(Opening Re-Orient Card - Arisa's Voice)
"Good morning. It's Day Five. Remember the plan: Itsuki is trying to create interference by pairing you with Satoru for a project. Satoru is a friend; he is safe, but he is part of a plan that is not his own. The new rule is your priority: as soon as your work with Satoru is done, you text Reo. Your time with Reo is the anchor. Don't let the polite ghost at the front of the classroom, or the kind ghost from your childhood, make you forget the boy who is waiting for your 'today'. The star on your postcard is him. Find him after."
The morning's instructions are a compass, pointing me toward my true north. The new seating chart is in effect, and sitting in the back row with Nami, with the whole classroom stretching out between me and Itsuki, feels like a small but significant victory. I can still feel his presence, a cold spot in the room's atmosphere, but the physical distance helps. It's harder for him to feel like a predator when he can no longer see his prey.
After the last bell, the inevitable moment arrives. Satoru meets me at my desk, a stack of books already in his hands.
"Ready to tackle some ancient poetry?" he asks, his smile a little strained. He's caught in the middle of this, and I can tell he knows it. He's too perceptive not to feel the tension radiating off me, not to see the way Reo waits for me by the school gate every single day.
"Let's do it," I say, forcing a brightness I don't feel.
We walk to the library in an awkward silence. Reo is not at the gate today; we agreed it would be better if he wasn't a visible, waiting presence, which would only make things more uncomfortable for Satoru. He's a pawn in Itsuki's game, but he's an innocent one.
The library, our old sanctuary, now feels like a neutral, foreign territory. We find an empty table in the history section—predictably grim, a ghost of a voice whispers in my head—and get to work.
For two hours, we are just students. We read, we take notes, we debate the symbolism in a series of obscure Meiji-era poems. And I have to admit, it's… nice. Satoru is easy to be with. The shared history I can remember, the one from our childhood, creates a comfortable shorthand. He remembers my ridiculous fear of caterpillars, I remember the time he broke his arm falling out of a tree. It's a solid, simple friendship that exists outside the complex, tangled web of my post-accident life.
And that, I realize, is what makes Itsuki's plan so brilliant. Being with Satoru feels safe. It feels normal. It's a temporary escape from the high-stakes world of resets and forged documents. It's an oasis, and an oasis in the middle of a desert can be a dangerous, tempting thing. It can make you want to stay where it's safe, instead of continuing the hard journey.
As we're packing up our books, the sun sinking low in the sky, Satoru finally breaks the academic silence.
"Hey, Tsukimi-chan," he begins, not quite meeting my eyes. "That guy… Kisaragi. You two seem… really serious."
"We are," I say, my voice quiet but firm.
He nods, staring at a scuff on his shoe. "I saw him at the festival. And… after the storm. He really looks out for you." He finally looks up, and his expression is full of a genuine, bittersweet kindness. "He makes you happy. The way you used to be, before… everything. I just… I wanted you to know that I see it. And I'm glad."
It's an absolution. A white flag. He's not a rival, not anymore. He's a friend, officially and gently bowing out of a race he never truly entered. "Thank you, Satoru-kun," I say, and the gratitude is immense. "That… means a lot to me."
"Okay," he says, a real, unburdened smile finally returning to his face. "Well, I will see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time."
The second he's out of sight, I pull out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. Library mission complete. Status: Not seduced by the forces of nostalgic friendship.
The reply from Reo is instantaneous. Excellent work, agent. Rendezvous at the usual extraction point in five.
The "extraction point" is the bench in the park, the one with the swings. He's there when I arrive, a small paper bag in his hands. The relief I feel at seeing him, solid and real and waiting just for me, is a powerful wave. The comfortable quiet of my afternoon with Satoru was nice. This is home.
"Mission successful?" he asks, a playful light in his eyes.
"Mission successful," I confirm, sinking onto the bench beside him. "He was a perfect gentleman. And he… he basically gave us his blessing."
Reo's expression softens. "He's a good person," he says quietly. "He always was."
He hands me the paper bag. Inside are two warm taiyaki, the sweet, fish-shaped cakes filled with red bean paste. The smell is instantly, powerfully familiar.
"Another piece of the 'before'," he explains, seeing the look on my face. "You used to say they were the perfect 'thinking snack'."
We eat in comfortable silence, the sweet pastry a small, delicious link to a past I'm slowly, piece by piece, being invited back into. The interference of the afternoon has faded, and this time, our time, feels sacred. Protected.
When we're finished, he pulls a small, velvet-wrapped object from his pocket. "I was going to give you this… before," he says, his voice a little hesitant. "Back then. For your birthday. But after the accident… it didn't seem right. But now… now it feels like it's time."
He unwraps it and places it in my palm. It's a simple, elegant silver locket on a delicate chain. It's cool and heavy in my hand. My fingers, guided by instinct, find the tiny, almost invisible clasp. It clicks open.
Inside, there are two spaces for photos. One side is empty. The other holds a tiny, perfectly cut-out picture. It's him. Not a formal school photo, but a candid shot, the one I'd taken of him in the photo booth just a few days ago, the one where he is laughing, his guard completely down. The proof of our Day One.
"One side is for the story we started," he explains softly. "The new one. Our now." He gently touches the empty side of the locket with his fingertip. "And this side… is for you. You can leave it empty. Or… you could put the old photo in it. The Polaroid from the accident file. It's your choice. Your past and your present, both yours to hold onto, or to let go of."
It's the most thoughtful, profound gift I have ever received. He's not just giving me a piece of jewelry. He's giving me control over my own narrative, the power to choose how I carry my own complex, fractured history.
"Help me put it on?" I whisper, my throat tight.
His fingers are warm as he fastens the delicate chain around my neck. The locket settles against my skin, its cool weight a constant, comforting presence. It feels like it's always been there. It feels like a promise. A physical, tangible anchor that I will wake up to every single morning, a piece of him that survives the reset, a story I can wear against my heart.