Even long after the final bell had rung, Rin Takeda could not shake the ghost of Nagi's voice.
“Sir... do you ever wake up exactly before 3:00 AM?”
He left the school through the side entrance and turned onto the narrow street behind the campus.
Rainwater ran along the edges of the pavement, collecting around storm drains clogged with fallen leaves. The school stood behind him, its windows glowing pale against the grey afternoon.
Rin walked toward the station.
Mizuhara was already settling into its evening rhythm.
Students in dark uniforms gathered beneath convenience-store awnings, laughing as they shared umbrellas. A delivery truck idled beside a small bakery while a worker carried boxes inside. Bicycle tires hissed over the wet pavement.
Above the rooftops, the elevated railway cut across the neighborhood. A train slid past through the mist, its windows glowing warm against the dull grey sky.
Beyond it, the mountains rose behind Mizuhara. On clear days, Rin could see their ridgelines from the school. Today, clouds covered most of them.
He passed a row of narrow shops beneath faded awnings—a stationery store, a ramen shop preparing for the evening crowd, and a laundromat glowing through steamed-up windows. A woman outside a florist pulled a plastic cover over buckets of flowers.
Nobody seemed to notice the rain anymore.
Rin didn't either.
He had walked these streets too many times.
The main road faded behind him as he turned onto a quieter street. Fewer cars passed between the narrow buildings, their balconies crowded with umbrellas and drying laundry.
At the end of the street stood a three-story building with a simple sign beside the entrance.
He stopped beneath the awning.
The rain drummed softly above him.
Rin looked at the glass door for a moment.
Then he went inside.
Every Thursday, he spent an hour in this quiet room, talking about things he usually kept to himself. Today, he had more on his mind than usual.
Two comfortable couches faced each other across a low wooden table. A small lamp cast a warm pool of light over the room, while bookshelves filled one wall. A few plants stood near the window, their leaves trembling whenever the rain touched the glass.
There was no imposing desk between them. No examination chair. Nothing that made the room feel clinical.
Rin took the same couch he always used, settling near the armrest.
The psychologist sat opposite him, a thin notebook resting on the table between them.
“You're early.”
Rin glanced at the clock on the wall. “Three minutes.”
“You noticed.”
“It's a clock.”
A faint smile touched her face. “Coffee?”
Rin shook his head. “Had some a little while ago.”
“How was your day?”
Rin paused.
“Fine.”
She waited.
Rin realized she was watching him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you're lost in thought.”
“I do?”
“A little.”
She smiled faintly.
“You've been coming here too long.”
“Apparently.”
She leaned back into the couch.
“So?”
Rin looked toward the window.
“It was normal.”
“Normal?”
Rin was quiet for a moment.
“Mostly.”
She nodded as though she had expected that answer.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“And you're tired.”
“I'm fine.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine.”
Rin gave her a tired look.
“You always ask.”
She nodded slightly.
“Maybe.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
She noticed.
She picked up her pen. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Normally.”
“How many hours?”
“Enough.”
“That's not a number.”
He looked toward the window. “Five. Maybe six.”
“That's not enough.”
“It's enough.”
“For you?”
Rin shrugged.
She let it go.
She made a small note.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
“Have you been waking during the night?”
Rin's fingers moved against the sleeve of his coat.
“Sometimes.”
“Still?”
He looked at her.
“You remember that?”
“I remember things.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Silence settled between them.
“At a particular time?”
He didn't answer.
She didn't repeat the question.
Rin looked down at his hands.
“Sometimes I wake up and everything feels the same.”
She studied him. “The same as what?”
Rin's eyes remained lowered. “Before.”
She waited. “Before what?”
He didn't answer.
After a moment, she said, “You don't have to tell me.”
“I know.”
She let the silence sit between them.
“You're still thinking about it, though.”
Rin looked toward the window.
“Maybe.”
The rain tapped softly against the window.
She nodded. She didn't reach for her notebook. That was usually when Rin started talking.
It took almost a minute. Then he said, “A student asked me something today.”
The psychologist looked up from her notes. “What did she ask?”
Rin was silent for a moment. “Whether I wake up before three.”
Her pen stopped. “And what did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
Rin looked down. “Because I didn't know what to say.”
“Was she serious?”
“Yes.”
“How could you tell?”
Rin thought about it. “She didn't laugh.”
The psychologist watched him. “That bothered you.”
Rin didn't answer.
“What did the question make you think about?”
“I don't know.”
Rin didn't look up.
“You don't have to answer,” she said quietly.
Rin looked at her. “Then why ask?”
“Because sometimes people answer questions they aren't required to answer.”
“And sometimes they don't.”
“You're usually the second kind.”
