The morning of the transfer was quiet.
Jun sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, watching Nurse Shiraishi fold the last of his hospital clothes into a plastic crate. Her movements were precise, every sleeve tucked and every collar flattened.
"You may help," she said without looking up. "I would hate for you to feel useless."
"I'm not sure that's a compliment."
"It is not."
Jun sighed and stood. His legs held steady now. He gathered the few things he owned: a cup, a towel, the small blue notebook he kept in his shirt pocket. He crouched to check the floor beside the bed.
Something was tucked underneath.
A cardboard box, pushed far back against the wall, its corners soft with dust.
"Nurse Shiraishi... was this here the whole time?"
She glanced down. "Your mother brought it a few weeks ago. She asked that it stay near you."
Jun slid it out and lifted the lid.
The smell hit him first. Old leather, faint sweat, and something like dry earth.
A baseball glove sat on top, the brown leather cracked at the creases and darkened where fingers had worn it down. Jun lifted it from the box. It felt heavier than it looked.
He traced his hand along the pocket. His fingers slid into the glove on their own, and they fit as though the glove had been waiting for them.
I've done this before.
A thousand times.
His chest tightened. Beneath the glove lay a photograph, its edges curled. He picked it up.
A group of boys in baseball uniforms stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing so hard some of them had their eyes shut. Trophies were raised above their heads. Medals hung from their necks. In the middle, with a grin stretched across his face, was a boy with Jun's face.
That's me.
He looked happy. It was strange to see it on his own face, like looking at a stranger who wore his skin.
Then his gaze moved to the girl beside him.
She stood close, her shoulder pressed against his. Purple hair fell past her chin, and her blue eyes crinkled with laughter. She held up two fingers in a peace sign, so cheerful she seemed to glow.
Who is she...?
The ringing started.
Low at first, a thin whine at the edge of his hearing. Then it climbed.
"Jun?"
Shiraishi's voice sounded far away.
The room tilted, and the world rearranged itself.
A hand in his, small and warm. Walking beside someone beneath a row of trees, their fingers laced together. Laughter that wasn't his own. A sandwich, a pink cloth, a girl puffing out her cheeks in mock anger. Blue light rippling across a glass tunnel.
Her smile. Over and over.
But her face would not settle. It slid out of focus every time he reached for it, like a reflection in disturbed water.
Why can't I see you?
Who ARE you?
"Ahh... AHHH!"
The scream ripped out of him. The photograph slipped from his fingers, and both his hands clamped against his skull as though he could hold the memories inside.
"Jun."
Hands closed around his shoulders. Shiraishi had dropped to her knees in front of him, her clipboard abandoned on the floor.
"Look at me," she said. Her voice was steady, as it always was. But her grip was firmer than usual. "You are in room 3-C. It is morning. You are safe. Breathe."
He tried. The first breath shuddered. The second came easier.
"In. Out. Again."
The ringing thinned. The room came back in pieces: the white walls, the crate, her brown eyes watching him.
When his breathing finally slowed, she picked up the photograph and set it back inside the box with the glove, handling it like something fragile.
"Sit," she said.
She ran her usual checks. The penlight, the pulse at his wrist, a long look at his pupils. The scratch of her pen followed.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked quietly. "Anything at all?"
Jun stared at the box.
"...No," he said. "It's still blank."
It wasn't entirely true. But he did not know how to explain a face he could not see.
Shiraishi studied him a moment longer. Then she nodded and closed the lid herself.
"I will carry this one."
Ward 2-B was on the second floor, at the end of a hallway with wide windows. It was brighter than anywhere he had been. The air smelled faintly of laundry soap.
Shiraishi stopped in front of a door and shifted the box against her hip.
"You will be sharing this room."
"With who?"
"Three girls."
Jun stopped walking.
"...What?"
"Three girls. The ward is mixed, but the rooms are not," she said, her face perfectly unreadable. "The doctor believes it will help you practice communicating. Familiar faces, daily conversation. It may also help with your memory."
"That's insane. I can't live with three girls. Put me in another room. Or the hallway. Anywhere."
"There is no other room."
"Then I'll sleep in the boiler room."
"That is not permitted."
"Nurse Shiraishi—"
"Jun."
Her voice did not rise. It simply settled on him, and he went silent.
"I will be nearby," she said. "I told you. Do not miss me yet."
He wanted to argue. He had no energy left to do it. Shiraishi turned the handle, and the door slid open.
The room was warm and bright. Four beds stood in neat rows, each with a small cabinet beside it. Sunlight spilled across the floor in long, pale rectangles.
At a desk near the window, a girl sat bent over a sheet of paper.
Ash-orange hair. A sweater over her gown. A pencil moving in quick, careful strokes.
