We escape the gym in a state of shared shock. Neither of us had intended to get swept up in the drama club's gravitational pull, yet here we are, enlisted by a force of nature in a "Future Oscar Winner" t-shirt.
"I can't believe she just signed you up," I say, the lingering roar of the gym finally fading as we walk toward the school gate under the evening sky.
"The drama club president is known for her… aggressive recruitment tactics," Reo says, a hint of wry amusement in his voice. He doesn't seem angry, more resigned. "And it's true that it looks good for the student council. It's fine."
"Are you sure?" I ask, feeling a pang of guilt. He had just told me at lunch that he chose to spend his time helping me. Now a chunk of that time has been forcibly allocated to managing stage props and cue cards.
"It's fine, Tsukimi-san," he repeats, and this time, he looks at me. The setting sun catches in his dark eyes. "Actually, it's… probably for the best. It's a structured activity. It's in a controlled environment. Another anchor." He's reframing it, turning an unexpected complication into a piece of the system. He's protecting the routine. Protecting me.
The unspoken part hangs in the air between us: And now I have an official reason to be near you after school.
The walk home is quiet. The weight of the day—the scare on the stairs, the sensory overload at the fair, the unexpected plunge into the world of theater—is settling heavily on my shoulders. I'm exhausted in a way that feels deeper than just physical tiredness. It's the exhaustion of living a life on high alert, constantly translating clues and managing a secret I can't even fully remember.
At my gate, we say our goodbyes. The usual "See you tomorrow" feels heavier tonight. We both know that for me, the girl he says goodbye to will be gone in a few hours, replaced by a new one who will have to learn everything all over again.
In my room, the Great Wall of Arisa greets me. I add a new photo Nami had pressed into my hand before she left—a blurry selfie of us in the gymnasium, the chaos of the club fair a colorful smear behind us. Next to it, I pin the drama club interest sheet. My name and Reo's, just a few lines apart. Another pixel in the mosaic of my forgotten day.
My nightly ritual begins. It's become a comfort, a way to anchor the day's fleeting memories before they dissolve. I pull out a fresh postcard, one with a picture of a quiet, empty stage, and sit down at my desk.
My pen flies across the small space. Today was… a lot. You almost fell on the stairs, but Reo caught you. It felt… familiar. His touch. Your body remembers it. The words make me blush, even though I'm only writing them to myself. I tell her about the overwhelming club fair, about the calming effect of the drama club's monologue, about how we both accidentally-on-purpose joined.
Then, as the sky outside darkens from purple to indigo, a new feeling begins to creep in. A subtle, growing dread. It's not just the knowledge that my memories are about to be erased. It's a deeper, more primal fear of the oblivion itself. For the first time, the coming reset feels less like a clinical condition and more like a thief, sneaking into my room to steal my day from me. Today was a good day. It was scary and confusing, but it felt like… progress. The body memory on the stairs was real. The peace I felt listening to the monologue was real. I don't want to give it up. I don't want to forget the feeling of Reo's hand on my wrist, or the look in his eyes when he talked about our "shared ritual."
My hand trembles as I write the last few lines on the postcard, my own small act of rebellion against the inevitable. A message of comfort for the scared girl who will wake up here tomorrow.
It's scary, I know. It feels like you're about to fall asleep and die. But you won't. You'll wake up. This room will be here. Haruto will be here. I pause, looking around at the soft glow of my desk lamp, the three small, glowing star-stickers on my nightstand that I insisted Haruto put up—a tiny piece of my old room, my "before" room, recreated here. They are my lighthouses in the dark.
If you wake up scared, count the three lights by your bed. They're always there. I add Reo's name to the list of constants, then sign off with my initial.
I set the postcard on the nightstand, right where it's supposed to go, a beacon for my future self. I go through the motions of getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth, changing into my pajamas. The sense of impending doom grows with each passing minute. The sun has set. The thief is at the door.
I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, my eyes fixed on the three small, glowing stars on the nightstand. My lighthouses. They pulse with a gentle, phosphorescent green. One. Two. Three.
They are steady. They are predictable. They are safe.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and close my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. Please, I think, a desperate, silent plea to no one. Let me remember something. Just one thing.
I must drift off, because the next thing I'm aware of is a sound. A soft, guttural thump, followed by a series of clicks. My eyes snap open.
The room is plunged into an absolute, disorienting darkness.
My three lighthouses are gone. The glowing numbers of my digital clock are gone. Even the faint moonlight that usually filters through the window is gone, swallowed by a thick, heavy bank of clouds.
A storm. The thud was probably a branch hitting the roof. The clicks were the circuit breakers. My rational mind processes the information, but my body is screaming with a primal terror that goes beyond a simple power outage.
My entire system—the sixty-second video, the bright morning light, the gentle alarm chime—is gone. The anchors have been cut. I'm not just adrift; I'm sinking in a silent, black ocean.
The postcard. I wrote about the lights. I told myself to count the lights. But what happens when the lights go out? Panic, cold and absolute, seizes me. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. The fragile scaffolding of my morning routine, so carefully constructed, has been utterly demolished.
The postcard is written, the photos are on the wall, but a flicker from outside tells me a storm is about to hit—and the power goes out.