The café was small, warm, and just a little too quiet.
Sora sat opposite Asuka, elbows awkwardly on the polished table, his fingers lightly drumming against the side of his cup. The steam rising from it blurred her face for just a moment—until she leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with that same casual confidence that always made him feel out of place.
"So," she began, stirring the cream into her coffee with deliberate slowness, "you don't usually hang out with girls on weekends. What changed?"
He shifted in his seat. "Kazuki," he muttered.
Asuka laughed, soft and teasing. "Figures."
They ordered—an omurice for her, a simple sandwich and miso soup for him. The waitress took their menus with a polite nod and left them alone again with the low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery around them.
Conversation drifted easily at first—safe topics. University, club activities, the absurdly long reading list their professor had dumped on them. Asuka carried most of it, her voice smooth, animated. But eventually, the questions began to wander. Curiosity crept into her tone like a shadow at the edge of a lantern's light.
"You still live with your parents?" she asked casually.
Sora hesitated, then gave a vague nod. "Not really. It's complicated."
"You've mentioned siblings before, right? Brothers, sisters?"
He froze.
Asuka's head tilted slightly, sensing the shift in his posture. "I don't think you've ever told me how many."
Sora didn't answer right away. His eyes were on the half-empty cup in front of him, watching the cream swirl into a pale vortex.
"How come you never talk about them?" she asked, not unkindly, just curious. "Are they annoying or something?"
A pause.
"...Just stop," Sora said sharply.
His voice came out louder than he meant it to, slicing through the warmth of the moment like cold steel. He looked up at her, eyes suddenly hard.
"I told you I don't want to talk about it."
The silence that followed was thick and immediate. A couple at a nearby table glanced over, then turned away just as quickly. Asuka's smile faltered.
"I—I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Sora pushed back his chair. "I'll be right back," he muttered, already walking toward the restroom.
He leaned against the cool tile wall inside the single stall, staring at the floor. His pulse was too fast. His hands were damp.
Why did I snap like that…?
When he stepped out of the restroom and returned to the table, the bill was gone. Asuka sat with her hands in her lap, eyes on the window, pretending not to notice him approach.
He sat down quietly.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
After the café, Asuka didn't say where they were headed next.
"Just follow me," she said, a spark of mischief returning to her eyes as they walked to the station.
They caught the Yamanote Line from Shibuya, the city blurring past as the train hummed northward. Sora didn't press her about the destination—he was still caught somewhere between the weight of what he'd said and the quiet way she'd forgiven it.
They arrived in Ueno as the sun began setting behind the horizon, leaving behind a deep orange hue hugging the soft spring clouds. The wind had lost its winter bite but still flowed chilly, and seamlessly through the trees. Early sakura buds speckled the branches above, not yet in full bloom, but pink enough to soften the air with their promise. Families strolled by in gentle clusters. A couple fed pigeons near the fountain.
Ueno Park stretched wide and calm before them, like a canvas brushed with all the subtle colors of early spring.
Asuka walked ahead, hands clasped behind her back. Sora followed, his pace unhurried, taking in the stillness around him. It felt… different. Like they had stepped out of the city's relentless rhythm and into a memory.
She led him past the pond and the towering gate of the zoo, straight toward a tall stone building nestled like a quiet giant among the trees. The Tokyo National Museum.
Sora blinked. "Wait… this is where we're going?"
"Yep." Asuka shot him a grin. "I figured if I can't get you to open up, I can at least get you to nerd out a little."
He actually laughed—quietly, but real. "You're not wrong."
Inside, the museum was hushed and cool, the marble floors gleaming under soft lights. They wandered through grand halls lined with glass cases, each one a window into some far-flung era. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something old—dust, maybe, or time itself.
They entered the timeline exhibit, a long, winding gallery that traced the story of Japan from its earliest moments. It started with fragments of obsidian tools and arrowheads from the Jōmon period, the primitive shapes lit reverently behind glass. The quiet of the room pressed in, encouraging stillness, focus.
