The sound of rain filled the room — a soft, endless rhythm, as if the sky itself was mourning something unseen.
Lumiya sat at the table, staring at the dish before her. Its strange violet hue reflected something deeper… a quiet chaos that no one could name.
Lumiya (hesitant, softly): "Dad… is it really that bad?"
Her father smiled faintly — the kind of smile used to hide disappointment.
Father (calmly): "No, no… it's not bad. Just… unexpected. I think the ingredients didn't mix quite right."
Mitsuko froze. The words echoed in her head like a dull throb.
(In her thoughts) "I tried so hard… how did I mess this up? I can't even get the simplest thing right."
She wanted to disappear into the floor. But Lumiya, kind as ever, offered her a gentle smile.
Lumiya: "It's okay. Maybe we should've just ordered takeout. We can try again next time."
Her father laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood.
Father: "Cooking isn't easy, you know. What matters is that you tried, Mitsuko. That's enough."
Mitsuko looked up, her smile thin and tired.
Mitsuko: "Yeah… I'll try to get better."
But inside, her chest tightened.
Every word, every sympathetic glance, was another reminder — this wasn't her world. She didn't belong in this body.
That night, in two different rooms, two souls lay awake beneath the same storm.
Yakuya, trapped in Mitsuko's body, stared up at the ceiling, thoughts colliding like raindrops against glass.
Mitsuko, trapped in his, looked down at her unfamiliar hands, feeling like a stranger in her own skin.
Mitsuko (in her mind, weary): "Will I ever wake up as myself again? Or is this who I am now?"
Yakuya (in his mind, uneasy): "Every day that passes… the mystery deepens. Why hasn't it switched back? Is this permanent?"
The rain eased, its rhythm softening into silence — as if even the sky pitied them.
And as their eyes slowly closed, one fragile thought echoed in both their hearts:
"When I wake up… I'll be myself again."
But morning brought no miracle.
Only cold.
And snow.
Heavy flakes blanketed the streets, turning the world into a white, merciless stillness.
In Mitsuko's house, the silence was broken by a sharp knock.
Noriko (firmly, from outside the door): "Wake up already, sleepyhead!"
Yakuya's eyes flew open.
Yakuya (in his thoughts, anxious): "Alright… this time, I can't just pretend to sleep."
He got up quickly, heading for the mirror.
But the reflection staring back wasn't his own. It was hers.
Yakuya (in disbelief): "Why? Why didn't it change this time? What's happening to me?"
Across the city, in another quiet home, a door creaked open.
Lumiya peeked inside, her face etched with a faint worry.
Lumiya (softly): "Brother… are you still asleep? You've been acting strange lately."
The curtain fluttered as the cold wind slipped in, scattering snowlight across the room.
The world outside was silent — as if holding its breath — watching two lives tangled by fate,
and a story that had only just begun.
Outside, the rain had stopped — but the air still carried the scent of last night's storm.
Lumia (calling out brightly): "Hey, big brother! Wake up, it's morning already!"
A groggy voice answered from beneath the blankets.
Mitsuko (sleepily): "Five more minutes… Noriko…"
Silence.
Then, a confused voice.
Lumia: "...Noriko? Who's that?"
Mitsuko froze. Her eyes snapped open, heartbeat quickening.
She sat up in bed so fast the sheets tangled around her. The name she'd spoken echoed in her mind like a ghost she didn't mean to summon.
Her gaze darted toward the mirror — and what she saw made her stomach twist.
Mitsuko (thinking, horrified): Why… why am I still here? Why haven't I gone back to my own body?
The reflection staring back wasn't hers. It was his — Yakuya's face, his eyes, his body.
The wrong heartbeat inside the wrong chest.
Lumia (worried): "Brother? What are you talking about?"
Mitsuko blinked rapidly, forcing a small, tired smile.
Mitsuko (softly): "Nothing… I'm just a little tired, that's all."
Her voice trembled just enough for Lumia to notice.
There was something off — not just in her tone, but in the way she moved, the hesitation in her eyes.
