THERE IS NOTHING.
That was the first thing realized.
Not darkness.
Darkness still has boundaries—there are walls, there is distance, there is space.
This was not that.
This was total absence.
Without up, without down. Without sound, without vibration. Without a body that could be touched, without a mind that could think in words.
Only floating awareness.
Or more precisely—awareness that exists, without knowing where that existence is.
Haruto—whatever remained of Haruto—tried to remember.
"My name is... Kurogane... Haruto..."
The words felt foreign. Like the name of someone else he had heard about in a very distant past.
'I... On the floor... Blood...'
'Nakamura was crying...'
Those memories were like film clips played in slow motion. There were images, there were sounds, but no heat, no cold, no pain.
'I died.'
That conclusion arrived not as sadness, not as regret.
Only as fact.
Like two plus two equals four. Then, within that nothingness, something began to form.
Not light.
Not form.
But understanding.
Like thin lines connecting invisible dots. Like a pattern beginning to emerge from chaos.
Cause...
I chose to die.
Effect...
I am here.
End...
Not an end.
Those lines pulsed. Not alive—but present. Like the structure of the universe he had never been aware of, suddenly becoming visible.
And within that structure, he saw something.
Himself.
Not a body. But a point. A small node in a giant web stretching without limit.
That node had once been connected to other nodes—one large (his father), one smaller (his mother), many medium-sized (guards, staff, the public).
Now, one by one, those connections faded.
Like ropes breaking.
Haruto realized: he was being released.
From that world.
From that story.
From everything he had ever known.
No sadness. No fear. Only pure observation.
'So this is what dying feels like.'
Then— Something moved.
Within that giant structure, there was a current. Like an invisible river flowing in a direction. And that current began to pull him.
Not by force.
But like gravity. Like water always seeking a lower place.
He followed.
Or more precisely—he was carried.
Past layers he couldn't understand. Colors that had no name. Vibrations that had no frequency.
And in the middle of that journey, without warning—
A body.
---
First Sensation: Weight.
Not painful weight. But real weight.
After so long without a body, suddenly there was something burdening consciousness. Hands. Feet. A chest rising and falling. A heart beating.
Haruto—whatever now called itself Haruto—opened his eyes.
A wooden ceiling.
Dark brown. There was a small crack in the left corner. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, drawing golden lines in the air.
He tried to move his hand.
He could.
Small fingers. Very small. Clean skin, no scars. Short, neat nails.
He tried to sit up.
Difficult.
His body felt weak. Muscles not yet accustomed. It took a few seconds and extra effort to sit upright.
He looked down.
A child's body.
Approximately—he estimated—ten or eleven years old. Maybe twelve. Hard to identify.
Blue pajamas with small cloud patterns. Thin cotton fabric, comfortable.
His hand—this new hand—he raised in front of his face.
A small palm. Slender fingers. No trace of blood. 'This is not my body.'
That fact appeared cold and clear.
'But I am here.'
He scanned the room.
A simple bedroom. Size about 3x4 meters. Wooden walls with several layers of white paint starting to peel in the corners. Tatami floor, slightly worn but clean.
The futon he lay on—thick, dark green blanket, soba pillow.
Beside the futon, a small table. There was a half-full glass of water, a burnt-out mosquito coil, and a brown-covered notebook.
In the corner of the room, a wooden wardrobe with two sliding doors. One was slightly open—he could see children's clothes hanging neatly.
A window on the north wall. Thin white cotton curtains. Beyond them, faintly, he heard the sound of crickets.
Summer. On the east wall, there was a photo. A small frame. Black and white.
An old woman with her hair neatly tied up, smiling thinly. Beside her, a young boy—maybe five or six years old—with black hair and gray eyes. The boy wasn't smiling. Just staring at the camera with a serious expression.
'Who are they?' Haruto stared at the photo for a long time.
The boy in the photo... his eyes, there was something there.
Not sadness. Not fear.
But the same observation he now felt.
Like that boy was also staring back, assessing, understanding.
'Is that me?'
The bedroom door slid open, a soft wooden swish sound.
An old woman entered.
Thin white hair neatly combed back. A wrinkled face but still sharp eyes. Body slightly bent with age, but movements steady. She carried a small tray—a bowl of miso soup, a bowl of rice, some pickles, and a piece of grilled fish.
"Tobio? You're awake?"
Her voice was hoarse but warm.
The woman placed the tray on the small table, then looked at him.
"Your fever's gone. Thank goodness." She sighed with relief. "Three days. Grandma was so worried."
Haruto was silent. Tobio. That name...
Grandma?
The woman—grandma—approached, placing the back of her hand on his forehead. Warm. Rough from work.
"Still a little warm. But much better." She smiled. A smile that deepened the wrinkles on her face. "You must be hungry. Eat first, okay?"
Haruto—nodded slowly.
Couldn't speak yet.
Didn't know what to say yet.
The grandma seemed to understand. "It's okay. Your voice might still be hoarse. Eat first. Later when you feel better, then talk."
She sat beside the futon, waiting.
Haruto reached for the soup bowl.
That small hand trembled slightly. Muscles not yet perfectly coordinated. But he managed to bring the spoon to his mouth.
Miso soup.
Warm. Perfectly salty. There were small tofu pieces and seaweed.
Taste.
After so long without a body, the sensation of taste felt almost overwhelming. He chewed slowly, feeling the texture on his tongue.
The grandma watched him with a gentle gaze.
"Slowly. Don't rush."
Haruto nodded again. After eating, he felt stronger.
The grandma—he didn't know her name yet—took the empty tray and placed it in the corner of the room. Then sat back down.
"Do you remember what happened?"
That question. Haruto looked at her.
