The words echoed in Ili's mind as he jolted awake, chest tightening.
He sat frozen in his airplane seat, eyes wide, breath shallow. The dream—if that's what it was—faded too fast to hold onto. Rain. A pendant. A girl's silhouette disappearing in the storm.
Gone.
Only the soft hum of the engine remained. Fluorescent cabin lights flickered overhead, sterile and distant.
He looked down, half-expecting something to be in his hands.
Nothing. Just the armrest.
But the feeling—the weight of something lost—remained.
A dream.
Or… something more?
A dull ache pressed against his chest, the ghost of a memory hovering just out of reach.
Then, the intercom crackled.
"We will be landing in Tokyo shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts."
Japan.
The word settled heavily in his mind, grounding him in the present. As the voice faded, Ili exhaled, steadying himself. Whatever he'd seen—felt—it was already slipping away, like ink swirling in water. And yet, a quiet unrest lingered in his chest.
Somehow, it didn't feel like just a dream.
A place he'd known before.
But why did it feel like something was waiting for him there?
The humid warmth of Tokyo embraced him the moment he stepped outside the airport. The contrast to the chilled, air-conditioned terminal startled him. He paused on the curb, inhaling deeply.
Roasted chestnuts from a nearby food stall. The sharp tang of summer rain. A faint trace of exhaust.
It hit him all at once—nostalgia.
"Ah… Japan," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He tightened his grip on his backpack strap. It should've felt comforting. It almost did. But beneath the surface stirred something heavier. Something quieter. Like a song half-remembered, playing just beyond reach.
Why does it feel so important to be here?
Not just memories. Not just culture or food. Something more.
Like I left something behind… or something's been waiting.
—
Dragging his suitcase along, the wheels clicking rhythmically, Ili moved toward the taxi stand. His eyes caught the skyline—tall glass buildings, neon signs blinking in early twilight. It was the Tokyo he remembered. But different.
Or maybe he was.
A flash of white caught his eye: a chauffeur near the curb, standing with perfect posture. In his hand was a placard that read:
"Ili Han-Akil"
Ili stopped mid-step. His full name, printed so formally—it felt surreal. Like the city itself had been expecting him.
He approached the man, heart thudding softly, and nodded.
"It feels like I'm supposed to remember something," he whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the hum of the city.
The taxi ride into the heart of Tokyo was smooth, the driver making polite conversation as the city blurred past. Ili offered simple replies, his attention focused outside the window.
The bright neon signs and busy crosswalks sparked fragmented memories, their edges soft and dreamlike. He recognized them, yet they felt distant, like a story he'd once heard but couldn't quite recall.
His hand brushed the edge of his pocket, where the wisteria pendant rested. Its familiar weight grounded him, though he still didn't understand why he'd brought it. It wasn't just sentimental. It meant something. He was sure of it. But what?
The car pulled to a gentle stop on a narrow, tree-lined street. Cicadas chirped in the evening warmth, their calls steady and rhythmic. The scent of freshly baked sweet potatoes floated from a nearby house.
Ili stepped out, letting the air settle over him.
It's all here.
So why does it feel like something's… missing?
A gate creaked open.
"Ili-kun!"
Mrs. Nakamura stood there, arms wide, a smile that could light up a room.
Her graying hair was tied back neatly, her eyes sparkling just as he remembered.
"You've come back! It's been too long."
Ili let out a quiet laugh, warmth spreading through his chest. "Mrs. Nakamura, you haven't changed a bit."
"Flatterer!" she teased, pulling him into a tight embrace. "And you—still as sharp as ever, I hope?"
"Sharp might be pushing it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
She studied him for a moment. Her smile softened, but something unreadable flickered in her eyes. "You always were a dreamer. Always scribbling in that notebook of yours—what was it again? Stories? Poems?"
Her words tugged at something inside him. A brief image: a wooden desk, sunlight, the scratch of pen on paper. A whisper of wisteria in the breeze.
Then—gone.
"Yeah… something like that," he said, unsure if he believed it himself.
She didn't press. Just gestured warmly. "Come in. Your room's just as you left it."
The wooden floor creaked under his feet. Everything felt untouched by time—low desk, neatly rolled futon, a small window that opened to the quiet street.
Ili sat down and began unpacking. His hands moved slowly, methodically, until they brushed against something smooth and old.
A box.
Small. Plain. But something about it made his heart skip.
He opened it carefully.
Nestled inside: a silver pendant shaped like a wisteria flower, glinting faintly in the dusk light.
He turned it over with trembling fingers.
There—etched faintly into the back:
Promise we'll find our way back to each other.
The words hit him like a wave.
A memory he couldn't reach.
A name he couldn't remember.
A promise he didn't recall making.
"Did someone… give this to me?"
"Why does it feel like I'm supposed to remember?"
He shut his eyes tightly, hoping something would surface. But nothing came.
Only silence.
He placed the pendant back in its box, but the inscription echoed in his chest like a forgotten melody.
He needed air.
He needed a distraction.
"Come on, Ili, get it together," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're probably overthinking this." Yet as he placed the pendant back in its box, the words on the inscription lingered in his mind, an unshakable presence.
He shook off the strange feeling and decided to head out to the city center, needing to clear his head and reacquaint himself with the vibrant streets of Tokyo.
Later that evening, he wandered the vibrant heart of the city.
Crosswalks danced with light. Laughter spilled from izakayas. A group of students ran past, chasing each other with paper fans.
He passed a crowded café.
And stopped.
Across the street, under the golden halo of a streetlamp, stood a girl.
Long dark hair. Posture still. As if waiting.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Something inside him stilled.
Recognition. Or something like it.
But before he could move, before he could even breathe—she vanished into the crowd.
His heart thudded in his chest. His hand went to his pocket, fingers brushing the pendant's edge.
"Who was that…?"
The pendant felt heavier than before.
And somewhere deep inside, he knew—
She held a piece of the answer.