"Good morning. Your name is Arisa, and today is the day. Your first therapy session. You are probably feeling a fear so big it feels like it might swallow you. That's okay. The girl who is writing this is terrified, too. But she is also hopeful. Look at your hand. You are holding a small, silver key. It's the fail-safe. Reo has the real one. He will be right there, in the next room, guarding you. He promised that no matter who is looking out through your eyes when this is over, he will be there. You are not two people. You are just… becoming whole. It's time to open the door."
I wake with the key clutched so tightly in my hand that its intricate pattern is impressed on my palm. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs. The words on the postcard are both a comfort and a terrifying summons. The day I've been simultaneously dreading and desperately hoping for has arrived.
The clinic is a quiet, minimalist building of glass and pale wood, designed to be as calming as a zen garden. But nothing can calm the storm inside me. Haruto and my parents (on video call again) are in the waiting room, a small, anxious huddle of support. But it is Reo who walks with me down the long, silent corridor to the therapy room. He doesn't hold my hand, as if he knows that any touch right now would feel like pressure. He just walks beside me, a steady, quiet presence.
Dr. Kisaragi meets us at the door. His kind, tired eyes find mine, and he offers a small, reassuring smile. "Ready, Arisa-san?"
I just nod, my throat too tight for words.
The room itself is less clinical than I expected. It's dominated by a large, comfortable-looking reclining chair, like one at a dentist's office, but covered in soft, gray fabric. Subdued lights glow from the walls. In front of the chair is a large screen. To the side is a table, and on it, Dr. Kisaragi and a nurse begin to lay out our sensory toolkit. My poetry book. The taiyaki-scented oil diffuser. The playlist cued up on a tablet. And at the center of it all, my locket.
"We'll start gently," Dr. Kisaragi explains, his voice a calm, steady current. "I'll ask you to get comfortable in the chair, and a technician will place the sensory nodes on your temples. They're just small, cool pads. We won't turn anything on right away. First, we're just going to talk. Reo will be in the observation room, just on the other side of that glass." He points to a large window that is currently a reflective, mirrored surface. "He'll be able to see and hear everything."
Reo gives my shoulder a final, gentle squeeze. He holds up the master key. "I'm right here," he says, his voice a low, steady promise. Then he turns and disappears into the observation room. The mirror that separates us feels like the thinnest, most fragile wall in the world.
I get into the chair, and the nurse places the cool, gel-like pads on my temples. Dr. Kisaragi sits in a chair opposite me, his face calm and attentive.
"Okay, Arisa," he begins. "Let's start with something simple. Something from this week. Tell me about your afternoon with Satoru-kun in the library."
So I do. I recount the story as best I can from the postcard's information. I describe the feeling of nostalgic safety, of his kindness. I am just talking, just narrating a story I read this morning. Dr. Kisaragi just nods, listening. Then, on the large screen in front of me, a picture flashes up. It's a photo of my old middle school.
And as I'm talking, the technician gives a subtle nod to Dr. Kisaragi. A low, gentle hum begins to fill the room, so soft it's almost subliminal. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth begins to spread from the pads on my temples.
"Now," Dr. Kisaragi says softly. "Look at the photo. Don't try to remember. Just… feel. What does the word 'Satoru' feel like?"
I look at the picture. "Safe," I say. "Comfortable. Like… a warm blanket." As I say the words, a scent fills the air. It's faint, but unmistakable. Chalk dust.
My breath hitches. "Chalk," I whisper, my eyes wide. "I can smell chalk dust."
"Good," Dr. Kisaragi says, his voice never changing. "That's good. Just stay with that feeling."
We continue like this for what feels like an hour. He moves through my more recent memories first, the ones I've been documenting on the postcards. The storm. The play. The photo booth. For each one, he introduces a sensory cue—the sound of rain, a picture of the stage, the scent of vanilla from the taiyaki. And with each one, as the machine hums, the emotional echo of the event grows stronger, more vibrant. It's like he's turning up the color on a black-and-white film.
The 'now' me is still firmly in control, narrating, describing. But the feelings of the past me's are becoming more vivid, more immediate. I'm not just telling the story; I'm starting to re-experience the emotional core of it.
Then, Dr. Kisaragi picks up the locket from the table. "And now, Arisa," he says, his voice very gentle. "Let's talk about him." He holds up the locket so I can see the photo from our Day One. "This boy. Reo. What does this picture feel like?"
The nurse cues up the playlist, and the soft, sad opening chords of our favorite song begin to play through the room's speakers. "It feels…" I start, my throat suddenly tight. "It feels like hope. Like the beginning."
"Good," Dr. Kisaragi says. Then, he turns the locket over. "And this one?"
He's holding up the other side. The Polaroid. The girl from the past. I stare into her smiling, happy face. Her love for him is so clear, so bright, it radiates from the tiny picture.
"Her…" I whisper. "She feels… distant. Like a story I read a long time ago. She feels brave."
Dr. Kisaragi nods slowly. He gives a signal to the technician, and the hum of the machine intensifies slightly. The warmth on my temples grows. He swaps the image on the screen from a picture of the school to a picture of the secondhand bookstore. "Just stay with her for a moment," he says. "Don't try to find a memory. Just let the feelings come, if they do."
I stare at the picture of the bookstore, the music swirling around me, the scent of old paper now subtly filling the room. I think of the list from her diary. His quiet isn't an empty quiet. It's a safe, comfortable quiet.
And then, it happens.
It's not a memory. It's not a flood. It's a single, perfect, crystal-clear drop of water in a still pool. A voice. Her voice, but inside my own head, as clear as if she were standing next to me.
You found your way back, she whispers, and the feeling that comes with the voice is not loss or confusion. It is a profound, overwhelming sense of peace. Of wholeness. You found me.
Tears are streaming down my face, but I'm smiling. I can feel him, on the other side of the glass, his presence a burning, anxious, hopeful star. I have no new images in my head, no secret story has been revealed. But something has shifted, deep in the locked library of my mind. A single book has just been gently, carefully, placed back on the shelf. The two halves of my locket are no longer two separate stories. They've just become one.
I look at the mirrored glass, at my own tear-streaked reflection, but I know he is on the other side. "Hi," I whisper, to her, and to him. "It's nice to finally meet me."
In the observation room, Reo slumps against the back of his chair, a choked sob of pure, unadulterated relief escaping him as he clutches the master key in his white-knuckled hand. He had been ready to shut it down, to protect me from the pain. He never imagined that the first sound to come from that locked room would be peace.