored the emptiness inside him. His parents were on another of their long business trips, a note with money on the kitchen counter confirming it. He was alone, utterly alone, with his memories.
When the shrill, insistent blare of his alarm ripped through the quiet morning air, Shou rose with a quiet, solemn purpose. The cool laminate of the floor felt solid beneath his bare feet. He walked to the bathroom, the air still slightly cool, and stepped into the shower, letting the warm spray wash over him. He used a facial wash, its faint scent of citrus a forgotten pleasure. When he looked in the mirror, truly looked, he saw not the sarcastic, mischievous boy he usually projected, but a tired, haunted reflection staring back, shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless despair. His messy black hair was brushed until it was remarkably neat, parted just so.
From the closet, he pulled his school uniform, its fabric still crisp from the dry cleaners, and ironed it until the creases were impossibly sharp, the fabric a perfect, unblemished white and navy. Each stroke of the hot iron against the cloth was deliberate, a ritual of preparation. He even reached for a small bottle of cologne, its warm, earthy scent of sandalwood mingling with an undeniable undercurrent of regret. He dabbed a hint behind his ears, the subtle fragrance a stark contrast to the grim reality he faced. He was a different man this morning. A man walking towards his inevitable end, but with his head held high, ready to meet his fate with a dignity he hadn't known he possessed.
The walk to school was a blur. The familiar streets seemed foreign, the chatter of other students a language he no longer understood. He drifted through the morning classes in a fog. Math equations were just meaningless symbols. History was a collection of names that had no weight. He stared out the window, watching a single leaf spiral down from a ginkgo tree, feeling a strange kinship with its aimless descent. He ignored Tanaka's usual boisterous greeting, a quiet nod the only acknowledgement he could manage.
Just before lunch, a note arrived, calling him to the principal's office. The principal, a stern-faced man with a surprisingly gentle smile, cleared his throat. "Shou-kun," he began, "we've received word. Your parents have arranged for you to transfer to a new school. All the paperwork has been processed. You'll be starting there next week."
A cold, hollow feeling settled in Shou's gut. This was it. The final, irreversible severing.
He spent the rest of the day in a daze, collecting his books, saying sparse goodbyes. The bell shrieked, signaling the end of the day, and he walked out of the classroom, his backpack slung heavy over his shoulder, each step carrying the weight of an unseen farewell. He was leaving. Leaving this place, leaving this timeline, leaving her.
He reached the main gate, the throngs of students a chaotic symphony of youthful energy around him. His gaze, weary yet resolute, swept across the familiar faces, searching, dreading, hoping. And then he saw her.
She stood by the cherry blossom tree near the school gates, bathed in the soft, golden light of the afternoon sun. Airi. Her long hair flowed around her shoulders, catching the light like spun silk. She was laughing, her head tilted back, her eyes crinkling into happy crescents. She looked impossibly bright, more vibrant, more radiantly joyful than he had ever seen her. The universe, unburdened by his interference, had allowed her to flourish. She held a book to her chest, her lips curled in a soft, genuine smile, speaking with a girl Shou didn't recognize.
His heart ached, a sharp, physical pain that stole his breath. He saw her, truly saw her, in her full, unblemished happiness. This was his sacrifice. This was the cost of her life. To exist in a world where she thrived, beautiful and alive, but without him.
He didn't hesitate. He turned away sharply, his steps quickening, melting into the stream of departing students. He didn't want her to see him. He couldn't bear the flicker of recognition, the phantom warmth of a connection she wouldn't understand. He had to be a ghost, a whisper, a memory that didn't exist. He left the school grounds, his vision blurred, the image of her bright, untroubled smile burned into his mind. He never looked back.