I wake to the soft, familiar glow of morning light and the gentle, insistent chime of my phone's alarm. Everything is normal. The power is on. The three star-stickers on my nightstand are faint but present. For a single, blissful second, it's just another morning.
Then I sit up, and my eyes land on the postcard.
My video message had already run its course, the sixty-second rundown of my name, my school, my condition. It felt rote, a script I was hearing for the first time but my soul knew by heart. It prepared me for the fact that my memory was a blank slate.
It did not prepare me for the story written on this card.
My hand is trembling as I read it for the third time. The handwriting is a frantic, messy scrawl, completely different from the neat, careful script on the previous days' cards. This was written by a girl running on pure adrenaline and desperation.
…power went out… a note that said, "When all else fails, the roof." Your body remembered the way there, even in a storm. And he was there. Reo was waiting for you.
A storm. A blackout. My body remembered a secret path? And he was waiting? The story sounds like a fever dream, a scene from a fantasy novel. But then my eyes fall on the blazer hanging neatly on the back of my desk chair. A boy's uniform blazer. It's still slightly damp. Physical evidence. My breath hitches. It's real. All of it.
I read on, my heart pounding in my chest. The accusation from the student council president. My own furious, impassioned defense. You told her he was the only reason you knew your own name. Did I really say that? Did I have that kind of courage in me?
And then, the final section. A warning about a boy named Itsuki Kurobane. A confirmation of the cold, instinctive dread I'd felt. My eyes dart to the Great Wall of Arisa. Next to the photo of the smiling class rep, I see it. The roster sheet with his name circled in black ink. And beside the circle, a strange, hand-drawn symbol. Two overlapping squares, bisected by a sharp diagonal line. And beneath it, a single word: Prometheus.
It means nothing to me. The symbol, the word—they are complete blanks. But the girl from last night, the girl who survived a storm, she felt it was important enough to document. I quickly snap a photo of it with my phone. Another piece of the puzzle.
My morning routine feels charged with a new, nervous energy. Getting dressed, packing my bag—it all feels less like a sterile procedure and more like preparing for a mission. I have to see him. I have to meet the boy who waits in the rain.
He's there, on the rooftop, leaning against the railing. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, washed clean by the storm. He looks up as I approach, and I can see the exhaustion etched around his eyes. He looks like he didn't sleep at all. He also looks deeply, profoundly anxious. He's waiting for my reaction, waiting to see which Arisa showed up this morning—the terrified stranger or someone else.
I stop a few feet away from him, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs. I don't know the proper protocol for this. How do you thank a stranger for saving a version of you that no longer exists?
"My postcard," I begin, my voice quieter than I intended. "It told me everything."
The tension in his shoulders dissolves in a single, visible exhale. It's as if he'd been holding his breath this entire time. A small, tired smile touches his lips. "I was hoping it would."
"It says…" I swallow, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "It says you waited for me. In the storm."
"I did," he says simply.
"Thank you," I whisper. The words feel hopelessly inadequate. They can't possibly contain the weight of the gratitude I feel, a gratitude inherited from the girl who lived it. "For… everything."
"You're welcome, Arisa," he replies, his voice soft. He uses my name, just as the postcard said he did. It lands with a comfortable warmth.
We stand in a quiet, fragile peace for a moment. Then, I remember my other mission.
"There's one more thing," I say, pulling out my phone. "I… My other self, she drew this last night. On the wall. Next to Itsuki Kurobane's name." I show him the picture of the strange symbol and the word Prometheus. "Does this mean anything to you?"
I watch his face carefully as he looks at the image. For a fraction of a second, I see a flicker of something in his eyes—not surprise, but a dark, chilling recognition. It's there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. He schools his features back into a carefully neutral expression.
"I'm not sure," he lies. I don't know how I know he's lying, but I do. "The logo looks vaguely corporate. Maybe a parent's company? Don't worry about it for now. Let me look into it." He's protecting me, withholding information he thinks might be too much for me to handle. The realization doesn't feel like a betrayal; it feels like another layer of his quiet, constant vigilance.
"Okay," I agree, putting my phone away.
Before the first bell, as students are still milling in the hallways, the PA system crackles to life.
"A morning announcement from the student council president," a voice says. Then Mirei Saionji's voice, crisp and clear, fills the school.
"Good morning, students. This is a reminder that the student council's anonymous reporting system is a tool for ensuring student safety and welfare. It is not a platform for personal grievances or unsubstantiated rumors. Filing malicious or knowingly frivolous reports is a serious violation of the student code of conduct. All reports are reviewed thoroughly, and any determined to be submitted in bad faith will result in severe disciplinary action for the filer. Thank you for your cooperation in maintaining a safe and respectful school environment."
The announcement ends, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. In our classroom, students exchange confused whispers. "What was that about?" someone murmurs.
Nami leans over to me, her eyes wide. "Whoa," she whispers. "The president is not messing around. Someone must have really screwed up."
My eyes find Itsuki Kurobane. The announcement was a cannonball aimed directly at him, a public execution of his scheme. But he doesn't react. He simply straightens a stack of papers on his desk, a small, pleasant smile on his face, as if he's listening to a boring weather report. His composure is absolute. And somehow, that's more terrifying than any outburst could ever be. He's unshaken. Unstoppable.
The day feels surreal, a quiet aftermath to a war I don't remember fighting. The real climax, however, arrives after the final bell. A small crowd is gathered around the bulletin board outside the drama club room.
"The cast list is up!" Nami squeals, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the commotion.
We squeeze through the throng of students until we can see the neatly printed sheet of paper pinned to the board. At the top, in elegant script, it reads: The Hanamori High Cultural Festival Presents: "Echoes in the Starlight."
I scan the list, my heart beating a little faster. And then I see it. The names. The roles.
The Amnesiac Princess, haunted by a forgotten promise... ARISA TSUKIMI
My breath catches. An amnesiac princess? It's too on the nose to be a coincidence. The club president is either the most perceptive person on the planet or the cruelest. I scan down the list.
The Stargazing Knight, who serves the Princess and is the sole keeper of her lost memories... REO KISARAGI
I feel a dizzying lurch, a sense that the world has tilted on its axis. We're being asked to play ourselves. To act out a version of our own fragile, secret reality on a stage in front of the entire school.
Then, my eyes fall on the final name on the main cast list, and a true, deep chill goes through me.
The Smiling Chancellor, who seeks to control the Princess by manipulating her fragmented past... ITSUKI KUROBANE
I stare at the page, at our three names, locked together in a fiction that is horrifyingly close to our truth. This isn't a play anymore. It feels like a prophecy.