Her cheeks were cold. She understood that much before opening her eyes. A faint trace of salt lingered on the surface of her dry skin. Not tears shed in the dream world—Erika hadn't cried within the dream world. And yet her real body had wept properly. It seemed that as emotional memories gradually returned, her body reacted first. Erika had confirmed this fact again last night. She counted the stains on the ceiling. One, two, three—seven. They remained unchanged, in their usual places. But this morning, the outline of the seventh stain was clearer than always. A little more distinct than before. (A fragment of fear has returned.) Erika processed this as a thought while slowly raising herself up on the bed. Last night's dream world—the trial in the labyrinth of confusion—still lingered faintly at the edges of her senses. An eight-meter-high grayish-white wall. Her mother's back. Haru's voice. And in that final moment, a sensation that reached the center of her chest. It wasn't peace. The return of fear's memory meant the world was becoming frightening again. Erika lowered her feet to the edge of the bed and placed her bare soles on the flooring. There was coldness. That much she could discern. But the emotional response of "I dislike this" to that coldness—this morning too, it remained faint. The fear that had recovered didn't return in the form of pleasure or relief. Like thorns, Erika thought. A slight catching sensation each time she touched something. More than when she'd been completely numb, it made her acutely aware that a wound existed there. The return of emotion wasn't the world becoming gentler. The return of emotion meant the world would hurt her again. She changed clothes and descended the stairs. No one was in the kitchen. Her mother—Minako Sasaki—had already left for work. On the table lay toast wrapped in plastic wrap and a small memo. "Sorry I couldn't wake you. Please eat properly," written in round handwriting. Erika stared at the memo for one second, then placed the toast, wrap and all, into her tote bag. Twelve minutes on foot to Mikage Hama Minami High School. The four-story school building, constructed on the slope of a hill, stood against the Sagami Bay as always this morning. The sky was overcast. The sea's color was close to gray. As Erika passed through the school gate, she unconsciously placed her hand near her chest. The moment she saw the cloudy sky, something—deep within her chest—wavered faintly. Not an emotion. Only the shape of an emotion remained, an empty vessel responding to external stimuli. Erika observed this as if it were someone else's affair. The same as yesterday. The same as the day before. When she entered the classroom, one fluorescent light was flickering. Flash, flash—irregular white light blinking. Erika's body stiffened slightly. Reflexively. Her body responded before her consciousness could. That was the residue of fear's sensation—evidence that the memory of fear once felt in dark places was linked to the irregular changes in light. Erika recorded this reaction while taking her seat. There was no relief. Confusion was greater. She had wanted her emotions to return, yet now that they were beginning to, she realized they functioned not as the joy of recovering something, but as a new instability. This paradox sank quietly into the back of her mind even during class. Each time the sky outside the window darkened, her chest wavered faintly. The lesson's content didn't enter her mind. Or rather, it did enter, but the information passed through without catching on anything. Erika gazed at the blackboard while confirming that she remained inside a transparent wall today as well. She heard her classmates' laughter. Someone dropped an eraser. All of it reached Erika's ears and simply passed through. Night came. A six-mat room on the second floor. The sea was faintly visible beyond the window. The evening light faded, and the sky became a deep indigo. Erika lay on her bed and counted seven stains on the ceiling. Then she closed her eyes. Just before sleep took her, something wavered at the edge of consciousness. A vague unease about being drawn into the dream world again. (That itself is proof of recovery.) Erika processed this as a thought. Because fragments of fear were returning, the reaction of unease was being born. She understood. She also understood simultaneously that this understanding offered no salvation. Understanding and acceptance were different things. Consciousness sank. --- A vertical fall. The sensation of existence being pulled downward, downward. The gray sand of the desolate wasteland touched her soles. There was no sound. No temperature. Only the single color of ash. This was the third time she'd come to the dream world's entrance—this emotionless wilderness. Seven paths of light extended toward the horizon, each connecting to one of seven emotion territories. Haru stood in his usual place. A worn student uniform. Dull blue-green short hair wavering faintly in the gray light. Pale silver eyes directed toward Erika. Those eyes paused for a beat around her cheeks. "Dry," He said only that, in a tone confirming that the tear marks had vanished. His voice held no excess emotion. A voice stating facts. Erika received this single word while observing something within herself. Haru's casual tone was delayed by one beat compared to usual. The mask of his carefree manner seemed to have the memory of the serious profile he'd shown at the heart of the labyrinth last night floating between them like a thin membrane. Erika processed this "seemed to" recognition as something strange, just as she had last night. Despite her emotional deficit, these intuitions alone functioned with strange precision. "Let's go," "The territory of solitude, then," Haru spoke while turning his gaze to one of the light paths. Then, after a brief pause, he added: "The Mirror Lake—a quiet lake that stretches