Pottery came next—rounded, rope-patterned, and ancient. Sora slowed as they walked, his gaze lingering longer and longer on each display.
Then came the Kofun era. Iron swords. Armor. Burial mounds rendered in miniature. He felt a pull—like something just beneath his skin stirred as they walked deeper into history.
And then—
The Heian period.
Lacquered wood. Calligraphy brushed on aged silk. A noblewoman's robe preserved behind glass, faded but still elegant, with its trailing sleeves and layered colors. Models of court life—of palanquins and poetry scrolls and small, ornate mirrors.
Sora stopped in front of it all.
He couldn't move on.
He didn't even notice when Asuka did.
His eyes lingered on the details—an ink set, nearly identical to the one he'd seen yesterday in the inn, belonging to one of the noble women. The faint curl of script on old paper, too fragile to touch, but not too far from something he knew.
He felt like he was looking backward… or inward. Or both.
He didn't have words for the feeling.
Only a strange certainty.
He'd been here.
Not in this museum, not even in Tokyo—
But here.
In that time.
In that world.
And it was calling to him still.
Asuka had wandered ahead, her voice drifting back as she pointed from one display to another.
"Look at this," she said, waving him over. "It's a painted scroll of Heian-kyō. Like, the actual capital back then. Can you imagine walking through this place?"
Sora joined her slowly. The scroll stretched wide beneath the glass, a hand-painted panorama of the imperial city—grand gates, quiet pavilions, narrow streets winding between tiled rooftops. Figures in layered silk robes moved through its alleys like brushstrokes in motion.
"There's something so… peaceful about it," Asuka went on. "It's weird, right? You'd think life back then would feel more primitive, but this—" she gestured to the scene "—this feels like a dream. Imagine actually seeing it."
Sora didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Every detail clawed at something deep inside him. It wasn't just art. It felt real. Familiar. Like he'd seen the city itself. From above the mountains, he still remembered the setting sunlight falling over the ancient city.
They continued through the exhibit, slowly, reverently. Sora barely heard Asuka's voice as she pointed to poems scrawled on faded parchment, to combs carved from bone, to bells etched with lotus petals. Everything blurred until they reached the final display.
It stood alone.
A glass case at the centre of the final hall, lit like a shrine.
Within it, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a robe.
It was impossibly well-preserved—layers of patterned silk in crimson, ivory, and dusky lavender, each fold arranged with care. The sleeves trailed like waterfalls of fabric. Golden thread ran along the seams, delicate yet firm, like veins still carrying life through the cloth.
Asuka stepped closer, her face alight. "Wow… this must've belonged to someone super important. The Fujiwara clan, maybe? Look at the colours. Can you imagine wearing something like that?"
Sora didn't speak.
He stared, as if frozen in place. His mouth was slightly parted, his breath caught halfway.
Something in his chest squeezed.
Asuka tilted her head at him. "You good?"
He didn't look at her.
Didn't blink.
And then—quietly, as if afraid of the words themselves—
"This is exactly that robe the Fujiwara lady wore."
Asuka blinked, confused. "Huh?"
But Sora didn't answer.
He just kept staring, the fabric reflected in his eyes like a memory trying to claw its way out of him.
Dazed from what just happened, Sora followed Asuka silently through the rest of the exhibit. His body moved, but his mind felt adrift—like a paper lantern caught in the wind, drifting farther with every step.
Asuka didn't seem to notice at first. She kept talking, her tone light and curious, pointing out fragments of pottery, lacquered writing boxes, a diorama of a court banquet with miniature nobles in silk robes.
"Look at this one," she said, pausing at a polished bronze mirror. "They used to believe these held spirits. Isn't that kinda romantic?"
Sora nodded vaguely, eyes distant. He looked like a ghost trailing behind her—expression slack, focus shattered.
It wasn't until they reached the far end of the exhibit that the calm snapped.
There, in a plain alcove with no golden lights or reverent music, stood three reconstructed skeletons. Just bones. Laid bare.
Two adult males, one preadolescent girl.
