BZZZZZZT. BZZZZZZT. BZZZZZZT.
06:30 AM, Thursday.
Sora's hand shot out with muscle memory, smacking the vibrating phone on his nightstand. The alarm died instantly. Silence returned.
He lay there for a second, blinking up at the ceiling. The familiar stillness of his room greeted him. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, catching faint motes of dust in the air.
And yet... something was off.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Slowly, the strangeness revealed itself.
The room was spotless. No sticky notes on the monitor, none on the cupboards none on the bathroom door. Yesterday half of them still remained—none now. The notes that clearly labelled with things like "Bowls go here." or "Washing Machine, Cleans clothes, Leave to me."
Now, all of them were gone. Every surface gleamed. Even the corkboard near his desk, once a patchwork of diagrams, bullet points, and crude emoji drawings, had been stripped bare. Only the faint outline of adhesive remained where tape had once held them.
Sora frowned.
"She cleaned everything?" he muttered, rising to his feet. The floor beneath him didn't creak—probably because she'd dusted that too.
The light flicked on with a soft click. White walls, clear desk, unwrinkled sheets. Something about the precision of it all gave him goosebumps. Akiko had been in his body for just one day—and left behind the kind of room you'd see in a model apartment.
Then his eyes fell on the kitchen table.
A single note lay flat atop its surface, neatly pressed beneath a capped calligraphy brush. Beside it was a full calligraphy set: inkstone, brush rest, folded cotton cloth. He didn't own any of this.
Sora stepped closer. The letter was written in bold yet graceful strokes. The brushwork was traditional, the kind that required patience and skill—not the rushed marker scribbles he was used to. She'd even chosen formal phrasing.
Of course she had.
The calligraphy wasn't ornate or showy. It was efficient. Polished. Controlled.
The note said:
Currency spent: 4750¥
"Four thousand seven hundred and—"
Sora choked. "Four thousand seven hundred and fifty yen!?"
His voice rang out in the silence of the room, hands gripping the paper like it might reveal a hidden punchline if he stared hard enough. He dropped into the chair across from the note, wide-eyed. He couldn't even remember the last time he had spent that much in a single day—on himself, no less.
He skimmed down to the next lines.
Things bought:
• Calligraphy set
• Café with Asuka
• Food from place called 7-Eleven
Sora dragged a hand down his face. "Café… again?"
It was happening. Akiko, in his body, was out here collecting café points with Asuka while he was busy dodging death in ancient Japan.
The note continued beneath, written in elegant, almost too-perfect brush strokes:
Sora, I spent your currency on things. I had no other way of writing back to you. I could not find the calligraphy tools you used to write your notes to me.
Asuka said these were a great price. She was really helpful.
Sora groaned. "I have like a million pens and sharpies."
In his mind, he facepalmed so hard he almost collapsed. Of course she didn't know how to use a pen. Or a pencil. Or anything that didn't involve ink and brush and centuries-old tradition.
He stared at the calligraphy set on the table. It was nice, annoyingly so. Elegant lacquered box, multiple brushes of varying thickness, real inkstone. Definitely not a beginner's kit. Probably imported.
That alone could've cost three thousand yen easy.
After that, Asuka invited me over to a place near her house, or so she said. We ate some really sweet, delicious things.
Sora groaned louder.
"That's a date, Akiko! You're going on dates as me! What am I even supposed to say when I see her—'oh yeah, that wasn't me who complimented your hair and laughed at your jokes for two hours, that was a Heian noblewoman borrowing my flesh for the day'!?"
His head hit the table with a thud.
She was gonna ruin his whole school life without even meaning to.
But that is enough about the café. Asuka seems to have some things she is troubled by. You should try to make sure she is alright.
That sobered him a little. He sat up again, rereading the line.
"…She did seem a little off lately."
Maybe it wasn't just fun for Akiko. Maybe she had picked up on something real.
He made a mental note to check in with Asuka—after he figured out how to explain the weirdness she'd experienced during her "date" with him.
After the café, she walked with me to this store.
Sora nearly choked again, reading the next part.
It was like a market but smaller. Bright, loud, with chilled boxes of colourful packages. The door made a strange sound when it opened and the man inside wore a cloth mask and a nameplate—he bowed at us and said nothing else. Very polite.
