Red.
Dripping.
Spreading.
A whisper, swallowed by the river:
"…sorry…"
Akiko burst into laughter.
It came suddenly—almost violently—and she clutched at her stomach as she leaned forward over the lunch table. Her voice rang too loud through the cafeteria, drawing a few passing glances. But she didn't care. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed this hard. It felt strange. Disorienting.
Kazuki had just finished his story, something absurd involving a vending machine, a can of coffee, and a very unlucky security guard.
"I swear," Kazuki said, grinning as he waved his chopsticks, "the guy tripped over the can like it was cursed. Just—bam! Right on his back. Coffee everywhere. Like some slapstick cartoon."
Asuka giggled, clearly trying not to choke on her rice. "You didn't laugh to his face, right?"
Kazuki shrugged. "I'm not a monster. I waited until I turned the corner."
Akiko laughed again—an almost hysterical burst this time. She wiped at her eyes, breathless. "You're ridiculous."
She had no idea school could be this fun.
Sora had great friends. Asuka talked quickly and casually, weaving in words Akiko didn't always recognize, but she didn't mind. She laughed where it felt right, nodded where she had to, and replied with vague enough answers to pass. The girl seemed pleased either way. Kazuki, meanwhile, was full of boundless energy—always bouncing between wild stories, teasing remarks, and sudden impressions of their teachers that had the other students stifling laughter.
It was loud. Fast. Chaotic.
But she liked it.
Classes themselves were a marvel. Back in her own time, she had only been taught how to write beautiful kana, how to bow at the correct angle, and how to keep her voice sweet and small for when marriage came. But here? In Sora's world, she was learning about politics and calculus and international wars. Science that could split mountains. Histories she had never heard of. Even the class on manners was entirely different—more about independence and self-respect than graceful servitude.
She found herself scribbling notes just like the others, switching between kanji and shorthand squiggles as fast as she could, sometimes not even understanding what she was writing. But the rhythm of it was comforting.
This life—Sora's life—was vibrant. Messy. Loud. And she was starting to love it.
The food helped, too.
Every meal tasted like something reserved for emperors. Fried chicken wrapped in foil like a gift. Soft bread filled with cheese. Cold tea that somehow came in a metal can. It was like being a noble with access to a bottomless pantry—yet it was all sold in loud machines or humble stores. The common folk of this era eat like lords, she thought with quiet awe.
At lunch, she'd overheard Asuka and Kazuki talking about a café. Something about a date. Her date? With Sora? She pieced it together slowly from the way Asuka glanced at her—shy, hopeful, teasing. Akiko smiled politely and acted as if everything had gone wonderfully.
She'd have to ask him later somehow.
They really needed to start keeping a diary.
The school day dragged and flew at the same time. Before she knew it, the last bell rang. Bags were zipped, desks were shuffled, and the corridor filled with voices and footfalls. Akiko followed them out like she belonged, walking between Kazuki and Asuka as they made their way toward the lockers.
Kazuki popped his open and slammed it shut in one motion, flashing a grin as he turned to Asuka. "Hey, random question," he said, eyes gleaming. "Are your parents, like… rich or something?"
Asuka blinked. "What?"
"I mean, c'mon," Kazuki continued, gesturing dramatically. "You live in an actual house with a garden and such—like, not an apartment box with walls you can punch through. Probably a koi pond too. Your mailbox probably gets more sunlight than my entire room."
Asuka laughed, but her voice was a little too light, a little too quick. "It's not that fancy."
Kazuki leaned in with mock seriousness. "So… if your place has space for normies like me and Sora, can we crash there sometime? You know, hang out, play games, raid the kitchen?"
Akiko smiled, pretending she understood everything Kazuki meant. She glanced at Asuka, who was still laughing—but something in her eyes had flickered. A tiny shift. Like she'd heard this joke before, many times, and always smiled through it.
"I would like that," Akiko said, softly but sincerely.
Asuka looked at her for a moment—really looked—and then nodded. "Yeah… maybe."
Kazuki gave a dramatic bow. "Lady Asuka, we are most honoured."
Akiko giggled, clutching the strap of Sora's bag as they continued down the hall. The three of them together. Talking about nothing and everything.
And yet, under the hum of voices and scuffed floors, Akiko felt it again—that thread of sadness in Asuka's laugh. It passed quickly, like a cloud over the sun.
She said nothing, but her thoughts stirred.
Sora and Akiko really, really needed to start keeping a diary.
The journey back to Sora's apartment went more smoothly this time.
