Going to sleep is an act of surrender to the enemy. My heart pounds with a helpless dread as I finally lie down in bed, long after the festival fireworks have faded. I know that in a few hours, another girl with my face will open her eyes, and her first lesson of the day will be a devastating lie. The postcard is a time bomb set to detonate at dawn, and I have no way to defuse it.
My final act before turning off the light is to scribble a desperate, last-ditch amendment on the back of the real postcard. There are two versions. The other one is a trap. Trust the boy who waits in the rain. It's a feeble shield against a sword I know will strike true.
The chime of the alarm pulls me from a dreamless sleep. I sit up, and the world is exactly as it always is: quiet, sunlit, and utterly unfamiliar. The sixty-second video runs its course, a familiar strangeness that eases the worst of the panic. My name is Arisa. I have amnesia.
Then I reach for the postcard on the nightstand.
I read it once, and my heart seizes with cold fear. It's the forgery. The slick, poisonous words leap off the page, dressed in the comfortable costume of my own handwriting.
Reo Kisaragi is the one who caused your accident. He is lying to you.
The video, which just moments ago felt like a lifeline from a trusted source, now seems like a calculated piece of manipulation. The boy with the kind eyes... He remembers for you. Remembers what? Remembers his own crime? Is this elaborate system of notes and photos not a kindness, but the complex architecture of a cover-up? The betrayal is so profound, so absolute, it steals the air from my lungs. The warning scrawled on the back—There are two versions—now seems like a desperate backtrack, the ramblings of a confused, gaslit mind.
Every instinct screams at me to lock my door, to call the police, to run. But there's another, deeper instruction embedded in the routine. An imperative that the girl from the video and even this tainted postcard agree on: When all else fails, the roof.
I feel a bizarre, terrifying split in my own mind. My logical brain is screaming that I am about to walk into a confrontation with the boy who ruined my life. But the ghost map in my feet, the ingrained muscle memory of the routine, pulls me forward. I have to go. I have to see the face of my own personal villain.
The walk to school is a nightmare. Every smiling student seems like a potential conspirator. The school itself feels less like a place of learning and more like the headquarters of a vast, unknowable plot against me. When I get to the stairs that lead to the rooftop, my hand is trembling so hard I can barely push the door open.
He's there. He's standing on the far side of the roof, a good fifty feet away from me, his hands shoved into his pockets. He's exactly where he promised the other me he would be. This small act of keeping his word feels like another layer of manipulation. He's performing the role of the trustworthy boy.
As I step onto the roof, he looks at me. His expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the deep, weary sadness in his eyes. There's no warmth. No familiar greeting. He looks at me exactly the way he described he would: like a skeptical, terrified stranger he has to win over.
"Good morning, Tsukimi-san," he says, his voice level and carrying across the distance between us. He doesn't move a single step closer. "I see you found the doctored message. I assume you have questions for me."
His directness is disarming. I expected denials, a charming attempt to talk his way out of it. Instead, he's treating my accusation as a given.
"You… you caused my accident?" The words feel like ash in my mouth.
"No," he says, simply. There's no defensiveness, just a quiet statement of fact. "I did not."
"The note says you did. It's in my handwriting."
"It's a forgery," he replies. "A very good one, designed to make you feel exactly the way you're feeling right now: alone, terrified, and unable to trust anyone, especially not me."
His empathy, his perfect articulation of my internal state, is another tool in his arsenal. He's a master manipulator, a part of my brain hisses. Of course he knows how you feel. He planned it.
"Prove it," I challenge, my voice coming out stronger than I expected. My fear is starting to be overtaken by a cold, sharp anger.
Reo nods slowly, as if he expected this. "Okay," he says. He still doesn't move closer. Instead, he gestures to the door I just came through. Right on cue, it opens, and Nami Koharu walks out. She gives me a small, worried smile, then stands a few feet away, a silent witness.
"First, a witness you are programmed to trust," Reo says, his voice still calm and measured. "Nami was with me at the festival yesterday. She was there when we discovered the forgery. Nami, can you confirm for today's Arisa that the last thing yesterday's Arisa felt for me was trust?"