"She's describing 7-Eleven like it's an imperial archive."
We bought food. I got you that chicken dish I ate last time and some water.
You should not be drinking sweat!
Sora froze.
"…What?"
Then realization hit.
"Oh my god—Pocari Sweat."
He covered his mouth to keep from laughing. The image of Akiko standing in front of the drink cooler, reading the label with suspicion and probably flinching at the word sweat while assuming it was some kind of health tonic—it was too much.
Today was fun.
Thank you, Sora, for keeping Yasuhiro, Tsukasa and me safe.
I hope you were able to do it again.
Sora lowered the paper slowly.
Her brush strokes trailed a little at the end, like she had lingered too long over the final lines.
I am forever grateful to you,
Akiko Yamashina
He stared at her name. The soft swoop of the "A", the precision of each kanji. It looked like she had
"…Jeez."
He stood, still holding the note delicately by its edges, and crossed the room toward his desk. The corkboard above it—once crowded with scribbled reminders and guideposts for a time-lost girl—was completely bare now. Akiko must've taken them all down, wiping the slate clean with quiet finality.
Sora let out a slow breath.
Then, with two thumbtacks and more care than he expected to need, he pinned the note dead center at the top.
It fluttered for just a moment in the morning air from the cracked window, then stilled. Her handwriting, her presence, lingering in the room.
Something about seeing it there—elegant and unmistakably hers—made it feel like she was still watching over him.
He stepped back, eyes lingering on the clean board, focussing on those two last sentences:
I am forever grateful to you,
Akiko Yamashina
There was a warmth in his chest he didn't quite know what to do with.
With a satisfied nod, Sora turned away from his desk, feeling unusually light. He was ready. More than that—he was prepared, and not by his own hand.
Near the door stood his school bag, upright and waiting, with his jacket draped neatly over the top. It wasn't his style of organization. Akiko must have set it all up for him the night before.
In some quiet, inexplicable way, it felt… nice.
Nice to be looked after. Nice to be noticed. Appreciated, even. It wasn't romantic, nor anything dramatic—it was simply a presence. A kindness in actions. A gentleness that had followed her into his world, into his skin, and now lingered in these small, human gestures.
The last time he had felt this kind of warmth in a space was back home.
He shoved the thought down before it could blossom—before it could bring back the smell of his old hallway, the echo of a laugh he would never hear again, or the quiet mornings where breakfast was shared, not alone.
No. Not now.
He turned toward the kitchenette and pulled out his favorite: shrimp ramen. The king of instant meals, the sovereign of college cuisine. "Unmistakably the best," he murmured to himself as he tore open the packet.
The kettle clicked to life, humming softly as he changed into the clothes Akiko had laid out. She'd even folded his socks.
As he dressed, steam coiled up from the bubbling kettle, and when the water finished, he poured it into the waiting bowl. The rich scent rose immediately, comforting in its simplicity. The seasoning melted into the swirl of noodles, turning the water a warm, golden orange.
He grabbed the bottle of water Akiko had bought from 7-Eleven—a gesture that still made him smile—and sat down at the small table.
Steam curled lazily upward as he twirled the noodles with chopsticks, blowing on the surface before taking a small bite. Hot. Too hot. Perfect.
He picked up his phone and tapped it awake, unlocking it with ease as his thumb hovered over the messages.
Kazuki:I'll be there in 20!
Casual as always. If Akiko had acted strange the day before, Kazuki hadn't noticed. That meant she must've pulled it off—just another normal day in Sora's body.
Curious, he scrolled up, scanning the thread from yesterday.
Kazuki:I'm at your door in 5! Better be ready!
Sora: 👍
"…She used an emoji?" Sora snorted into his noodles. "That's hilarious."
It looked like something a middle-aged uncle would send to his coworkers.
No follow-up messages. Nothing too weird. Still, it amused him.
Then he opened the thread with Asuka.
Asuka:Thank you for this afternoon, I really enjoyed it! You are a good listener, Sora 😊
Sora: 👍
His mouth dropped open mid-chew. "She used the same emoji…?"
The laugh came out before he could stop it—half choking, half wheezing, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Did she not know how to type anything else?"
He could practically see her, frowning at the phone, trying to figure out how to respond, eventually settling on a universal thumbs-up. The image alone was enough to make his chest warm.