It's her.
The girl from the bench, the one who had tripped and run.
She had not heard the door. She was entirely lost in her page.
Then she stopped.
Her shoulders went rigid. Slowly, she turned.
Her green eyes met Jun's, and she froze for half a heartbeat. Then, with sudden panic, she swept her drawing pad and pencils into the desk drawer, slammed it shut, and bolted for the door.
Jun flattened himself against the frame as she squeezed past, close enough that he felt the air shift. She did not look back. Her footsteps vanished down the hall.
Silence settled over the room.
"...Did I do something?" Jun asked.
"That is Urumi," Shiraishi said, setting the box on his bed. "She has a hearing impairment."
Jun blinked.
"She has difficulty with sound. As for why she runs, I am not certain. Perhaps she is only shy."
She couldn't hear me.
His mind went back to the gravel path and the bench. He had only stood behind her. He hadn't said a word.
She wasn't afraid of me. She was startled. She never heard me coming.
Something loosened in his chest.
"I see," he said.
Shiraishi gave him a long, quiet look, and the faintest curve touched the corner of her mouth.
"Get settled."
Jun lay on his new bed with his arm over his eyes.
The ceiling was different. The pillow was different. The silence was not.
Honoka.
He sat up so fast the mattress creaked.
I promised I'd play with her yesterday.
He pulled on his scuffs and went outside, down the stairs and past the front desk, hurrying now. The slope looked the same as before, the grass bright, the old tree spreading its branches.
But Honoka was not there.
He stood beneath the branches and scanned the grounds. Nothing but wind, and the faraway laughter of other patients.
"Honoka?"
No answer.
Something white fluttered against the tree trunk. Two sheets of paper were pinned beneath a small stone. He knelt and pulled them free.
The first was a crayon drawing. A tall boy with messy hair stood smiling beside a small girl in a blue dress. Above them, in wobbly letters, she had written: Jun and Honoka.
His throat tightened.
He turned to the second.
The drawing was cruder, drawn in a hurry. A girl stood in sand with a ball in her hand, and a boy lay flat on his back, a cloud of stars spinning above his head. Beneath it, pressed hard enough to dent the paper, were four words.
LIAR. YOU PROMISED.
Jun lowered his head.
I really messed up.
He folded both drawings with care and slipped them into his pocket beside the notebook. "I'll make it up to you," he said to the empty slope. "I swear."
A rustle came from the grass.
He turned.
Far down the hill, beyond the flowerbeds, a figure was bent over, moving slowly through the weeds. Dark hair. A hospital gown. Her hands swept through the grass again and again, parting the blades.
Rin.
His stomach dropped.
She's searching for something.
The notebook.
His fingers pressed against his pocket. I should give it back. If she thinks I read it...
He walked down the slope with his heart thudding harder with every step.
"Hey...?"
Her hands stilled.
She lifted her head and looked at him. Her violet eyes were cold and sharp.
Then she turned away and went on searching.
Jun swallowed. He drew the blue notebook from his pocket and held it up.
"Are you looking for this?"
Rin froze.
She stood slowly. Her eyes dropped to the notebook, then lifted to his face.
Jun had seen anger before, in glimpses of memory, but never like this. Her glare burned straight through him.
"Wait, I didn't read it, I swear—"
She crossed the distance in three strides and tore the notebook out of his hand. She pressed it against her chest, her knuckles white.
"I just wanted to return it. You dropped it by the—"
Her fist came at his face.
Jun jerked his head sideways. The punch hissed past his ear.
"Whoa! Hold on—"
She didn't. Her body twisted, and her leg whipped around in a low, vicious arc.
Jun's arms came up on instinct and caught the kick across his forearms. The force of it shot through his bones and lifted him off his feet. He landed hard on his back in the grass, the air punched out of him.
For a moment, he could only stare at the sky.
She's strong.
And I blocked that without thinking.
Rin stood over him, breathing hard, the notebook still crushed to her chest. Her dark hair fell across one shoulder.
She raised both hands.
Her fingers moved, quick and deliberate. Curled, flicked, pointed. A pattern of shapes Jun had never seen. Her eyes stayed locked on his the whole time, as if she were saying something that mattered.
"...What?" he said. "What does that mean?"
Rin's jaw tightened.
She lowered her hands. For a moment, something flickered across her face that wasn't anger. It was gone before he could name it.
Then she turned and walked away without a sound.
Jun lay in the grass, watching her go.
What was that...?
Hand signs?
He sat up slowly, rubbing his aching arms. Wind moved across the hill, carrying the smell of cut grass.
Honoka said she looked lonely.
His gaze followed the dark-haired girl until she disappeared past the trees.
I think she was trying to tell me something.