The bones were arranged side by side under the glass floor, backs aligned, hands folded neatly across ribcages that had once risen with breath. The skulls had been carefully preserved, mouths closed, eyes forever lost.
Sora stopped walking.
His heart slammed into his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Asuka's voice faded into a murmur as he stared at the inscription beneath the display:
"Excavated near modern-day Kyoto, once Heian-kyō.
Two adult males and one young girl, estimated 15–18 years old.
Believed to be buried together posthumously. Exact identities unknown.
Presumed to be family."
Sora didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The words echoed in his skull—one young girl… presumed to be family.
No dates.
No names.
Just bones in a case, turned into history.
He didn't know how long he stood there before Asuka circled back and gave a gentle tug at his sleeve.
"Sora?" she asked, softly now. "You okay?"
He looked at her—but didn't answer.
Because somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, in a place that logic couldn't reach, he knew.
He knew who those bones belonged to.
Alongside the skeletons lay several preserved items, protected behind thick glass in their own isolated alcove. No gold, no weapons—just the quiet remnants of lives now reduced to names like "Unknown 1" and "Presumed Male, Age ~40."
Sora drifted toward the display, his footsteps soundless on the museum floor.
He moved like a ghost among ghosts.
One by one, the artifacts passed before him: fragments of wooden combs, a cracked lacquer box, a pair of sandals made from thin bark fiber, a knife rusted into near-obscurity.
But two objects made his breath catch.
The first: a scroll, laid flat, its paper so weathered it had browned like old leaves. The ink was nearly gone, its strokes faded beyond recognition. Whatever had been written there had died with time—and yet, Sora felt it. A thread pulling at him, whispering without sound. It wasn't just paper. It was a message. Her message.
He stepped closer.
The second object stood tall behind the glass: a freestanding screen, its painted surface scuffed by age, but unmistakable in shape and design.
A tsuitate.
Not just any screen—it was the tsuitate. The exact one Yasuhiro had set up for him… no, for her, the morning of the ambush. The moment before the arrow flew. The moment everything fractured.
The painted crane along its edge, the faint outline of cherry blossoms—it was all the same.
Sora stared, unmoving, his eyes wide with a terror that had no name. His thoughts were gone, scattered like ashes. His body trembled in the cold silence of the museum, even though the room was warm.
His—her grave.
His— her funeral.
His—her bones.
This was it.
This was where the past had ended—and somehow, impossibly, he had been there.
A voice pierced the fog.
"Asuka?" he whispered, not even realizing he'd spoken.
She turned from another display and blinked at him, eyebrows knitting together as she walked over. Her teasing tone had faded into something gentler.
"You okay?" she asked, leaning in. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Then she smiled awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood.
"Almost like you saw your own grave."
The words hit like thunder.
Sora didn't respond. He couldn't.
Because maybe…
Maybe he had.
The scent of ancient wood and polished glass, the silence of time frozen behind display cases—it all faded, replaced by the quiet hum of his bedroom's ceiling light and the gentle rattle of trains passing in the distance.
Sora sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, fingers still faintly trembling.
Had he found her?
Was that skeleton—the smaller one with the delicate frame and the traces of dyed silk still clinging to its remains—Akiko?
The question haunted him, looping endlessly.
He didn't know how it happened. He didn't know when. Whether it was days from now, weeks, or months. He didn't know what became of Tsukasa, or Yasuhiro, or the retainers that saved his life—her—life. But as he stood there in that sterile museum, staring through glass into a grave, something inside him knew.
It was them.
It was her.
And the worst part?
If he'd known this yesterday, he might have done something. He might've found a way to warn her. To tell her about the danger. To convince her not to go down that road, not to step into whatever tragedy had carved their names from history and left them as dust.
But he didn't.
And now… maybe it was too late.
He sat still for a long while, the quiet stretching thin around him. A part of him was afraid to sleep. What if he didn't switch again? What if today had been his last window into her world?
But another part—a quieter one—began to stir.
Because if this really was the end for her, then why had he still woken up in her body yesterday? Why was the tsuitate still there? Why did he remember everything that had happened to him—her.
