Hours melted away as Yoichi established order within Ichika's clothing wasteland. What had started as an impossible task now showed signs of structure. The floor had become visible in patches, revealing plush beige carpet.
He stood in the center of the room, surveying his handiwork. Three distinct mounds grew around him like newly formed islands: "definitely dirty" by the door, "probably clean" on the bed, and "what the hell even is this" in the corner. The last pile contained items he couldn't confidently categorize—things with ambiguous stains, strange fabrics, or garments whose purpose he couldn't begin to guess.
Bend, sort, toss. Bend, sort, toss. The rhythm had become almost soothing.
His mind wandered as his body continued the mechanical motions. This task wasn't so bad, really. It was a problem with clear parameters. Sort, clean, organize. A defined objective with a visible endpoint. Unlike his life—or lives—which had never been so straightforward.
He picked up a script from under a mountain of scarves. "Our Shining Tomorrow," read the title, the pages dog-eared and marked with highlighter. His eyes caught on the date at the bottom of the cover page: 2025.
Yoichi's hands stilled.
He would be seventeen soon. In his first life, he had died at eighteen. In the year 2026.
A flash of light. The squeal of tires. Then darkness. Then... this. Waking up as a baby, confused and screaming, in a world almost identical to the one he'd left behind. Almost, but not quite.
His fingers tightened around a silk blouse he'd found beneath the script. Would he even see nineteen this time around? Was there some cosmic deadline he was meant to hit?
He looked around the luxurious room, bitterness rising in his throat. This life, even with a father who abandoned him, had been better than his first. Because of her. His mother. In his previous life, he'd never known what unconditional love felt like. She was the first. The only.
The plan had been simple. Graduate. Use his knowledge of music from a world where certain songs didn't exist to become a star. Make enough money to give her everything. To make her proud.
Now the plan was gone. And so was she.
His hands kept moving but his mind was drowning. He needed an outlet, something to channel the rising pressure in his chest.
Almost without realizing it, he began to hum. The melody came first, familiar and comforting. Then, softly, the words.
"People come and they go..."
His voice was smooth like silk with and rich with feeling that came from somewhere beyond technical skill. As he moved around the room, the singing grew stronger, more confident.
"I am all alone tonight..."
The song that didn't exist in this world flowed through him, a connection to his past life and a eulogy to his mother all at once.
"I do not regret with my choices... I'm rather proud..."
The music consumed him. He poured everything into it. His voice filled the room, raw and honest as he reached the chorus.
"No more what ifs..."
A small sound broke through his focus. Yoichi spun around, a t-shirt clutched in his hands.
Ichika stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a bowl of curry and a glass of water. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyes wide.
"How long have you been standing there?" Yoichi asked.
Ichika blinked, as if waking from a trance. "Long enough." She stepped into the room, her movements careful, as if approaching a wild animal. "What was that song? I've never heard it before."
Yoichi turned away, his walls slamming back into place. "Just something I know."
"It was... beautiful."
She placed the tray on his desk, surprisingly gentle. The curry steam curled upward, filling the air with spices and rice.
"Look," she said, bending to pick up a t-shirt from the floor. "This room is a disaster. I know. And I'm a terrible person for making you do it." She held the shirt against her chest. "I'll make you a deal. I'll help you clean this mess. My room, my responsibility, right?"
She looked at him. "But you have to sing another song for me."
Yoichi looked at her, then at the mountain of clothes, then back at her. For a fleeting second, he considered it. What would happen if he let someone in, just a little?
A smirk spread across Ichika's face, her eyes suddenly glinting with mischief. "Come on, it's a good deal! Besides, you've probably got half my underwear collection in your pockets by now anyway, right?" She winked playfully.
"Found any you like?"
Of course.
"I'll pass," he said coldly, turning back to his sorting. "I'd rather clean this by myself than be distracted."
Ichika's smile faltered. "Hey, I was just joking."
"Hilarious."
She took a step toward him, then stopped, uncertainty flickering across her face. "That song... where did it come from? I've never heard anything like it."
"Nowhere you'd know."
Ichika picked up a blouse from the "probably clean" pile, examining it. "You don't have to be so mysterious about everything, you know. It was just a question."
"And that was just an answer." He kept his back to her, methodically folding a pair of jeans.
She sighed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Fine. At least eat the curry before it gets cold. Nino will kill me if I let her cooking go to waste."
Yoichi grunted in acknowledgment but didn't turn around.
"You've made progress," Ichika observed, looking around the room. "It almost looks like a human lives here."
"That's debatable."
A small laugh escaped her, light and quick. "See? You can be funny when you try." She moved toward the door, then paused. "The offer still stands. If you sing again, I'll help clean."
When he didn't respond, she shrugged. "Suit yourself. When you're done, come find me downstairs. I have more tasks for my weekend servant."
She disappeared into the hallway, her footsteps fading.
Yoichi stood motionless, holding a sweater that smelled faintly of jasmine perfume. His eyes drifted to the tray of food.
For a moment, he'd almost... what? Connected with her? Trusted her? The thought was laughable. She was a Nakano. His father's family. A reminder of everything he'd lost.
And yet...
He shook his head, returning to his task. It didn't matter.
Whatever she thought she'd seen or heard, it wasn't for her. The song was for his mother, for his past life, for the person he used to be.
Not for Ichika Nakano.
Never for the Nakanos.
He resumed sorting clothes, but the rhythm felt off now, disrupted. Each item he touched reminded him of her standing in the doorway, watching him with those surprised, curious eyes.
The curry grew cold on his desk, forgotten.
===
Downstairs, Ichika curled up on the couch, script in hand, but she couldn't focus on the words. That song kept playing in her head, haunting her.
She'd heard plenty of singers in her life—attending auditions, working with musicians on set, even dating a vocalist once. But she'd never heard anything like what had come out of Yoichi's mouth. It wasn't just perfect. It was something else entirely.
Real. It was real.
As an actress, she spent her life pretending to feel things. She could cry on cue, laugh on command, fall in love with a stranger when the director called "action." She knew how to make emotions look genuine.
But what she'd heard upstairs wasn't an act. It was pain and grief and a longing so deep it had roots.
"Who are you, really?" she whispered to the empty room, thinking of the boy upstairs who had been so careful to keep his walls up, only to accidentally reveal a glimpse of something profound through music.
The front door burst open, breaking her reverie. Yotsuba bounded in, her face flushed from track practice, her signature ribbon slightly askew.
"I'm home!" she announced, dropping her gym bag on the floor. "Where's Yoichi? Did you torture him yet?"
Ichika forced a smile, pushing away thoughts of haunting melodies and unguarded gray eyes.
"He's upstairs cleaning my room," she said, injecting her voice with its usual playful lilt. "And of course I'm torturing him. It wouldn't be fun otherwise."
Yotsuba laughed, bright and uncomplicated. "Poor guy! Can I help him?"
"Absolutely not," Ichika said firmly. "He's my slave for the weekend, remember?"
As Yotsuba bounced toward the kitchen, chattering about her practice, Ichika's eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling, toward her room where Yoichi was still sorting through her things.
People come and they go...
The fragment of melody lingered in her mind like a ghost, refusing to be exorcised.
She wasn't sure she wanted it to leave.