After I lost my sister, I spent the first few days in denial, a manic, terrified refusal to accept what had happened.
I tore through Tokyo like a man possessed. I called the police. I filed reports. I ran from ward to ward, station to station, hospital to hospital, clutching the hope that maybe, somehow, she'd turn up, that this was all a prank or something.
Every time my phone buzzed, I jumped.
Every time I dialed her number, I prayed.
But the call never connected.
I kept calling anyway.
I knew it was pointless. I knew how it looked. Me, red-eyed and wild, punching the same number into my phone like a madman.
But what else could I do? What else does a brother do, when the world stole his sister away?
So I kept dialing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Desperately.
Until, on the fifth day, the line clicked, and I heard it.
"The number you are trying to call does not exist."
A flat, sterile voice, automated and lifeless.
I stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, my heart pounding inside my rib cage.
Does not… exist?
Does not… freaking… exist?
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovered over redial, trembling.
And I pressed the button.
Again.
"The number you are trying to call does not exist."
…
What?
Just like that, the number was gone. Like it had never been hers. Like it had never been connected to anyone. Like she had never been real!
Later that day, the Japanese police contacted me. I thought they had found something. I was ready to fall on my knees and thank them. But instead…
They accused me of lying!?
They said my report was false, that there was no evidence a girl named Anna had ever entered the country with me, that my apartment was registered to a single occupant, that according to their files… I had no sister.
None…
They even recommended I see a psychiatrist and get checked.
I laughed.
Then I screamed in their face.
How dare they? How fucking dare they?!
Anna was real! She was my sister! I raised her! I held her hand when she had nightmares! I cooked her birthday cakes every year! We shared the same blood, the same roof, the same memories!
She wasn't a delusion. She wasn't a glitch!
She was my sister!
So I did the only thing I could think of. I ran home. If they wouldn't believe me, I'd show them. I'd bring them the proof myself, shove them to those idiot faces!
Yes, her notebooks, her sketches, her favorite hoodie, the one with the stupid little cat ears. The photo albums, the polaroids on her desk, the goddamn plushies she hoarded like a dragon!
But when I opened the door to her room—
There was no room.
Just a wall.
A solid, painted, seamless stretch of drywall where her door used to be.
I reached out, pressing my palm against it. My fingers scraped at it in disbelief, searching for the seam of a door that no longer existed.
But there was none. And I stood there, shaking, as the truth sank in like ice.
Her room was gone.
Not empty. Not cleaned out.
Gone.
Erased.
The bed, the posters, the lamp shaped like a bunny's head, gone!
I backed away, dizzy. I stumbled into the hallway, opened the other doors. They were all there. Bathroom. Storage. My own room, exactly how I left it.
But hers?
Erased like she never existed.
I collapsed to my knees, clutching my head.
And then, everything else began to unravel.
I called our parents, desperate, panicking. I begged them to remember. But they didn't. They said they'd never had a daughter. Only me. Just me, their one and only child, Jack Arleston.
There was no little sister.
There was no Anna Arleston.
And so, I screamed at them. I cried, I pleaded!
They thought I was unwell.
And maybe… maybe I was.
Because soon, even my own memories began to fade.
I would sit in the dark, trying to remember her face. I knew I loved her more than anything in the world, and yet... I couldn't remember the curve of her smile, or the color of her eyes, or her voice... anymore.
I tried to write it all down, everything I could recall. But the pages kept coming up blank. My pen hovered over the paper, shaking.
What was her favorite food again?
What was the name of her favorite stuffed animal again?
What was her laugh like again?
Until one night, I looked into the mirror and whispered,
"Do I… really have a sister?"
"Am I… really the crazy one here?"
And the scary thing was… I couldn't answer. The doubt had sunk its teeth into me, and I couldn't shake it loose.
I then clung to shadows of feelings, moments I couldn't prove had ever happened. The way it felt to hold her hand while crossing the street. The weight of her head on my shoulder when she dozed off during movies…
But even those began to dissolve, like she was being unwritten from the world, from everybody, from me…
And eventually…
What?
What was her name again…?
FUCK! WHAT WAS HER NAME AGAIN???
I broke. I screamed until my throat bled! I punched walls until my knuckles split!
I begged God, begged fate, begged the universe, anything, to give her back!
But the silence never answered.
And I was left alone, sinking deeper and deeper, into a world that insisted she had never existed, a world that asked me to believe that I had imagined the only person I had ever truly loved.
And just like that, I was losing her.
Losing Anna.
Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Until my heart felt calmer and my mind felt clearer…
At one point, I was normal again.
The pain was gone.
The agony was gone.
Like nothing had happened.
But then, just when I thought I would forget her completely, just when I stood on the edge of that bottomless void, ready to fall in, one memory surfaced.
A single, precious moment, clear as sunlight breaking through the stormy clouds.