The palm still ached. More precisely, the memory of pain lingered in the inside of the palm. The phantom sensation of touching the thorns in the abandoned garden—it remained etched in Erika's hand through last night, and even now that she was awake, it throbbed faintly and persistently. The trial of regret had ended midway, something in the tension beneath Haru's voice saying "that's enough for today," the weight of his grip on her arm—none of these things settled quietly in their drawers. The smartphone screen lit up. It was a reply from Takahashi Rina. A single word in response to the message Erika had sent late last night: "Thank you for the rooftop today." "Got it. Good night" That was all. A response unlike Rina's usual style—short words. Erika stared at that brevity for a moment longer, then placed the smartphone in her tote bag. Twelve minutes on foot to Mikagehama Minami High School. The sky was clouded again. The sea breeze blowing from Sagami Bay lifted the hem of her uniform blazer. As she climbed the slope leading up the hillside, Erika confirmed the memory of thorns several times—the childish voice buried beneath those dark purple brambles. The fragments of memory that had been cut off and never retrieved continued to waver faintly at the edge of consciousness. The classroom was the same as always. The fluorescent lights were on normally. Beyond the window, Sagami Bay was faintly visible beneath the cloudy sky. Erika took her seat and opened her modern Japanese textbook. Rina, who sat next to her, hadn't arrived yet this morning. When first period began, Rina slipped in a little late. She glanced at Erika and gave a light nod. A quiet nod, slightly more composed than her usual cheerful tone. Erika nodded back the same way. With just that exchange, what had happened on the rooftop last night seemed confirmed between them. Modern Japanese class began. The teacher—a middle-aged man with a loud voice and a habit of going off on tangents—stood at the podium and began explaining the text. Erika stared at the blackboard. Characters lined up. Meaning entered her head. But it passed through without catching on anything, just flowing past. Then the teacher cited some data. "—According to recent research, there's apparently a significant correlation between family environment stability and academic performance. Especially during the upper elementary and middle school years, the parents' employment status and family composition often directly affect children's motivation to learn—" He wasn't saying anything special. Just supplementary information inserted into the lesson—a discussion of statistics. The teacher's tone was flat, with no hint of blame. And yet. Those words touched something inside Erika through the same circuit as when she'd touched the thorns in the abandoned garden. The chair creaked beneath her legs. By the time she realized it, Erika was standing. Her body had moved before her thoughts could catch up—a kind of impulse pushed up from within, something that could never have happened back when her emotions were completely severed. "Sasaki, what's wrong?" The teacher's voice trailed behind her. Her classmates' gazes turned toward her all at once. Erika didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Not understanding the meaning of her trembling hands, she opened the door to the hallway and left the classroom. --- The fire door to the rooftop was as loose as it had been yesterday. Crouching with her knees drawn up on the concrete floor, the sea breeze blew hard. It struck her cheek. Cold. Erika pressed her forehead against her knees and tried to organize what was happening to her. (Why did I stand up?) She didn't know. She couldn't identify what that statistic had touched—the "something" it had triggered. The word "anger" floated at the edge of her thoughts. But she couldn't grasp what it was directed at. Was it toward her father? Toward the situation? Toward the flat-voiced teacher?—Or was it something all mixed together? The fire door opened. Erika didn't lift her face. Footsteps approached. Chestnut-colored wavy hair entered the edge of her vision. It was Takahashi Rina. She must have slipped out of class. "Erika." Her voice was soft. There was no blame in it. Only concern. "Don't come closer." The words came out. Not polite or reserved—short, with only the core remaining. This was a new kind of speech for Erika—since her emotional severance began, she had never clearly rejected anyone. She hadn't had the emotions to reject. Now she did. The something that the statistic had touched was still burning inside her. Rina's footsteps stopped. Erika expected her to remain there motionless. Either to leave with a hurt expression, or to apologize awkwardly and disappear. But Rina didn't leave. There was a faint rustling of fabric, and then the sound of Rina sitting down about a meter behind Erika. She said nothing. Erika said nothing either. Only the sea breeze passed between them. After a while, the door by the side of the school store—another entrance to the rooftop—opened with a clang. A round-faced middle-aged woman poked her head in. It was the woman from the school store. Apparently having wandered in for some reason, she seemed to read the situation the moment she saw their backs, and slowly tried to close the door without making noise—but the metal fixture made a loud clang. The woman froze. Erika froze. Rina froze. Three seconds of silence passed, and then the woman hurried away. Rina let out a small laugh. More the sound of air escaping than actual laughter. Her dimples deepened for just a moment, then faded. Something inside Erika that had been taut loosened, just slightly. It didn't disappear—just loosened. But—breathing became a little easier. After a long silence, Rina spoke while looking up at the sky. "I'll be here." That was all. Nothing more, nothing less. No coercion. No attempt to solve anything. Just the intention