Still grinning, he scrolled down, waiting to see if Akiko—or rather, he—had replied with anything else—unfortunately not.
He finished the last of his noodles with a satisfying slurp, tilted his head back, and drained the bottle of water in a few gulps. The chill of it was refreshing—crisp and grounding after the emotional weirdness of the morning.
With a stretch, he placed the bowl in the sink and checked his reflection in the microwave door. Presentable enough. Shoes on, jacket over his shoulders, bag on his back.
Right on cue—three knocks at the door. Firm, fast, familiar.
"Morning," Sora said as he opened it.
Kazuki stood there, hands shoved into his pants, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. His breath puffed in small clouds in the cool spring air, and his usual messy hair looked like he hadn't even glanced at a mirror.
"Yo. You look alive," Kazuki said with a grin. "Guess yesterday didn't break you after all."
Sora forced a chuckle. "I'm unbreakable, but you should already know that."
"Charming."
They started walking, shoes clapping against the quiet sidewalk. The morning still held onto that sleepy grey hue, the sun not quite clearing the horizon, but the air was already beginning to warm.
Kazuki glanced sideways at him. "So, how was your date?"
Sora blinked, Asuka must have told him "Ehh… hmmm?"
"You and Asuka. Café? Fluffy pancakes? She texted me, said she saw you eat one in like two bites. Said it was 'adorably unhinged.'"
Sora groaned and rubbed his face. "I was hungry can you blame me?"
Kazuki chuckled.
They turned a corner, now heading toward the station. Commuters passed them—students, salarymen, a jogger with earbuds and neon shoes.
"Didn't know you were into pancakes," Kazuki teased.
"I'm not," Sora muttered. "She is."
"She?"
"Asuka." He corrected himself immediately.
The two of them reached the station, slipping into the rhythm of routine as the train roared in from the distance. Sora stepped aside to let an older woman board first, then followed Kazuki in.
As the train doors slid shut behind them, Sora caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass—eyes did not look tired at all, faint smile, jacket still messy over his shoulder.
"…Thanks, Akiko, I—we—slept pretty good" he murmured under his breath, unheard over the rattle of the tracks.
The school day passed in a kind of blur, like flipping through a familiar book with all the important pages already dog-eared.
Sora and Kazuki had barely stepped inside the entrance when they ran into Asuka near the shoe lockers. She was crouched down, adjusting her laces, her bag resting on her knees. When she looked up and saw them, her face lit up in that open, effortless way that made Sora's stomach do an awkward little flip.
"Good morning, Sora! Kazuki!" she greeted with a small wave.
"Yo," Kazuki said, stuffing his indoor shoes into the locker with practiced chaos.
Sora offered a nod, a bit stiff. "Morning."
Asuka smiled—soft, sincere—and stood up to walk beside them.
"I was hoping I'd run into you," she said to Sora as they made their way down the hall. "Yesterday was… really fun."
Sora nearly tripped over his own feet but managed to recover with a weak laugh. "Y-Yeah. Same."
He didn't even like pancakes that much.
They slipped into class together just before the bell rang, the morning lessons flying by in a haze of chalk dust and droning lectures. Math problems blurred into kanji drills. The teacher's voice turned into white noise, and Sora found himself staring out the window more than once, watching clouds drift lazily across the sky.
Lunchtime came. The trio sat together on the third-floor balcony, Kazuki inhaling his usual mountain of rice balls, while Asuka carefully unwrapped a lunchbox.
Sora, meanwhile, chewed slowly through the chicken Akiko had picked out from 7-Eleven. It tasted better than it had any right to—even though it was cold. Or maybe he was just imagining things. Either way, he found himself smiling more than usual during lunch.
Classes resumed. More drifting. More windows. More wondering if Akiko had asked Asuka any weird questions while in his body. He hoped she hadn't talked about… feudal politics.
Before he knew it, the last bell rang.
Students burst from their classrooms like prisoners freed at last, voices loud, the hallways noisy and bright. Sora packed up his bag, Kazuki slung an arm over his shoulder in a one-armed bro-hug, and together they made their way out the front gates.
The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the walkway outside the school. Light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows as the breeze gently tugged at their uniforms.
Sora adjusted his bag strap and exhaled. "Another day."
