The scar on his left wrist ached again today. Hanagaki Takemichi pushed the rusted iron door open with his shoulder. The broken lock came loose with a sharp *clang*. He did this every day, yet somehow that sound alone never failed to grate on his ears. The rooftop air hit his face. May evening. Not cold, not hot—just the right temperature. Takemichi didn't hate it. Or rather, to be precise—this was the only place where he felt like he could breathe. He leaned his 172-centimeter frame against the north-facing fence. The cuffs of his white shirt were frayed no matter how many times he washed them, and he didn't have the money to buy a new uniform. The knees of his black slacks had faded slightly white. No one cared, and Takemichi didn't care either. His short red hair—part of it bore black scorch marks. You could feel them if you touched. But no one touched, so no one knew. Below, the JR Kaminari Line overpass was visible. The rooftops of the residential district reflected the sunset, glowing orange. The view of Komatsuhara Town. A quiet corner of Tokyo like any other. Takemichi breathed in deeply. The 6 p.m. train came at the worst possible moment. A roar shook the rooftop. In that instant— Takemichi's body went rigid. Something burst inside his head. His vision flashed white, then turned crimson the next moment. Faces covered in blood, collapsing. Someone's face. Three, four—they came rushing at him like pages flipping at high speed. Deep in his ears, he heard the sound of bones breaking. He heard his own screams. He didn't know who he was screaming at. But on the actual rooftop, there was no one. Only the wind rustled past the fence. Takemichi realized he was stroking the inside of his left wrist with his right thumb. An old burn scar. A wound from the final clash of the Tokyo Manji Gang. That war, which should have ended about a year and a half ago. Now—after Takemichi had time-leaped dozens of times and risked his life to protect this present—the only physical evidence of it remained on this left wrist. It didn't sting. It didn't hurt. It was just there. It wouldn't disappear. Takemichi exhaled slowly and looked up at the sky. Orange was shifting into deep purple. This was every day. ───── Eight minutes before morning homeroom. Takemichi took his seat in Class 2-3 by the window, last row. A seat where you could see the schoolyard. The four cherry trees in the row had turned to leaf-green by May. Like a green tunnel, quieter than spring. First period was modern literature. Homeroom teacher Murase-sensei stood at the podium. Thirty-two years old, Japanese language teacher. He'd only been at Kaminari High for a few years, but he had a peculiarly sharp eye for observation—or so Takemichi vaguely sensed. But he didn't particularly care right now. "Hanagaki, read this part." The textbook page was indicated. Takemichi glanced down once and read smoothly. No stumbling, normal intonation. "[serious]The true meaning of life reveals itself only after loss—" After finishing, Murase-sensei threw a follow-up question. Takemichi answered precisely. His classmates looked impressed. Outside the window, students from the class below ran around preparing for PE. To Takemichi's eyes, that scene appeared distant through the thin glass. Everything felt far away. Lunch break. Takemichi gathered with a few friends, desks pushed together. They opened their lunch boxes. A karaage bento from Yamakita Bento—480 yen. The only pleasure he was supposed to have, bought with the small change his mother handed him every morning saying "eat properly." "Hey Takemichi, which events are you doing for the sports festival?" "Just the 100 meters should be fine." "You're fast." "[laughing]I got first place last year too." Takemichi laughed. With perfect timing, naturally. He was surprised at how well he could laugh. He could nod along. He could bring up topics. No one noticed—that for the past three weeks, Takemichi had been escaping to the infirmary twice a week. That during class, he'd stare out the window until the teacher's voice grew distant. No one noticed. Not a single person. Except one. ───── In the hallway beside the third-floor staff room, every time Murase-sensei returned to the staff room, he looked up at the rooftop fence through the window just once. Today too, he saw the red head. The teacher took out the memo pad from his pocket. In the small notebook, he added today's date. "Infirmary: none today." "Lunch: finished." "Rooftop: confirmed." About a month since becoming homeroom teacher of Class 2-3. He'd been keeping this record since last month. As the designated school for the Kaisei system, Kaminari High's teachers were required to complete mental health training. That's how he knew—that Hanagaki Takemichi was registered with Tokyo's Rehabilitation Support and Psychological Trauma Care Comprehensive System, commonly called the Kaisei system. And that he'd completely stopped visiting Kitahara Psychosomatic Clinic, the designated medical facility, two months ago. Murase-sensei didn't take his eyes from the window. Beyond the fence, the sixteen-year-old's back appeared small against the sunset. He still couldn't say anything. The timing wasn't right—Murase-sensei had judged it so. But he watched every day. Every day, he counted. ───── After school. He came to the rooftop again. As the sunset shifted to dark purple, Takemichi hooked his fingers through the fence railing, gazing at the northern landscape. The JR Kaminari Line overpass. Residential rooftops. Power lines. A single bird crossed the sky. A voice echoed in