In his head, his mind worked quickly. 'I don't know who this child is. Don't know his life. Don't know what happened to him. If I answer wrong...'
He chose silence.
The grandma sighed. "I thought so. The doctor said there might be slight amnesia. The impact on your head when you fell."
Fell. So Tobio fell, or at least that's what they knew.
"It's okay," the grandma continued. "The important thing is you're safe. Grandma was... so scared."
Her voice trembled slightly. She wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. "It's okay if you forget. You'll remember on your own later. Or even if you don't remember, it's okay. The important thing is you're healthy."
Haruto saw the moisture in the woman's eyes.
And for the first time since regaining consciousness, he felt something.
Not sympathy—he was too used to observing from an emotional distance.
But recognition.
This woman truly cared about Tobio.
Not because Tobio was a symbol. Not because Tobio was useful. But because Tobio was her grandchild.
Something he had never felt from his father.
"Grandma..." His voice came out. Hoarse. Small. The voice of a child yet to break. "Grandma's name?"
The woman smiled sadly. "You forgot even grandma's name?"
Haruto didn't answer.
"Ageha. Ageha Ikuse." She reached for Haruto's small hand and held it. "Your grandmother. Ageha."
Ikuse. A family name. Not Kurogane. A different world.
"And you..." Grandma Ageha looked at him with full love. "Tobio. Tobio Ikuse. Grandma's only grandchild."
'Tobio.' He said it in his mind.
Tobio Ikuse.
A foreign sound. But now attached to him.
"I... how old am I?" he asked.
Grandma Ageha blinked. Then laughed softly. "Twelve. You're twelve years old, Tobio. Early next month is your birthday."
Twelve. Three years younger than Haruto.
A new body. A new age. A new life.
"We... live where?"
"In this house, of course." Grandma Ageha looked at him with slight worry. "Hanyu Village. Saitama Prefecture. You really forgot everything, huh?"
Saitama.
Haruto knew that name.
In the old world, Saitama was the prefecture next to Tokyo. The site of the housing project his father had evicted—Yamamoto's family was from there.
Ironic.
"It's okay." Grandma Ageha stroked the back of his hand. "Grandma will tell you everything. Slowly. Now rest first."
She stood. Took the tray.
"Tomorrow you can go outside if you want. But don't get too tired." At the threshold, she turned. "Tobio... Grandma is glad you woke up."
The sliding door closed. Tobio—alone.
---
That Afternoon
He sat at the edge of the window. The curtain was opened slightly. Enough to see outside.
Grandma Ageha's house was on the edge of a small village. In front, a dirt road wide enough for a car. Across the road, green rice fields stretched to the foot of the hills. A few traditional houses with tiled roofs were scattered sparsely.
Fresh air. Smell of earth. The sound of crickets and frogs from the fields.
The afternoon sun was beginning to turn orange. Tobio stared at the sky.
The same sky?
He didn't know.
There was no way to confirm if this was the same world, only a different time. Or a completely different world altogether.
What he knew: Haruto died in 2019 or 2020? He forgot the exact year.
Tobio lived now—at the age of twelve, in a village, with a grandmother who loved him.
No Kurogane Reiji here. No guards. No cameras.
Only rice fields, crickets, and a silence different from the silence in his old house.
In the old house, silence was absence—father not there, mother not speaking, staff busy with themselves.
Here, silence was presence—grandma in the kitchen, water boiling on the stove, wood creaking in the wind.
Tobio breathed deeply. "So I'm alive again."
He didn't know how. Didn't know why.
But he remembered the lines in the darkness. The invisible structure that observed. The current that pulled him.
'Something moved me here.'
'Or... did I choose?' He had no answer.
But he had time.
Lots of time.
---
Night - Tobio's Room
Grandma Ageha entered again, carrying a small kerosene lamp.
"Power outage," she said. "Usual when the wind is strong. It'll be back on tomorrow morning."
She placed the lamp on the table. Warm yellow light filled the room.
In that light, Tobio saw the photo on the wall more clearly.
The old woman—Grandma Ageha younger, maybe ten years ago. And the boy—little Tobio.
"That photo..." Grandma Ageha sat beside him. "When you were six. The first time you went to the temple with Grandma."
Tobio stared at that small face.
That child—himself?—looked serious. Not cheerful like kids that age should be.
"I... was like that since I was little?" he asked.
Grandma Ageha smiled bitterly. "You were a serious child. Even as a baby, you rarely cried. People said you were an old soul."
She paused. Her hands twisted the edge of her cloth.
"Maybe because... your parents..."
Tobio turned. Parents?
"Your father..." Grandma Ageha took a long breath. "It's a long story. Another time, okay? Now you rest."
Tobio nodded.
But his mind worked. 'Tobio also has wounds.'
An abandoned child.
Like Haruto—abandoned, though differently.
Maybe that's why he was here.
Maybe the universe has a strange sense of humor.
10:00 PM
Grandma Ageha left after making sure Tobio was comfortable.
The kerosene lamp remained lit, low, so he wouldn't be afraid of the dark.
Tobio lay on the futon, staring at the wooden ceiling. The crack in the left corner—same as this morning.
He tried to remember Haruto.
His father's face on television. The clenched hand under the table. The sound of the gunshot. The cold floor. Warm blood.
Those memories still existed, but felt distant. Like someone else's story.
Was he still Haruto? Or already fully Tobio?
He didn't know. But one thing he knew for sure: His old habit remained.
Observing patterns.
He had already started.
Grandma Ageha's breathing in the next room—steady, regular, sound asleep.
The sound of crickets outside—constant rhythm, no disturbance.
Wind in the trees—leaves rustling, occasionally a small branch snapping.
All patterns. All readable.
Tobio smiled faintly in the dark. "At least that didn't disappear."