endlessly, its surface a perfect mirror. It reflects only your image, infinitely, from all directions. There's no trace of any other presence on the lake, and by accepting solitude, you can cross to the small island floating at the lake's center," "Will there be an erosion entity?" "Might be. Might not be. There wasn't one last time," With only that, Haru began walking. Erika followed behind him. As they advanced along the light path, Erika observed Haru's back. One hundred seventy-five centimeters tall. The back of his student uniform bore slight wrinkles as always. His gait was loose. Yet his stride was firm, without hesitation. (He's still keeping the moment when his mask fell last night locked away in a drawer.) Three points of incongruity—his overly prepared tone, his complete familiarity with the dream world, the moment his fingertips' outlines wavered—remained neatly stored in that drawer. She wouldn't take them out now. There was no need. Only to record them. The terrain began to change. The desert's gray faded, and in its place, the presence of water spread. The quality of the air shifted—or rather, the sensation of "shifting" reached her. Temperature information began transmitting. Humidity was rising. And then the lake appeared. --- It was vast. A quiet water surface stretching endlessly became a perfect mirror reflecting the gray sky. The diameter might have been several kilometers. The far shore wasn't visible. There was no sound. No waves. Only a perfectly still water surface extending infinitely. In the lake's center, a small island floated. Perhaps ten meters in diameter, an island with nothing on it. The core of solitude would be there. Haru stopped at the lake's edge. "This is as far as I go," "A restriction?" "The guide's. I can't step into the lake's interior," The explanation's form masked something heavier. Erika processed the weight of this single statement as a thought. A restriction. That Haru couldn't enter meant that within this trial, Erika would be completely alone. Erika registered something—not an emotion, but something akin to it—at this fact. The word "loss" surfaced, then vanished. More precisely, the shape of loss, an empty space, existed for only an instant. Haru's silver eyes looked directly at Erika. That gaze held something like the serious profile from last night—but before Erika could analyze it, she turned toward the lake. She took a step forward. The mirror at her feet reflected Erika's own image. Black short-bob hair. Deep brown eyes, slightly large. Navy uniform. An expressionless face. Erika saw her own face. A face like a stranger's, colorless and transparent. She tried to move her mouth corners. With no emotion to move them, they didn't. Only the muscles moved by sheer will, causing her cheeks to rise slightly. She gazed at her own face for a while longer. Longer than usual. She couldn't clearly identify why. Only that she seemed to be reconfirming the fact that this face was her own. The sensation of—something—toward the fact that she and herself before losing emotion wore the same face. Erika continued walking. The mirror lake surface spreading beneath her feet solidified with each step, becoming footing. When she applied her weight, it was hard as glass. Beneath the transparent footing, her face was reflected. Infinitely, from all directions. Whether she turned right or left or upward, only Erika's expressionless face existed there. There was no trace of any other presence. Of course not. This was the emotion territory of solitude. The absence of others was this place's essence. Erika understood this as she walked. To directly face the emotion of solitude and accept it was how to break through the trial—that was the dream world's most important rule, as Haru had first explained. Erika tried to directly face her own "solitude." The absence of others. No one being present. Existing alone on this vast mirror. She tried to accept it. That's when the change occurred. Black haze began rising from the water surface. An erosion entity—her suppressed emotions warped into autonomous action. The black, formless haze emerged from the lake, beginning to drift around Erika. The haze held no sound. No temperature. Only, it drew near. And Haru's voice began to fade. "—Erika, toward the lake's center—" The rest of his words didn't reach her. The haze was blocking sound. Haru's voice, which had been traveling across the water surface, grew fainter and fainter. Erika stopped walking and turned back. Haru's figure remained at the lake's edge. Distant. He'd become very distant. She could see his mouth moving, saying something, but the sound didn't reach her. The haze was attempting to completely block Haru's voice. And then—silence came. --- Complete silence. Not even the faint sound of the lake surface solidifying beneath her feet. Even her own breathing felt distant. No bird calls, no wind sounds, nothing. Only her heartbeat pulsed quietly in her chest—even that sound seemed to blur at its edges. Erika tried to directly face solitude. Once more. The absence of others. No one present. Only herself existing. But in that moment, something within Erika—shifted. What she was trying to face wasn't solitude itself. What Erika was feeling as solitude wasn't being alone on a vast lake. More precisely—it was the absence of a specific voice. Erika stood motionless at this realization. Not the absence of others, but the absence of a particular voice. That was the contour of the solitude Erika was feeling now. On this lake, the absence of anyone else didn't shake her interior. But that voice—the one with a casual tone, sometimes delayed by a beat, yet carrying weight at its core—not hearing it settled so quietly, so heavily, into the depths of her chest. (Since when) The question surfaced as a thought. Since when had she been listening to that voice in that way? Not to process information as a guide, but unconsciously confi