to be present, contained in those short words. Erika didn't answer. But she quietly confirmed the sensation of those words falling into her interior. --- Night came. A six-mat room on the second floor, Sagami Bay faintly visible beyond the window. The sea was windy tonight, and the distant sound of waves reached her. Erika lay on the bed, organizing separately in her drawers the fact that she'd run from the classroom during the lesson, that she'd rejected Rina, and that Rina hadn't left despite that. She'd sent a reply to Rina at the end of lunch break—just one word: "Thank you for earlier." Rina had replied with only "You're welcome," and tonight Rina hadn't sent anything more. The way she was maintaining that distance felt unusually kind to Erika. She closed her eyes. Consciousness sank. Vertical descent. Gray sand touched the soles of her feet. --- The Gray Wasteland was silent again tonight. The moment Erika landed, she saw Haru standing at a slight distance. Worn school uniform. Faded blue-green short hair. His usual nonchalant posture—yet tonight, his voice was slightly quieter. "I was waiting for you." The words were meant to be casual, but they arrived calm and quiet. His pale silver eyes looked at Erika. There seemed to be a slightly more serious light in them than usual. "It's the fourth one." Haru indicated toward the horizon. Of the seven paths of light, the fourth—the ground in that direction was beginning to glow faintly red. As she approached, heat rose. The air shimmered. Erika silently stepped onto that path. When the entrance to the Scorching Forge—the emotional domain of anger—came into view, the temperature already enveloped her entire body. The smell of burnt metal stabbed at the back of her nose. In the distance, she heard the sound of iron being struck. Regular yet violent, a sound that was emotion itself transformed into noise. The moment Erika's hand touched the door. Crimson flames erupted like a violent wind. Before she could retreat, heat struck her skin. This was a different dimension from the previous trials—the maze of fear, the lake of solitude, the garden of regret all had a kind of orderly weight. But these flames had no form. No direction. Just burning. Uncontrolled heat that filled the forge to its ceiling, and the core of anger was invisible. "I can't get close." She murmured without thinking. Her throat was hot. Haru stood beside her. The moment she confirmed his face from the corner of her eye—Erika noticed. His outline was distorted. She had seen Haru's outline waver in the dream world before. Rare moments when the boundary line blurred slightly. But tonight was different. As if melting in the heat of the flames, Haru's boundary line was wavering continuously. The outline of his arm, his face—as if his very existence couldn't focus, it kept trembling faintly. His voice was also slightly hoarse. "Are you okay?" "Worry about the flames instead of—" The flames surged violently in the middle of his words. Haru's outline warped sharply. The boundary between solid and gas became ambiguous, an existence wavering. Erika reached out without thinking. She grasped Haru's hand. It was an intention to protect—not a vague impulse, but a clear will, the first time Erika had acted actively for another person in the dream world. But. The sensation of the hand she grasped was strange. There was temperature. It was definitely warm. And yet—the texture was thin. It was supposed to be solid, but her fingertips sank in too much. It existed firmly, yet the outline couldn't be fully grasped. A sensation like the middle ground between solid and gas, an ambiguity of existence, was directly imprinted on Erika's palm. Three seconds passed. Erika couldn't let go. She couldn't tell if she couldn't let go because of the will to protect, or because she wanted to confirm the identity of this "uncertain sensation," and that very inability to distinguish was a new sensation for Erika—something was moving inside her chest toward something. That movement had no name. Haru tried to pull his hand away. His voice wavered. "You should let go—" "I won't." Erika's voice was quiet. Not polite or reserved—just the core remaining. The moment those words came out, Erika realized she had decided something. It wasn't just about the trial. The flames swelled as the two moved toward the center of the forge, hand in hand. Haru forced out his voice. Hoarse, but sincere. "Just look at what you're angry about." Erika looked at the flames. She tried to see into the depths of the crimson heat. She saw her father's back. A back turning away—that wasn't it. That was her first assumption. Her father carrying luggage, leaving through the front door, that day's back. But the flames showed her an earlier memory. A holiday at Mikagehama Seaside Park. The sandy beach before the breakwater. Erika was still small, her father's back was broad, and they stood side by side facing the sea. His hand rested on Erika's shoulder. Heavy and warm. Just watching the sea without saying anything. Something inside her chest tore. Because she had known that weight on her shoulder—that's why, when it was gone, her insides had burned like this. Anger's foundation was buried in the memory of when she had loved. Anger wasn't hatred. Anger was the remnant of love for something lost. Erika faced that directly. The flames began to change form. The chaotic, violent heat slowly began to have direction. The air in the forge changed. Black miasma—the invasive entity, Erika's suppressed anger twisted into autonomous action—began to shrink. A glowing iron mass appeared at the center of the flames. The core of anger. Erika, still holding Haru's hand, reached out with her other hand. She touched the iron mass. It was hot. Burning hot. But it didn't burn. When she acknowledged the memory of love at the foundation of her anger, the core became heat that warmed rather than burned. Slowly, the core lost its lig