The word is a phantom on my lips, a half-formed whisper of sound that doesn't match the name I just wrote down. Reo. The name is on the postcard. But the echo in my head, triggered by the wind and the petals and the impossible familiarity of his presence, is something else entirely. It vanishes before I can grasp it, leaving behind only a frustrating, hollow ache.
Reo must see the confusion on my face, because his expression softens with a flicker of something I can't quite decipher. Sympathy? Or maybe a shared frustration.
"Don't force it," he says quietly, his voice a low anchor in my swirling thoughts. "Nurse Shidou said that trying too hard to remember is like trying to hold onto water. It just creates more stress."
"Right. Water." I nod, tucking the pen and my newly written postcard into my blazer pocket. My fingers brush against the one from yesterday, a tangible link to a past I can't access. It feels warm. "So, what happens now?"
"Now," he says, glancing at the clock tower visible over the neighboring building, "we go to class." The first bell rings right on cue, a shrill, insistent sound that cuts through the peaceful atmosphere on the roof. The magic of the moment is broken. I'm just a confused girl, and he's just a boy, and we have to get to homeroom.
The reality of facing a classroom full of strangers makes my stomach twist into a cold, tight knot.
"Oh," is all I can manage.
Reo seems to understand. "I'll walk you to the door," he says, already turning to lead the way. It's a statement, not an offer. He's not asking for my permission; he's enacting a step in a routine. "It's part of the plan. Keeping the path consistent helps establish procedural memory."
"Procedural memory," I repeat, the term feeling clumsy in my mouth. Like remembering how to ride a bike, even if you don't remember ever learning. My body remembering things my mind has discarded. The thought is both comforting and deeply unnerving.
The hallways are a chaotic river of students, a torrent of unfamiliar faces and overlapping conversations. It's a stark contrast to the quiet sanctuary of the rooftop. I find myself walking a little closer to Reo, using his calm, steady presence as a shield against the overwhelming social data stream. He moves through the crowd with an easy, understated grace, students parting for him almost unconsciously. The whispers follow us.
"Is that… Kisaragi-kun?"
"Who is she?"
"I've never seen him walk with anyone before."
I shrink a little, feeling the heat of a hundred curious stares. So he really is a prince. An untouchable one, it seems. And here I am, the mystery girl at his side, for reasons even I don't understand.
We stop outside the sliding door marked "Class 1-B." My heart starts hammering against my ribs again.
Reo stops, turning to face me. He keeps his voice low, for my ears only. "Your seat is the third one back from the front, by the window. To your left is Nami Koharu." He pauses, his gaze serious. "She knows. She's safe, too. Yesterday, you told me she makes you laugh."
He's giving me an inheritance of trust, passing on a verdict decided by a jury of one—the Arisa I'll never know. "Okay," I whisper, my hand clutching my bag strap like a lifeline. "Thank you."
"I'll see you at lunch," he says. "Same place." Then he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and disappears back into the flow of the hallway, leaving me alone in front of the door.
For a long second, I just stand there, paralyzed. I can't do this. I can't walk into a room of thirty people who know me when I don't know them. But then I think of the girl in the video, of the determination in her eyes. I think of the postcard in my pocket. Be brave.
Taking a breath that does little to calm my racing pulse, I slide the door open.
The classroom buzzes with the bright, energetic noise of morning chatter. It dies down for a moment as heads turn in my direction, a brief lull of curiosity before the conversations resume. I am the new girl, again, for the twentieth time. I fix my eyes on the floor and navigate my way through the maze of desks to the one Reo described.
As soon as I sit down, a whirlwind of motion erupts from the desk beside me.
"Ari! Good morning!" a girl with bright brown pigtails and a smile that could outshine the sun chirps, leaning so far into my space she nearly falls out of her chair. Nami Koharu. "You made it! For a sec, I was worried, but Reo-kun is like, super reliable, isn't he?" She beams.
Her energy is so overwhelming, so genuinely cheerful, it leaves no room for my anxiety. I find myself smiling back, a real, shaky smile. "He is."
Nami lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, tapping a finger against her temple. "So? Did you… y'know?"
It's such a simple, gentle way of asking if my entire world has been reset to zero. I just nod, the movement stiff.
"Cool, cool. We can handle it," she says, snapping her fingers as if it's no big deal. "Total blank slate! That just means we get to be friends for the first time all over again! Lucky me!" She winks. I'm so taken aback by her radiant optimism that a small laugh escapes me. Reo was right. She makes me laugh.
Just as the homeroom teacher, a kind-faced man named Amamine-sensei, enters the room, another person approaches my desk. A boy with impeccably styled dark hair and a polite, polished smile that seems perfectly practiced.
"Tsukimi-san, good morning," he says, his voice as smooth and pleasant as his appearance. "I'm the class representative, Itsuki Kurobane."
The name doesn't register. He's a complete stranger.
He holds out a neatly printed piece of paper. "I heard you might need some help keeping track of assignments and events, so I took the liberty of making you a copy of the weekly schedule. I can bring you one every Monday, if it would help."
His gesture is overwhelmingly thoughtful. The perfect class rep, going out of his way for a classmate. I feel a flush of gratitude, mixed with embarrassment for needing the extra help in the first place.
"Oh. Thank you, Kurobane-san," I say, reaching for the paper. "You really don't have to do that."
"It's no trouble at all," he insists, his smile widening slightly, though it doesn't quite seem to reach his eyes. "We have to look out for each other in Class 1-B, right?" He places the schedule carefully on the corner of my desk, his fingers brushing the wood for a moment before he retreats. The gesture feels… strangely final. As if he's marking his territory.
"Everyone, take your seats! Homeroom is starting!" Amamine-sensei calls out.
Itsuki gives me a final, polite nod and returns to his seat near the front. Nami leans over and slides a different paper onto my desk—the official class roster. "For later," she whispers. "So you can put some names to faces."
I offer her a grateful smile and look down at the two documents sitting side-by-side: Itsuki's helpful schedule and Nami's roster. My eyes scan the list of names, a meaningless jumble of characters. But I am a good student. My "before" self always was. The first step is to get organized. To learn who is who.
Then the strangest thing happens.
My hand, as if possessed by a will of its own, picks up the pen I'd just taken from my pencil case. I'm not consciously telling my fingers to move, but they grip the pen with a firm, determined pressure. My procedural memory—that ghost in my machine—is taking over. My mind is blank, but my body is not. My body remembers something.
The pen hovers over the class roster, pausing for a single, charged second before it descends. It draws a slow, deliberate circle around one name.
Itsuki Kurobane.
A cold knot instantly forms in the pit of my stomach. A wave of pure, undiluted wrongness washes over me, so potent it makes me feel nauseous. I stare at the circled name, the neat black ink a stark, silent accusation on the page. It's a warning flare sent up from a shipwreck I can't remember.
Nami, ever observant, leans over, her pigtails brushing my shoulder. "Whatcha doing?" she whispers, her gaze falling on the circled name.
I can't tear my eyes away from it. The smooth, handsome face of the boy who just offered me help swims in my memory. His perfect smile. His kind words.
"I don't know," I whisper back, my own voice sounding distant and shaky.
I have no memory of this boy, so why has my pen circled his name like a warning?