My eyes won't open. 　Precisely speaking, they are open. A thin light filters through. But something feels wrong. Very wrong. 　The ceiling is too high. 　In my previous life, the ceiling of my six-mat apartment was low enough to touch if I stretched. Yet now, the stone ceiling stretching across my vision is distant, with decorated beams crossing it multiple times, and morning light streaming through narrow windows. A linen curtain sways. I smell wind. The damp scent of earth and grass. （...Where is this?） 　The word "previous life" came naturally to me, and somewhere I observed myself objectively. In my previous life, I was Tanaka Alice, twenty-seven years old, an office worker in the accounting department of a major trading company. I went to work at seven every morning and came home on the last train or the one before it—five years of that routine. Monthly settlements, quarterly reports, audit responses. Every day was a battle with numbers. 　My last memory was—a late-night office.