Rin looked back toward the window. Rain moved slowly down the glass. After a long silence, he spoke.
“I remembered a clock.”
The psychologist didn't react. “What kind of clock?”
“Digital.”
“Where was it?”
“My bedroom.”
“How old were you?”
A pause.
“Seventeen.”
She waited. “What time did it show?”
Rin didn't answer. The second hand of the clock on the wall ticked softly between them.
“3:14.”
She didn't reach for her notebook. “How did you feel when you remembered it?”
Rin thought for a moment. “Nothing.”
She looked at him. “That's what you always say.”
“It usually works.”
“Does it?”
Rin didn't answer.
She let the silence remain. Then she reached for her notebook and wrote something down. Rin watched her.
“You've written that before,” he said.
“Yes.”
“But not today.”
“No.”
He looked at the notebook. “What did you write?”
“Something for me.”
“That's reassuring.”
“It isn't a secret.”
“Then tell me.”
“I wrote that you remembered something you normally avoid.”
Rin looked away. “That's all?”
“That's all.”
He nodded.
She closed the notebook. “Do you want to talk about what happened at 3:14?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
No argument. No second question.
She leaned back. “We don't have to talk about it today.”
He nodded.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she said, “But something changed today.”
Rin looked at her. “What?”
“You told me.”
He looked down. “I usually don't.”
“That's okay.”
Rin was quiet. She didn't push him further. After a moment, she glanced at the clock.
“Same time next week?”
“Yes.”
Rin stood. He walked toward the door.
“Rin.”
He stopped. He turned.
She looked at him for a moment. “Try to sleep tonight.”
A faint pause. “I'll try.”
“You won't.”
Rin raised an eyebrow.
She smiled. “But you'll tell me you did.”
“Probably.”
“Good enough.”
Rin opened the door. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
He stepped outside. The door closed softly behind him.
The rain had stopped.
Water still covered parts of the pavement, reflecting the streetlights in broken lines.
Rin started walking toward his apartment.
“47... 48... 49...”
His footsteps continued at the same pace.
“63... 64...”
“Meow.”
Rin stopped.
He looked toward the sound.
A small cat was sitting beside the pavement, its fur still damp from the rain.
Rin watched it for a moment.
Then he walked over and crouched beside it.
The cat didn't move.
Rin slowly reached out and rubbed its head.
“You're wet.”
The cat closed its eyes.
Rin stayed there for a few seconds, gently patting its head.
Then he looked up and checked the road in both directions.
The main road was still busy.
A few shops were open, their signs reflecting across the wet pavement.
Rin stood and walked toward the row of shops along the main road.
He stopped at a small convenience store and picked up a packet of cat food.
Then he bought a coffee.
He returned to the cat.
It was still sitting in the same place.
Rin opened the packet and placed the food on the pavement.
The cat immediately moved toward it.
Rin stood there and watched.
He looked at the cat once more.
Then he turned away.
“65...”
He continued walking.
“66...”
“67...”
His apartment building came into view.
Rin stopped counting.
By the time he reached his apartment building, the streets were quiet. The pavement was still dark and wet beneath the streetlights.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the familiar silence of his apartment.
He didn't turn on the lights. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag beside the couch.
The coffee he had bought earlier was still in his hand.
He carried it to the dining table and pulled out a chair.
For a while, he sat there, lost in his thoughts.
Rin leaned back in the chair.
Minutes passed.
When he finally reached for the coffee, it was cold.
He took a sip anyway.
He set the cup down and sat quietly, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside.
After a while, he pushed the chair back.
Then he crossed the dark apartment and slid open the wardrobe.
A thin layer of dust coated the lid of a plain cardboard box tucked beneath his hanging clothes. He hesitated before pulling it free.
Inside lay the life he had spent ten years trying to leave behind.
Newspaper clippings with impossible headlines. Hand-drawn maps covered in circles, arrows, and dates. Photographs with places crossed out in red ink. Loose pages filled with frantic notes written in different pens over different years.
Rin reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it.
His gaze settled on the sketch he had taken from Nagi's desk. The chaotic lines. The single symbol in the center.
He held the sketch in silence.
The symbol stared back at him.
Slowly, Rin lowered the sketch onto the open box.
Beneath it lay the weathered notebook.
He paused.
The cover had faded with age. The corners were bent, and several pages had swollen slightly from old water damage.
Rin pulled it free and opened it.
The first page contained a single entry.
3:14 AM — Aokigawa City.
Rin stared at it.
His thumb rested against the edge of the page.
Ten years.
He had spent ten years trying not to remember.
Tonight, a girl in Room 3-C had remembered for him.
Rin stared at the page.
Then he turned the page.