Nami nods, her pigtails bobbing. "He's telling the truth, Ari," she says, her voice earnest. "Yesterday was amazing. You were so happy on stage. So brave. The last thing you would have done is accuse him. You defended him."
It's a good first move, but it's not enough. Maybe they're both in on it.
Reo seems to anticipate my skepticism. "Next, physical evidence." He takes a careful step forward, places a small, clear plastic folder on the ground, and then retreats back to his original position. "Look inside. But please, stay where you are."
My heart is still pounding, but my curiosity is now a powerful force. I walk forward, my eyes never leaving him, and cautiously pick up the folder. I flip it open.
Inside are several items. The first is a police report. A copy of the initial accident filing. My eyes scan the details—the time, the date, the location of a crosswalk just a few blocks from my old house. The 'witnesses' section lists two names. Neither of them is Reo Kisaragi. A small crack appears in the wall of my certainty.
The next item is a sworn, notarized statement from my brother, Haruto. It details the events of the storm, of how he had called Reo for help, of how Reo had gone to the school to wait for me, knowing the anchors had failed. In my opinion, Haruto had written in his neat, lawyerly script, Reo Kisaragi's actions have demonstrated nothing but profound care and concern for my sister's well-being and autonomy.
Another crack.
The final item in the folder takes my breath away. It's a series of photographs. Blurry, candid shots of me and Reo on this very rooftop, taken from a distance. Me laughing at something he said. Him handing me a can of milk tea. Us just sitting on the bench, not talking, existing in a comfortable silence. But the most damning photo is the last one. It's a shot of Itsuki Kurobane. He's talking to another student, but his phone is angled perfectly to be taking a picture of the class roster pinned outside our classroom—the one with my handwriting on it. He was capturing a sample to practice his forgery.
"Where did you get these?" I whisper, looking up at him.
"Mirei Saionji," Reo replies. "The student council president. When she realized the report filed against me was malicious, she initiated a full investigation. She had a member of the photography club discreetly document my interactions with you for two days, and monitor Itsuki Kurobane. The photos are date-stamped. They are proof that our routine is one of quiet, mutual trust. And that he has been plotting this."
The evidence is overwhelming. A police report, a statement from my brother, a witness I'm supposed to trust, and photographic proof of the villain's methods. My logical, terrified brain is struggling to find a foothold for its doubt. The cracks are spreading, and the lie is beginning to crumble.
"This… this could all be faked," I say, the objection sounding weak even to my own ears.
"It could be," Reo agrees, his patience seemingly infinite. "That's why there's one last piece of evidence. And this one… is entirely up to you. It's not logical. It's a test of your instincts."
He slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cherry blossom petal he'd given me backstage, the one I'd forgotten in the chaos. He holds it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"Yesterday, before the play, I gave you this," he says. "A piece of our sanctuary. She—the Arisa of yesterday—she held it when she was scared. I have no police report that can prove this, no witness that can attest to its meaning. I'm just asking you to do one thing. To take it."
He places the small, laminated petal on the ground where the folder had been, then retreats once more, giving me all the space, all the power.
I look from his earnest, tired face to the tiny pink petal on the gray concrete. It's an absurd final piece of evidence. A flower. But my feet are moving before my brain can object. I walk over and bend down to pick it up.
The second my fingers close around the smooth, laminated edges, it happens. A jolt. Not a memory, not even an echo. It's a powerful, overwhelming wave of pure feeling. The feeling of backstage terror. The scent of hairspray. The warmth of the stage lights. The thunderous applause. And beneath it all, a deep, resonant hum of safety. Of trust. A feeling so powerful it brings tears to my eyes. It's the ghost in my muscles, my skin, my heart, screaming the truth.
This is real. He is real. The postcard is the lie.
I look up at him, my vision blurred with tears, clutching the tiny petal in my hand. He hasn't moved an inch. He's just waiting, patiently, for the verdict. For my choice. And for the second morning in a row, a choice has been made.
My body remembers, even when I don't.