Lumia (suspiciously): "Tired? You've been acting weird since last night. What's going on with you?"
Mitsuko's heart skipped. She laughed lightly, too lightly.
Mitsuko: "I just meant… you know, the party last night. Maybe I overdid it."
Lumia tilted her head, studying him — or rather, her.
Her brother's familiar warmth felt distant, as if someone else was wearing his skin.
Inside, Mitsuko fought to stay calm. Every second in this body felt heavier than the last.
She didn't know how long she could keep pretending.
Mitsuko (thinking): How many days has it been? How long until I wake up as myself again?
A gust of wind fluttered the curtains, scattering cold light across the floor.
And for a moment, everything felt painfully still —
like the world itself was holding its breath,
waiting for her to remember who she really was.
On the other side , in Mitsuko's home, the world felt slower — muted beneath the heavy white hush of falling snow.
At the small wooden table, Grandmother, Noriko, and Yakuya sat together for breakfast.
Steam rose gently from the bowls of miso soup, curling like ghosts in the cold air.
Grandmother (softly, yet firm): "You two shouldn't go out today. The snow's too heavy. It's dangerous."
Noriko: "Alright, Grandma."
The warmth in her voice was the only color in the pale, winter room.
Yakuya sat silently across from them, staring down at his untouched food — his thoughts far, far away.
The old clock ticked on the wall, marking the seconds that felt too long.
Grandmother (calling gently): "Mitsuko? Mitsuko, dear?"
Yakuya blinked, startled — it took him a heartbeat too long to answer.
Yakuya (awkwardly): "Ah— yes, Grandma?"
The old woman tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing with concern.
Grandmother: "Are you feeling alright, child? You haven't taken a single bite."
Yakuya (forcing a faint smile): "I'm… not hungry, Grandma."
Noriko frowned, lowering her chopsticks.
Noriko: "Not hungry? That's strange for you. Are you sure you're okay?"
Yakuya (quickly correcting himself): "I mean— not hungry. Really, I'm fine."
But his voice wavered. The correction came too late.
For a brief second, both women exchanged a glance — small, fleeting, but enough to make his chest tighten.
Outside, the snow kept falling — soft, endless, and silent.
And at that table, between the warmth of family and the chill of pretense, Yakuya sat
wearing a smile that wasn't his,
living a morning that didn't belong to him.
The day slipped away, and darkness quietly settled over the village.
The snowfall, which had blanketed everything in white for hours, had finally ceased.
Inside Mitsuko's small wooden home, a soft stillness lingered — yet beneath it, an unspoken tension filled the air.
In the kitchen, the grandmother was busy preparing dinner, her movements calm and rhythmic.
At the table sat Yakuya, trapped in Mitsuko's body, his gaze lost in the steam rising from the kettle — as if trying to make sense of the strange life he now lived.
Grandmother (calling out): "Mitsuko! Oh, Mitsuko!"
Yakuya (snapping out of thought): "Coming!"
He stepped closer, his tone softer now.
Yakuya: "Yes, Grandma? What is it?"
The old woman hesitated, her wrinkled hands wiping flour off her apron.
Grandmother: "I have a small favor to ask."
Yakuya (gently): "Of course, Grandma. What do you need?"
Grandmother: "We're running out of rice and bread. The storm has stopped for tonight, but they say it'll return tomorrow morning. We should stock up while we can."
Yakuya (sighing softly): "Alright… I'll go get them."
He rose from the chair, searching through Mitsuko's wardrobe for something warm to wear.
Everything smelled faintly of her — lavender soap and wood smoke — a scent that reminded him how alien this body truly was.
He pulled on a heavy coat, still feeling awkward in someone else's skin. His only thought was to finish the errand quickly and come back before anyone noticed how uneasy he seemed.
Yakuya (calling out): "Grandma, I'm heading out now!"
The old woman turned sharply, her voice laced with concern.
Grandmother: "Mitsuko! You can't go out like that!"
Yakuya (uncertainly): "I'll be fine, it's not that cold—"
Grandmother (interrupting, alarmed): "You'll freeze to death out there!"