The gears in his mind began to turn.
There was still time.
Or at least he hoped.
If he could wake up as Akiko again…
If he could piece things together…
Maybe—just maybe—he could change the past.
And this time, he wouldn't waste it.
He had to prepare.
If—when—he switched back, he couldn't afford to be blind again. Not this time.
His mind circled back to the exhibit. The plaque beneath the glass, with its quiet, factual horror. Cranial trauma, it said. For the two men. Clean, detached words. No names. No stories. Just: wounds to the head.
But the girl…
Sora clenched his fists.
She had been found with her limbs bound. Wrists and ankles, still marked with the frayed remains of ancient rope. The text didn't elaborate—just stated it plainly, as if it were nothing more than another artifact. Another detail in a line of history too long to care.
Tied down?
Was it an ambush?
Were Tsukasa and Yasuhiro—his friends—shot in the head while they slept? Or cut down trying to protect her? Was it the archer? Or someone else entirely?
And Akiko—why restrain her?
Sora's breath caught in his throat.
Why tie her hands and feet… unless she was thrown in alive?
The thought made him feel sick. His heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
No one had said that outright. But he could feel it, in the way the words were written, in the silence between the lines. The suggestion lingered like a shadow.
It wasn't a battlefield. It wasn't war.
It was execution.
His jaw tightened.
If that was her fate—if she really died like that—then the clock was ticking. He didn't know how much time he had left, but every moment here, in his own body, was a wasted chance unless he made it count.
He needed a plan.
He needed to be ready for the next time.
Because he would go back. He had to. And when he did, he wouldn't just play the part of a confused outsider trapped in someone else's world.
He would be the one to change it.
And maybe… just maybe… he could stop it from happening at all.
He started writing notes.
Not the kind he wanted to write—not yet. No long explanations. No desperate warnings in all caps.
Because if Akiko ever woke up in his body again… he didn't want to scare her.
He couldn't imagine how overwhelming it must have been for her the first time. Alone, disoriented, surrounded by glowing rectangles and humming machines. No familiar smells, no paper walls, no sky. Just… noise and light.
So he grabbed a sticky pad and started small.
FRIDGE, he wrote in bold letters, then scribbled underneath:
Keeps food cool and preserved longer. MAKE SURE TO SHUT IT CLOSE.
He slapped it onto the door, then moved on.
MICROWAVE
Heats up food fast. Push buttons to set time. Careful—it gets hot inside.
TOILET
Flushes water to clean. Handle on the side.
He went through every room. Labelling. Explaining. In simple, gentle words.
Remote controls, shampoo bottles, light switches. Even the kettle got a note.
He wasn't sure if she'd ever see them. Or if she'd even understand half of it. But it was something. A way to ease her into his world. A way to make up for not realizing she'd been here before—alone, and likely terrified.
And beneath all of that, buried under every carefully chosen word and stick-on label… was hope.
Hope that she'd wake up here again.
Hope that he would wake up there again.
And when that happened, he wouldn't waste a second.
After finishing the last label, Sora collapsed into bed.
His mind, however, refused to rest.
How do you prevent something that's already happened?
Was that even possible?
He didn't know. And he didn't have time to figure it out.
Not tonight.
But sleep wouldn't come. He kept shifting beneath the blanket, one side to the other, his thoughts spinning in tight, painful circles. Every time he closed his eyes, the museum returned—the skeletons, the rope, the shattered pottery.
The plaque.
He blinked in the dark and turned toward his nightstand, where his phone rested. A little yellow post-it was still stuck to the screen from earlier:
Green keeps the alarm going. Red turns it off.
His handwriting stared back at him, childish in its simplicity.
He lifted the note to check the time.
11:58 PM
He had to sleep.
If Akiko woke up in his body tomorrow, she'd have to get through school, and he couldn't have her exhausted. He owed her that much. More, really.
He placed the phone down gently and exhaled, trying to empty his head.
11:59 PM
And then—
Everything went black.