The thought of walking into yet another one of those so-called counseling sessions—draped in fresh marketing, dressed up as some "new and innovative program"—made me want to vomit. Every one of them claimed to be different. "Unlike anything you've tried before," they'd say, like salesmen hawking mental snake oil. But once inside, they were all the same — the same chirpy puppets reading from the same dusty script. They'd toss out pointless motivational lines like confetti, ask their recycled, hollow questions with the same upward inflection, hoping I'd "find the answer within myself." As if parroting therapy buzzwords somehow healed existential decay.
If that's healing, then maybe I'm already dead.
They call this place a "healing program," but that's an overreach. I'm not broken. I'm not hurting. I just see the world for what it is — grey, hollow, and brutally honest. That doesn't make me diseased. That makes me efficient. Clear-headed. Untethered by illusion.
Still... I agreed. Seven days. Just one more week of tedium, of swallowing their slogans, of fake smiles and artificial light. I've suffered long enough. Seven more days won't kill me — but maybe, if I'm lucky, they'll lead to something that will.
I followed Kurose-san through the narrow hallway to a glass-paneled office. A sterile, too-clean room with a desk full of forms. He slid a stack toward me—consent papers for everything: therapy sessions, group sections, pharmaceutical supplements, potential experimental procedures. I signed them all without reading. None of it mattered.
"Tsukihara-kun," he began, voice coated in a syrupy layer of concern, "Wouldn't it be wise to inform your parents? You're legally an adult, yes, but still…"
"It's fine. They've already disowned me," I replied, pointing lazily toward the Koseki record on his desk—the official family register. "You have the document. They had me removed."
Kurose's face wrinkled with mock sympathy. "Still, as your parents... wouldn't they worry?"
"If they were capable of concern, I'd still be on the register. Let's not pretend ghosts feel guilt," I said, signing the last form with a dull flourish.
That shut him up.
He gathered the documents, handed me a thin metallic key, and called a staff member to escort me to my dorm. We entered the elevator, bathed in dim white LED light that buzzed faintly overhead. As we rose, I realized I hadn't seen a single other volunteer yet. Maybe I was the first. Or the only one stupid enough to sign up.
The dorm floor looked like something between a cheap hotel and a hospital — rows of identical white doors lining a silent hallway. No noise. No movement. Just that clinical, stagnant air.
My assigned room — Room 013 — was painted white. Of course. White walls, white ceiling, a pale wooden floor. Like being trapped in a sterilized womb. Furnished with the basics: a single bed with pale gray sheets, a table, a lamp, a few books stacked in neat piles — titles like Understanding Depression, Healing from Within, and The Psychology of Light (whatever that meant). A computer sat on the desk; password scribbled on a sticky note: life#0013. How poetic. I didn't bother booting it up.
A large wall mirror faced the bed. I covered it with a tablecloth the moment the staff left.
I laid down. Afternoon sunlight leaked through the window in strips. I was tired. Not sleepy—just tired of being awake.
Maybe an hour passed before a knock came at the door. A staff member handed me lunch — a tray of health-optimized nutrients. Steamed vegetables, grilled chicken, a fruit bowl, some unidentifiable broth. And two slices of bread. I only ate the bread. Dry, flavorless, but it kept the stomach quiet. I left the rest untouched.
Food never tasted right to me. I don't eat to enjoy—I eat to not die.
I washed down two sleeping pills, rolled into the stiff mattress, and passed out.
When I woke, it was dark. A second knock echoed faintly, like déjà vu. Dinner, again. The same carefully calibrated meal, rebranded from "Lunch Set A" to "Dinner Set A." As expected, I skipped it.
The room felt tighter now, like the air had thickened. I needed to breathe. I grabbed my key, stepped into the hallway, and wandered into the dark silence.
The corridor stretched out like a maze of forgotten thoughts. Too many doors. All closed. All unlabeled. It was like the floor had been built for people who never arrived.
I turned a corner and made for the elevator. The panel blinked softly as I pressed for the upper level.
The second floor had a different feel. Still empty, still silent — but colder. The rooms here weren't dorms. Larger doors, reinforced handles. The windows were opaque, like hospital glass. I approached one and tried the knob. Locked. I peered in, but all I saw was myself — reflected in the dark pane, ghostlike. I moved on.
At the far end was a sitting area. A bench. A vending machine.
I bought a cold canned coffee — bitter and metallic. It tasted like burnt regrets, but it was warm in my hand. I sat on the bench and stared out the tall window that overlooked the ground floor courtyard.
That's when I saw her.
A girl — long black hair trailing like shadows, a white dress fluttering faintly as she walked. She moved with purpose but no sound, like a forgotten memory drifting through fog. I didn't catch her face — she passed too quickly — but something about her felt… out of place. Like she wasn't supposed to be there. Or maybe, like she'd always been.
What was she doing outside? No one had access to the courtyard at night. Not staff. Definitely not patients.
I could've gone down. Investigated. Asked someone. But I didn't.
Curiosity wasn't stronger than apathy.
I sipped my coffee, finished it, and sat there for a long while, staring into the night, waiting for sleep to come claim me again.