Akiko now understood the purpose of the train, how to read the glowing signs, when to step forward and when to wait. The strange tides of people and noise still overwhelmed her—this world was so loud—but she had learned to keep her gaze ahead and walk with purpose. That seemed to be enough.
As she stepped off the platform and into the cooling city streets, she gave Kazuki a small wave.
"See you tomorrow!" he called cheerfully, jogging off in the opposite direction.
Akiko smiled. "Sora will… see you tomorrow," she murmured to herself, unsure if he really would.
She had pieced it together by now: when she fell asleep, she would return to her own time, her own body—and Sora would return to his. It felt like waking from a vivid dream, except it wasn't a dream. It never was.
I wonder what Sora did today, she thought as she walked, the apartment route already etched into her memory. It was strange how quickly it became familiar—the curved vending machine corner, the crooked sign above the bakery, the sun setting behind towering highrises like a giant lantern being lowered by unseen hands. With early spring settling in, the air grew cold quickly after sunset, nipping at her neck.
Good thing I brought his jacket today, she thought, hugging it a little tighter.
She reached the building, climbed the stairs, and slid the key from her pocket. With a soft chk, it slipped into the lock. K-klick. The door eased open on its hinges, and she stepped inside, shutting it behind her.
She flicked the light switch—chik—and the apartment came to life in pale yellow light.
It was still covered in post-it notes. On the fridge, the door, the desk. She let out a quiet laugh. It felt oddly comforting, like being welcomed by the boy who had lent her this life.
Her stomach growled.
She opened the cold box—fridge, she reminded herself—and found one of the see-through containers again. Inside was a dark, rich-looking stew poured over white rice. She brightened a little at the rice—at least that she recognized. The stew gave off a warm, spiced aroma, foreign but pleasant. She read the small label stuck beside the post-it:
Curry - Beef
She mouthed the unfamiliar word. "Kah-ri…?"
No meaning came to her. She didn't know what curry was, but it looked filling enough. It resembled a stew in some way—thicker, darker, and far richer than anything she remembered from home.
The note on top read:
HEAT THIS FIRST.
"I would love to," she said aloud to no one.
The only problem was… how?
She searched the kitchen again, scanning each object. Some of it she remembered—spoons, cups, the black box that made hot water. Then, near the corner, she spotted it. A square metal box with a glass front and buttons arranged like a miniature abacus.
Another note was stuck to the top:
MICROWAVE
Heats up food fast.
Push buttons to set time.
Careful—it gets hot inside.
Akiko approached it like one might approach a sleeping beast. She crouched, tilting her head to inspect the front. There was no fire inside, no flame beneath. Just a black plate and a hollow silence.
Heats up food fast, she read again. Without fire? Her eyes narrowed. Witchcraft, surely.
She placed the curry—the stew, she reminded herself—inside, mimicking what she'd seen others do in the cafeteria. Then she hovered her finger over the buttons. They were labeled with numbers and strange little symbols—stars, teacups, even a mysterious button that simply read Start.
"That one," she whispered.
She pressed it.
A soft whirring began, followed by a light flicking on inside the strange device. The plate started to spin. Her eyes widened.
"It moves…" she whispered in awe, stepping back just a little. "The box moves."
The low hum of the microwave filled the room. She crouched again, face near the glass, watching the stew container rotate slowly like a food offering on display in a shrine. The noise grew slightly louder—vmmmMMM—until the machine gave a sharp BEEP BEEP BEEP that made her flinch upright.
"Did I anger it?!"
The sound stopped.
Akiko inched forward. Steam fogged up the inside of the microwave, curling along the glass like ghostly fingers. She hesitated, then slowly pulled the handle open. A puff of heat kissed her face.
"Ah—hot!" she yelped, pulling her hand back.
She reached for a towel, wrapping it around her hand before carefully lifting the container out. The smell hit her then—earthy and spicy, unlike any food from her world, but inviting nonetheless.
She set it on the table and sat cross-legged on the floor, chopsticks in hand. The food was warm, fragrant. She took the first bite and let her eyes flutter closed.
It tastes like comfort, she thought. Like stories told near the hearth. Like a world I could belong in.
And though the city outside buzzed and whirred and blinked with life far stranger than her own, for a moment, it didn't feel quite so foreign.
Finishing up, she glanced down at the empty food container and stood with a stretch. Where did these go again?
She looked around the kitchen, scanning corners, under the table, near the fridge—until she spotted a tall gray cylinder near the wall. A post-it note on it read:
Trash can – throw trash in here.
She lifted the lid and dropped the container in. The lid fell back with a fwump, and with that, the meal was truly finished.
A yawn escaped her lips.