Before he could rotest, she began piling clothes into his arms — layer after layer of warmth.
Thick socks. A heavy coat. A knitted hat. Gloves. And finally, a scarf so long it nearly wrapped around him twice.
Yakuya (muffled, struggling under the layers): "Grandma— I can't breathe!"
Grandmother (firmly): "Better suffocated than frozen, my dear!"
She smiled proudly, satisfied with her work, while Yakuya looked like a walking snowball — defeated but strangely touched.
As he stepped outside, the night embraced him with a biting chill.
The snow glittered under the moonlight like shards of glass.
And for a brief moment, he thought — Maybe warmth doesn't come from clothes... but from the people who force you to wear them.
Yakuya could barely move beneath the mountain of winter clothes his grandmother had forced on him. Each step felt heavy, each breath shallow — but arguing with her was impossible. So, wrapped like a cocoon, he stepped outside, letting the cold night swallow him whole.
The moment the door closed behind him, a fierce gust of wind cut through the silence. The chill bit at his skin, sharp and merciless, but Yakoya's mind was elsewhere — tangled in the questions that haunted him since this body swap began.
How long can I keep living like this?
How do I even return to myself?
He trudged through the snowy streets, clutching the grocery bag filled with rice and bread. The snowstorm had left the pavement slick and treacherous. The rain hadn't stopped; it only mixed with the melting snow, turning the world into a blur of white and silver.
Then it happened.
His foot caught on a broken edge of the sidewalk, and before he could react, he crashed hard onto the cold ground. The sting of pain flared across his cheek, followed by the metallic taste of blood near his lip.
Grimacing, he pushed himself up, brushing snow from his clothes. The bag was still intact — barely. He sighed in relief, then froze.
"That looked painful," said a calm voice behind him.
Yakuya turned sharply.
A man stood there — tall, in his early forties perhaps. His brown hair was neatly combed, his tailored suit spotless despite the storm. He didn't look like someone who belonged in a night like this.
Something about his presence made the air feel heavier.
Yakuya (uneasy): "Who… who are you?"
The man ignored the question. His tone was quiet, almost conversational.
Man: "Tell me… do you know what kills a person slowly?"
Yakuya blinked, unsure if he'd heard right.
Yakuya (hesitant): "What are you talking about?"
The man tilted his head slightly, lowering his gaze with an almost childlike curiosity.
Man: "No guess? You look like someone who thinks too much. Surely, you've wondered."
Yakuya swallowed, his breath visible in the cold air.
Yakuya: "Loss… maybe. Or responsibility."
A faint smile tugged at the man's lips. He slipped one hand into the pocket of his coat.
Man (softly, amused): "A good answer. Logical… but wrong."
The wind howled louder. Snow swirled around them like a thousand whispers.
Yakuya (tense): "Then what is it?"
The man's smile widened — but his eyes were empty.
Man: "Nothing."
For a moment, Yakuya thought he misheard. Then the world around him seemed to stop.
The falling snow froze midair. The sound of wind vanished. Even his own breath hung motionless before him.
Yakuya (voice trembling): "W-What do you mean… nothing?"
Man (quietly): "People think surrendering — giving up — is the end. But they're wrong. After despair, after failure… there's something worse."
He took a step closer. His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo directly inside Yakuya's head.
Man: "Nothingness. The moment when you stop moving forward but can't go back. When time passes and you remain the same. That—" he paused, "—is what eats a man alive."
The man's gaze locked onto Yakoya, sharp and knowing. A smile curved across his face — one that didn't reach his eyes.
Man: "So tell me,…"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone almost gentle.
Man: "When this all ends… what will you have left?"
The frozen world seemed to pulse for a heartbeat — and then, suddenly, everything moved again.
The wind screamed. The snow fell. The man was gone.
Yakuya stood alone in the storm, clutching the bag tightly, the man's final words echoing in his mind like a curse.
What will you have left?
He looked down at his trembling hands — and for the first time, the cold didn't feel like the only thing seeping into him.