Kazuki nodded. "Yeah. Normal. Boring."
Sora glanced up at the sky, then toward the streets stretching ahead.
And for just a moment, it did feel normal.
Even if tomorrow, everything could change again.
As they walked together toward the station, the fading light of early evening shimmered off the metal rails and flickered through the passing trains. Kazuki was still going on about a funny thing one of the girls in class had said when Sora slowed his pace, gaze drifting somewhere far off beyond the present.
When they reached the turnstile, he finally stopped.
"You go without me," Sora said, his tone casual—but there was something off in his eyes. "I want to check something."
Kazuki raised a brow. "Check what?"
Sora hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "Just... something."
Kazuki stared for a beat longer, then shrugged with that same lazy grin. "Alright, man. Don't get kidnapped."
With that, he scanned his pass, slipped through the gate, and disappeared into the swell of people boarding the train. A moment later, the train pulled out with a screech and a chime, leaving Sora standing alone on the platform.
The moment the wind from the departing train settled, he turned and walked briskly to the other platform. Not home. Not yet.
Ueno.
A strange draw wanted him to check it—her—after all Akiko's body had been trhough. Even if not much had changed, he had to check if her body was still there.
The train ride to Ueno was short, but quiet. The kind of quiet that gave too much space to think.
By the time he stepped off at Ueno Station, the sky was painted in dusky pastels. He crossed the street briskly, weaving through crowds of tourists and commuters. The park still buzzed with life—children chasing each other across the open paths, older couples walking hand in hand, street vendors calling out their final sales of the day.
And there, just past the fountain square, was the museum.
The Tokyo National Museum's main building rose solemn and stately, its old-world architecture contrasting sharply with the neon signs and modernity outside the park. Its tall windows caught the last of the sunlight, glowing faintly like watchful eyes.
Sora glanced at the time—5:42 PM.
The museum closed at 6.
He hurried forward, footsteps quickening.
Probably nothing had changed.
But something inside him called—something that no amount of rationality or science could explain.
He paid the entrance fee—750 yen with his student ID—and the machine chirped politely as it printed out his stub. He tucked it into his pocket without looking and stepped past the front desk, the soft click of his shoes swallowed by the polished wooden floors and gentle lighting.
This made it the third time in a week.
He'd walked these same hallways before. Tall glass cases, pristine plaques, curated silence broken only by distant footfalls and the soft hum of air conditioning. His eyes scanned the displays almost without thinking—ceremonial blades, lacquerware bowls, folded fans with paintings of storks and fireflies.
Each piece exactly where he remembered it. Unmoving. Unchanging.
Just like the timeline.
He passed through the main exhibit hall, his pace slowing as he turned left—his legs guiding him with a muscle memory not unlike the one he used when reaching for his morning alarm.
The timeline exhibit stretched out before him, housed in a low-lit corridor lined with dioramas, plaques, and glowing displays projecting the milestones of Japanese history. It was one of the more popular parts of the museum. Not for tourists, maybe, but for those who wanted the neat, tidy narrative of time told in centuries and emperors.
Sora's steps slowed as he neared the familiar wing of the museum.
His heart pounded, each beat louder than the last. His palms were clammy, his breath shallow. He had to remind himself to keep walking. The smooth museum tiles felt unsteady underfoot, like they might split open at any moment.
This was the third time he was here.
Twice before, he'd passed the same timeline, the same exhibits, the same corner.
Twice before, he'd seen them.
Three skeletons. Arranged respectfully, perhaps, but unavoidably lifeless. A noble girl and her two guards. Stripped of names, of warmth, of story.
Akiko. Yasuhiro. Tsukasa.
It had taken everything in him not to scream the first time. The second, he'd nearly convinced himself it was fate—inevitable, immutable.
But today… today something gnawed at him. Not fear. Not dread.
Hope.
He didn't want to hope. Hope made you fragile.
But still—he rounded the corner.
And stopped.
His breath caught in his throat, jaw slack.
Gone.
The glass case. The bones. The names. All of it—gone.
There was no sign of death. No skeletal reminders of their failure. Instead, a new exhibit stood in its place. Clean, subtle, reverent.
A glass display.
And inside it—a scroll.
Unfurled with care, its ink aged but unbroken. As though time itself had held its breath so the paper could endure.