She felt tired—less so than last time, but still worn down in a way that was hard to put into words. Sora's life was… full. Always moving, always loud, always connected to something blinking or buzzing or calling for attention. It didn't exhaust her like a day of riding or training, but it still left her wanting to lie down somewhere quiet.
Instead, her feet brought her to the other room. The one with the mirror.
The first time she stood here, it had nearly given her a heart attack. Seeing his face in the glass, feeling the weight of his body beneath unfamiliar clothes. That moment—when she threw a book at her own reflection—flashed in her mind and made her smile in embarrassment.
The mirror still stood there, wide and clear. Another post-it clung to the corner:
Mirror—this is you. Don't be scared.
She narrowed her eyes. "Did he really think I wouldn't know?"
Water reflected too. Streams, polished bronze bowls, even the blade of a dagger could. Either Sora thought she was foolish, or he simply didn't want to take any risks. Maybe he just wanted to be kind.
She scanned the rest of the room. More notes dotted the space like gentle instructions from a ghost. Toilet.Wash your hands with this.Face soap. Do not eat.
Her gaze landed on a curious one above a large white basin:
Bath. Turn these to fill the tub. Don't forget to test the temperature.
Her eyes lit up.
A bath.
It had only been two days since her last one, but that felt like a lifetime ago after today. She knelt beside the tub and turned the knobs carefully, startled at first by the rush of hot water, then amazed as the tub slowly began to fill. Steam curled up from the rising surface, soft and inviting.
As the tub filled, she stood up and faced the mirror again. Her fingers hesitated at the hem of her—his blouse.
It was still strange—this body was not hers. She was a guest inside it, walking with his legs, seeing through his eyes, speaking with his voice. It felt wrong sometimes, to touch it. To even look at it too closely.
But the water called.
With care, she pulled off the blouse, attempting to folding it neatly, then removed the rest, each motion deliberate and quiet. She kept her gaze away from the mirror, away from his body, avoiding the mirror. She didn't want to look.
Akiko stepped into the bath slowly, letting the warmth lap at her legs. She eased herself in, shoulders tensing as the heat reached her chest, then gradually relaxing.
A long sigh escaped her lips.
Her body—his body—sank into the water, limbs melting into the calm. For a moment, it was easy to forget who she was, when she was. There was just water and warmth and stillness.
She closed her eyes and leaned back.
Maybe tomorrow she would write something down for him. Maybe a note, or a question. Or maybe she'd just say thank you.
For the food.
For the post-its.
For the bath.
After what seemed like forever, the heat had softened every knot in her muscles, soaked away the tension in her shoulders, and quieted the noise in her thoughts. She could've stayed there all night—but she knew she shouldn't.
Time to get out, she told herself.
The air outside the tub was much colder, her skin prickling instantly. She grabbed a towel—fluffy and clean, likely one Sora had set out for her—and dried herself carefully, trying not to look down too much. The towel smelled faintly of something artificial but comforting, like spring in a bottle.
Her bare feet padded softly across the floor as she made her way to the bed. There, folded and waiting, were the clothes he slept in: a loose shirt and soft shorts. She slipped them on without fuss, the fabric oddly welcoming against her skin.
She reached for the light switch near the door—one of those clever little wall buttons—and flipped it, casting the apartment into a warm darkness broken only by the distant orange glow of streetlights outside.
As she turned back toward the bed, something caught her eye.
A small rectangular object lay on the nightstand beside the bed, with a thin, strange rope sticking out of it. A note clung to the wire, written in the familiar blocky script Sora used when writing for her:
Phone – plug into charger before bed.
She blinked at it. The "phone" was that glowing slab Sora always carried, the one that lit up and played sounds and showed pictures like magic. The "charger," though… it looked almost like a silk cord, but thicker, with a hard silver end that resembled a decorative chopstick. It curled unnaturally, too stiff to be string and too soft to be metal.
Akiko picked it up carefully, turning it in her fingers like it might bite her. It connected to a small square block resting in the wall, humming faintly. The whole thing reminded her of some strange tethering tool, like something you might use to secure a falcon to a post—or restrain a demon in a charm.
Still, the note was clear.
She followed the drawing Sora had scribbled in the corner of the post-it, and after one false try, the silver end slid into the hole at the bottom of the glowing slab with a satisfying click.
A tiny light blinked on. The device was feeding, like a small beast at rest.
"That should please him," she murmured, unsure if she was being silly or serious.
She turned and slipped under the covers. The bed was impossibly soft—too soft, honestly—but she welcomed it. Her head sank into the pillow, and she ran her fingers absently through her hair. Or rather, his hair.
