"She never knew her obsession could break the world."
Born centuries too late yet tied to a name she cannot forget,
Hannah's search for truth unravels the boundary between history and fate—
until the echoes of a warlord's vow begin calling her by another soul's name.
⸻
The House Called "Castle"
The delivery man had already been waiting for ten minutes when I finally burst out of the front door—hair flying like loose ribbons in the morning wind.
"Coming!" I shouted, half laughing, half gasping as I hopped down the last two steps.
Behind me, Satoru's voice echoed from the hall. "Hurry up, they're going to leave again!"
The driver straightened when he saw me, relief softening his face. He glanced up at the sprawling façade behind me and gave a low whistle.
"I see now why the instructions said, 'ask the Main Guards for the house called castle.'"
He chuckled, still half in awe. "Ma'am, this really is a castle."
I smiled politely while catching my breath. "We bought it like this," I said, taking the clipboard from his hand. "Before the village started putting up all those design restrictions."
My signature flowed across the paper, curving like the lettering on an old map — my mom always said I wrote like I was trying to cast a spell.
The man's gaze drifted back to the building. "Ah, so that's why all the other houses look... modern."
"Exactly." I turned slightly, following his line of sight.
The morning light hit the mansion's stone façade, and for a heartbeat it could've been a frame lifted from another century. Turrets pierced the skyline; ivy crawled along the weathered walls, glinting gold in the sun. White balustrades traced the veranda like lace, and the massive arched windows—imported glass, my brother said—mirrored clouds drifting over the mountains. Even the iron gate bore a crest no one could recognize anymore.
"You're lucky, miss," he said, his tone softening. "Feels like stepping into another world."
My lips twitched, somewhere between amusement and agreement. Another world, I thought. "Sometimes it does," I murmured.
He thanked me, pocketed the tip I slipped him, and drove off. The sound of tires on gravel faded, leaving behind only the whisper of wind through the vines.
Satoru appeared beside me a heartbeat later, still in his paint-splattered shirt.
"What did we order this time?" he asked, peering over my shoulder.
"Not we—me," I said, tightening my grip around the package. "It's a picture I found from an old shop in Kawaguchiko."
He leaned in. "A painting?"
I peeled back the wrapping carefully. Inside was a framed photograph, the colors muted and almost sepia. A countryside stretched within it — a quiet road lined with cherry trees, a field of reeds bending toward a lake, and Mount Fuji in the distance, crowned with morning mist.
Satoru whistled. "Beautiful. You're collecting these like memories you never had."
I didn't answer right away. The air smelled faintly of rain even though the sky was bright. "Doesn't it feel... familiar?" I asked quietly.
He blinked. "We've never been there."
"Maybe in another life." I smiled as I said it, but my voice trembled — just a little — like the thought carried a weight I couldn't name.
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and patted my shoulder. "You and your déjà vu theories. Come on, breakfast's getting cold."
I nodded, but my gaze lingered on the mountain in the photo. For a moment, I could've sworn I heard faint temple bells carried by the wind.
⸻
Inside, the house smelled of paper and old wood. Morning light pooled through the wide windows, painting shifting squares across the marble floor. The dining table was cluttered with Satoru's blueprints — he was an architect, forever halfway between deadlines — and an untouched plate of pancakes waited for me.
I placed the framed photo against the wall near the stairs. Above me, the turret creaked softly, like a tower breathing after centuries of silence.
I looked up and laughed to myself. "You really are a castle," I whispered.
Somewhere upstairs, an old clock chimed nine times. The sound rippled through the hall — ancient, steady, oddly comforting.
And for the briefest second, I heard another chime overlapping it — clearer, metallic, as though struck not by a clock hammer but by steel.
The echo vanished before I could place it.
⸻
I brushed it off, carried my coffee to the veranda, and looked out across the village. The rooftops below glittered in the light — modern, efficient, sterile. Our house stood like a relic among them, stubbornly refusing to belong.
I traced the rim of my mug, my reflection rippling on the surface. Another world, I thought again.
Maybe it was only architecture. Maybe nostalgia.
Or maybe—just maybe—some part of me remembered exactly what this castle once was.
⸻
The phone buzzed against the railing.
KEI: Running late again?
ME: Give me ten. Still alive.
I smiled. He always texted like a teacher pretending not to care.
⸻
By the time I reached the café, the afternoon light had softened to a watercolor hue. The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside—warm, familiar, a sound that always pulled me back from whatever century my thoughts had wandered into.
Steam curled from the espresso machine, and the smell of roasted beans clung to the air. A figure behind the counter glanced up; his eyes flicked toward me with that easy, knowing look, the kind reserved for people who showed up too often to still be called customers.
He didn't say anything, just lifted a brow and slid a cup toward the corner booth—the one we always claimed.
"Saved you the quiet table," someone called.
I turned to see Mayu waving a stack of papers like a flag of surrender, Riku balancing his laptop precariously on one hand. Our group's usual chaos was already in full swing.
"Finally," Mayu said. "We can actually start before we die of caffeine overdose."
I dropped into the seat opposite her. "So? Title ideas?"
Riku grinned. "I vote for The Myth of Memory."
Mayu groaned. "Pretentious. Ours is a documentary, not a poetry contest."
I leaned back, tracing the condensation ring on my cup. "Threaded Souls," I murmured, half-to-myself.
They both paused.
"That sounds creepy," Riku said.
"That sounds intriguing," Mayu corrected.
I smiled faintly. "It just... fits. You'll see."
Across the counter, Kei glanced our way again, as if the words had tugged something at the edge of his memory.