his head. Mikey is living normally now. Draken too. Everyone else. They registered with the Kaisei system, went to counseling, returned to everyday life. No one believed in time-leaping, and there was no need to make them believe. It was all over. This present, which he'd protected at the cost of his life, was here. Yet. Yet, why was only he— Memories from multiple timelines were jumbled together in his head. He couldn't tell anymore which was the real past and which was the erased future. There was nothing he could tell the counselor at Kitahara Psychosomatic Clinic. He couldn't say "I keep having dreams where the same guy dies over and over." It wasn't a dream. It all really happened—at least, in his memory. The distinction between dreams and memories had blurred. Takemichi looked at his left wrist. This scar was the only thing that proved the reality of that battlefield. He couldn't explain the meaning of this scar to the counselor. The wind blew. The fence creaked faintly. No one was on the rooftop. ───── Second floor of an apartment in Komatsuhara Town. Takemichi's room was six tatami mats, with only the wall of the neighboring building visible from the window. His mother hadn't returned from her part-time job yet. Five-thirty in the evening. The room was too quiet. Takemichi sat in front of the drawer, still in his uniform. The innermost drawer. The spot marked with duct tape. What he pulled out was an old notebook. Black cover. Pages warped in places—from water, sweat, tears, he couldn't tell anymore. Different from the notebook he wrote in every day on the rooftop, this was much older. He turned the pages. Chaotic handwriting covered them. Friends' names, dates, locations. Things he'd written down to keep his memories intact while repeating time-leaps. The handwriting changed subtly with each page. Traces of hurried writing, trembling writing, writing through tears—all of it was there. Takemichi turned each page slowly. Familiar names lined the pages. Names of the dead, names of the survivors. All written down. All things that really happened. Across multiple timelines. His hand stopped on one page. In the margin, there was a name he didn't recognize. Minakami Souta. Who was that? Takemichi stared at those four characters. His own handwriting. Definitely his. But which timeline had he met this person in—had they been alive or dead—there was no explanation around it. Just that name, written in rough characters. (I can't remember.) Not remembering meant forgetting. Forgetting meant— Takemichi stopped thinking beyond that point. He closed the notebook and returned it to the back of the drawer. He confirmed the duct tape mark, then closed the drawer. He undressed and collapsed onto his futon. He stared at the white ceiling. There was one stain in the upper right corner. It had been there since the day they moved in. Still there now. Takemichi's eyes traced that stain for a while, then gradually grew unfocused. The sound of the front door opening came much later. ───── The next day was the same. And the day after that. Go to school, attend classes, escape to the infirmary once, laugh at lunch, go to the rooftop, go home. Every day followed the same route. Past Komatsuhara Central Shopping Street, past Hibari Park on the way home, back to the apartment. Every time he passed in front of Kissa Harunoki café, Takemichi walked a little faster. Because he could see the window seat. Because it was a place he used to go with Hinata. Now his feet wouldn't take him there. He couldn't explain the reason well. It was a Monday during final period. Murase-sensei said something at the end of homeroom. "[serious]A transfer student will be coming to Class 2-3 next Monday. The seat will be—the window side, last row, next to Hanagaki." The class stirred. "Who?" "A boy or girl?" "Sensei, which is it?" "[serious]That's a surprise for next week." The teacher smiled faintly and concluded homeroom. Classmates returned to their desks and began gathering their things. Takemichi kept facing the window. The seat next to him. It had been empty the whole time. He'd never given it a thought. It existed like transparent air. Next week, someone would come there. Takemichi felt nothing. He didn't try to feel anything. He gathered his things and stood up, leaving the classroom. He walked down the hallway, descended the stairs, passed through the front gate. The leaf-green trees swayed in the evening breeze. Four of them. A place he passed every day. But today, for the first time, he noticed that each trunk had a different thickness. For some reason, he stopped to look. There was no particular meaning to it. It just caught his eye. Takemichi started walking again. When he reached the front of Hibari Park, his feet stopped. He didn't know why they stopped. There was no reason. Looking into the park, two swings stood in the dusk. No one was on them. They swayed slightly in the wind. The chains creaked a little. The time before the streetlights came on. The sky was at that ambiguous moment where orange and navy blue mixed together. Takemichi stared at the swings for about ten seconds. He didn't think anything would change. Even if someone came next week, the same empty days would probably continue. Forced laughter, the rooftop, the old notebook, sleep again. That was all. But— Takemichi turned his gaze away and started walking again. The dusk of Komatsuhara Town sank deep and quiet. The sound of a train passing on the Kaminari Line overpass echoed distantly. No flashback came today. That alone was the small difference of today.