She missed her long hair. The way it tickled her back when she sat. The way it wrapped around her neck when she turned her head too fast. The shortness of Sora's hair was convenient, yes—but it didn't feel like hers. None of this did.
Still… it wasn't all bad.
She turned onto her side, curling into the warmth of the blanket, letting the last of the city's distant hum lull her.
Her thoughts began to drift.
What is Sora doing now?
Is he safe?
Her breath slowed.
I hope he's okay…
Darkness took her gently, like slipping under still water.
Meanwhile, floating on top of the water, Sora stood in her body—on the boat that barely contained the four of them—wide-eyed, staring at the fisher who had already committed to the attack. His arm fully extended, the bronze blade arcing downward, gleaming in the dim light. It was heading straight for Tsukasa's shoulder.
Move.
His mind screamed it.
Move, damn it—go!
He couldn't reach them.
Time was frozen, but his body was moving. No, her body—Akiko's—moving without grace or intent, only instinct. The heavy wooden sandals clacked and thudded against the wet boards of the boat, each step loud and wrong. It wasn't enough. Not fast enough. His hand slipped beneath the inner folds of the robe.
The blade.
Fingers closed around the narrow handle of the kogatana. He hadn't known what it would feel like—gripping something that was never made to be held for comfort. It was small, barely the length of his hand, nestled tight near the waist of the robe like a whispered secret. Cold metal kissed his palm. He drew it.
The bronze sword was gliding through the air.
Tsukasa's wide eyes reflected it. No time. No plan. Sora's foot slammed forward, his whole weight behind it, and he lunged.
The blade plunged.
It sank into flesh—real flesh. Not in games. Not in stories. Not a plastic prop. This was warm, pliant, alive. It didn't stop like he thought it would. It gave way, like stabbing into thick fruit. A dull crack—bone?—then slide. A horrible slide.
The fisherman gasped. Choked. Frothy spittle sprayed from his lips. His mouth opened again as if to speak, but all that came was a gurgle.
His fingers uncurled—a silent surrender—and the blade slipped free. It tumbled once, like a rodent trying to escape, before the water swallowed it whole. Ripples pulsed outward, it quickly sank down, never to be seen again.
Sora stared. Eyes wide. The handle was still in his hand, buried to the hilt in the man's chest.
He let go.
They both fell.
The weight of the dying man collapsed against him—her. His legs buckled under the body, and they tumbled hard onto the deck of the narrow boat. The whole thing rocked dangerously, violently, water sloshing in from the river's edge. The icy current lapped over the side, splashing Sora's—Akiko's—bare knees. A sharp breath tore from him. It was cold, so cold it stung.
Blood mixed with the river water. It should have been less. It shouldn't look like this much. But the water turned pink, then red, so red, like the whole boat was bleeding. The fisherman twitched—spasmed. His arms flailed once, smacking Sora's shoulder with a dying strength. Then stillness.
Only his breath remained.
Wet, rattling, labored.
Sora felt it. The rising and falling of the man's chest, pressed against his side. Then just rising. Then not even that. Just the sound. Each breath weaker. Thinner.
Then… nothing.
The fisherman's eyes were open. Not looking. Staring through him. Glassy. Empty.
Sora didn't scream.
He wanted to. But something inside him was stuck, paralyzed. His breath came in panicked bursts, shallow and uneven. His throat hurt. His hands shook.
He looked down at them.
Her hands.
They were red.
Red and shaking.
The cold water did nothing to clean them. Nothing could. It smeared it worse, slick and warm and clinging. His chest heaved. He backed away, the sandals slipping on the wet boards, heart thundering so hard he thought it would burst.
"I… I killed him…"
The words came out without sound.
A bubble of snot and spit clung to his lip. His vision blurred.
"I killed him."
The boat rocked again. Tsukasa was saying something—he didn't hear it. Yasuhiro was shouting—he didn't care. The body was still slumped there, blade still jutting out, blood soaking the boards like oil. The fisherman's final expression—mouth open, eyes wide, forever in that moment between breath and death—burned into him.
He had seen death in media. In games. In anime.
He had never felt it.
It was ugly. It was heavy. It was warm and cold and real. It didn't make him a hero. It didn't make him strong.
He wanted to puke.
He turned, doubled over the side of the boat, and heaved. Nothing came out. Just dry, shuddering coughs. The smell of the blood was thick in his nose, like rust and meat and riverwater.
The air bit at him as if punishing him. The silence of the boat—except for the sound of water and gasping companions—screamed louder than anything.
He clutched the side of the boat, knuckles white.
This wasn't a story.
This wasn't a dream.
He had killed a man.