For a second, Sora couldn't move.
He didn't even look at the text right away.
His eyes stung. A weight dropped from his chest.
They did it.
They were alive.
He grinned before he could stop himself, the edges of his mouth curling upward in stunned disbelief. It was the first time he'd smiled like that since—well, since before Tokyo. Before everything.
"Akiko…" he muttered softly, his voice barely audible. "You made it."
He let the moment sit, let himself feel it. No matter what the placards said, no matter what history eventually recorded—right now, they weren't dead. Not here.
And that mattered.
He leaned forward slightly, pressing a hand to the railing in front of the display.
The new placard read:
"Recovered Heian-era diplomatic letter, dated to approximately 1000 AD. Believed to be a draft correspondence from a lesser noble house addressed to a regional court in Tanba province. The ink, calligraphy style, and seals match Yamashina family lineage during late classical Japan."
His gaze dropped to the scroll, tracing the strokes of characters that only days ago—centuries ago—Akiko had clutched to her chest like it carried the weight of her entire world.
It had made it.
She had made it.
And somehow, he had helped. Even from a thousand years away.
The joy simmered quietly in his chest, not explosive, but warm and steady.
Sora leaned in.
The scroll sat pristine behind the glass, unfurled carefully on a mounted silk mat. The ink was dark, almost recent-looking. But it couldn't be. Not after a thousand years.
He read.
"By the will of Yamashina no Aritsune, head of household and loyal servant of the realm, this letter is dispatched in utmost secrecy to our esteemed official in the western province of Tanba no Kokufu."
Sora blinked. Aritsune…? The name meant nothing to him. They had never spoken of her father, not once. Had they?
"The time has come to restore balance to the court. The Fujiwara have ruled in all but name, treating the Emperor as a child, and bending the rites of state to their advantage."
His chest tightened. That didn't sound like the Akiko he knew. Not the quiet, duty-bound girl who spend her days doing calligraphy and studying manners.
"We, the house of Yamashina, prepare to right this wrong. We ask for your allegiance—your discretion—and your sword, when the moment arrives."
Sora frowned. No. No way.
"Together, we shall see the removal of the Fujiwara regents and, if the heavens permit, a new sovereign shall rise—one chosen not by blood alone, but by virtue and resolve."
No. This didn't feel right.
This didn't sound like her. Or anyone she'd travelled with. Tsukasa? Yasuhiro? They weren't warriors. They were tired, loyal, retainers. They'd been hunted, not conspiring.
He read the next lines in silence, pulse rising.
"We have loyalists already stationed in Owari, and talks have begun with two eastern governors…"
"…this message is entrusted to my daughter, Lady Akiko…"
There it was.
The words blurred in front of him.
Entrusted to my daughter… It made her sound like a willing agent of revolt. But that wasn't what he'd lived through. That wasn't what he felt, being in her skin. She was just a messenger. She had run. Not delivered this. Not like this.
He stepped back slightly. Something was wrong.
Then his eyes caught the placard beneath the glass. A small block of modern explanation:
"Following the delivery of the Yamashina letter to Tanba no Kokufu in the early months of 1000 AD, the imperial court in Heian-kyō responded with swift and brutal judgment. Records indicate that several members of the Yamashina family and their known allies were arrested and executed for high treason within the same year. This act solidified the Fujiwara clan's dominance and marked a critical turning point in late Heian political consolidation."
He felt his heart drop.
Executed. All of them?
That couldn't be right.
Not after everything they'd survived. Not after… what she'd endured. What he had endured in her place.
No. This wasn't the scroll. He was sure of it now. This was something else. Something planted. Rewritten. Cleaned up for the benefit of the winning side.
The Fujiwara controlled everything, didn't they? Including history. Including what got remembered, and what got buried.
His eyes returned to the elegant, deadly calligraphy behind the glass.
It could've been forged. Or replaced. Or misrepresented. He couldn't prove it, not here—not yet—but the way his chest tightened told him enough.
This was a lie.
A beautiful, carefully inked lie.
And Akiko's real story… the real scroll… might already be lost.
Or maybe, just maybe, it still had a chance to be told.
He stood still, breathing in the quiet hum of the museum lights.
Whatever this was—it wasn't the end.