There was a figure on the rooftop. In the evening sun after school, beyond the fence. The rooftop should have been locked for the past three years. That morning, I still didn't know any of this. --- The slope through the residential district showed the same scenery every morning. Lined houses. A mother pushing a bicycle. Men around my age checking their phones in front of the convenience store "Daily Shop." I—Todo Yota—climbed that slope without even wearing earbuds. Black short hair, white shirt, black slacks. My slender frame fit loosely in the uniform. Height: 170 centimeters. By any measure, just an ordinary second-year high school student. My deep brown eyes gazed vaguely ahead. "—No, that's not right. I said that from the beginning," one of the men in front of the convenience store said. A distant voice. Just a sound. My ears didn't react to it. Of course they didn't. My "thing" only activates when I hear someone's voice directly in person. Voices from a distance. Voices over the phone. Recordings. Text. Those don't trigger it at all. "That thing" is—a strange sense unique to me where lies sound distorted. When someone lies, their voice echoes doubled for about 0.5 seconds. The pitch shifts slightly. Like when an instrument's tuning is just a little off—a tiny "waver." I probably first noticed this in third grade. A friend said, "I got 100 points on a game yesterday." The moment he said it, his voice wavered. Something felt off. Later, another friend told me, "That guy was home all day yesterday." After things like that kept happening, I talked to my parents about it. "Something's wrong with my ears. Sometimes I hear voices doubled." They took me to an ear, nose, and throat doctor. Nothing abnormal. The doctor laughed and said, "It's probably just your imagination." His voice didn't waver. He really believed that. In the end, I had to figure it out myself. This is the sound of lies, I realized. No one taught me how to use it or what the rules were. Just that the voices of people who are lying waver. That's all. I can't tell what they're lying about. I just get a judgment: "This person is lying right now." That's it. At first, I was terrified of it. Every time I talked to someone in class, the wavering came. Teachers' voices wavered. Sometimes even my parents' voices wavered. I learned that everyone lives by lying. By the time I entered middle school, I'd gotten used to it to some degree. I learned the survival tactic of "hearing it but pretending not to." Even when I sensed the waver, I didn't show it on my face. I pretended not to know. I'm good at that now. While climbing the slope, I looked up at the eastern sky. A faint layer of clouds. The sky visible from the Minase district residential area was just ordinary blue, like anywhere else. Seiryou High School—Seiryou High—was a 12-minute walk from the station. I usually walk fast and get there in about 11 minutes. --- The classroom before first period was loud. My seat was by the window, about midway back. Outside the window was the courtyard, and beyond that, the weathered wall of the old school building. Seiryou High had two buildings—the main building and the old building—connected by a covered walkway. The old building was ancient and smelled a bit moldy. "[excited]Hey, did you see that game yesterday? It was an insane match!" A voice came from the seat next to mine. Matsuda Sho. Bright and loud-voiced—the complete opposite of me. His hair was dyed brown and lightly styled, and he always had a smile on his face. He wasn't a bad guy. Just not really my type. "[serious]Didn't see it," "Oh, yeah? Well, I—" Matsuda continued. "[laughing]I fell asleep halfway through," A faint waver ran through his voice. Ah, I thought. So the "insane match" was a lie. Either he hadn't seen it, or he'd only seen part of it. I couldn't tell which. But at least the judgment of "insane match" wasn't something he'd actually confirmed himself. It's not like Matsuda was a bad person. That's just how small talk works. I didn't show it on my face and replied, "I see." Matsuda seemed satisfied and started talking about something else. I half-listened while gazing vaguely at the old school building outside the window. —This kind of thing happens every day. I understand he's trying to be friendly. Matsuda is the type who talks to everyone, and he's popular in the class. The fact that he talks to me at all is kind enough. But when the voice waver comes, I can't laugh naturally. I can't give those quick, rhythmic responses like "Really?" or "That's amazing!" Once you know about the waver, the conversation sounds hollow somehow. I think the reason I don't have any friends is because of this. Well, I've gotten used to it. --- Lunch break. I really wanted to eat on the rooftop. There's wind, the sky is wide, and I could eat slowly alone in a place where no one else is. That was my ideal. But the rooftop is locked. Someone in class mentioned it. It's been locked since an incident three years ago. I don't know the details. So as an alternative, I'd made the window ledge on the landing between the fourth and third floors my regular spot. I'd put my lunch box on the edge of a window about 50 centimeters wide, lean against the wall, and eat. The view isn't bad. I can see the south side of the school grounds and the residential district beyond. ...For a substitute for the rooftop, it's pretty cramped. "Why am I eating here?" I thought for a moment, but whatever. No one comes here, and it's quiet. I put a piece of tamagoyaki in my mouth and looked down at the school grounds. First-year students in PE class were playing volleyball. Their serves weren't going in at all. The sky was slightly whitened by clouds. The air felt like the beginning of autumn. The October air in the Minase district feels a little chillier than other parts of Tokyo. Maybe it's because the Tama Hills are nearby. --- In the second half of lunch break, I went to the infirmary using a headache as an excuse. I actually had a slight headache, so it wasn't a complete lie. The infirmary was on the first floor of the main building, at the west end. When I opened the door, there was a faint smell of disinfectant. Three beds separated by white curtains. "[gentle]Oh, Todo. What's wrong?" The school nurse, Segawa Tsumugi, looked up from her desk in the back. She was in her thirties, with soft, wavy brown hair. Round-framed glasses. A white coat over a gray cardigan. Her voice was calm, and she always spoke a little slowly. "[serious]I have a headache," "I see. Want to lie down?" "No, can I just stay here for a while? It's not bad enough to miss class," "Of course. Take your time," Nurse Segawa offered me a chair. I sat in the one by the window. Light was coming through, and it was a bit warm. After sitting quietly for a while, the nurse spoke to me. "[gentle]Have you been sleeping well lately?" "[serious]I'm fine," "That's good," the nurse smiled. "[gentle]I'm glad," In that single phrase "I'm glad"—a faint waver ran through. I didn't change my expression. It was a lie. The nurse didn't think I was fine. Or she didn't truly feel glad. I couldn't tell which. But her voice wavered. So even teachers lie, I thought. There was no anger. I was used to it. Adults lie too. The kind of lie that comes from kindness. "[serious]Thank you," I replied and looked out the window again. A little later, as I stood up to leave the infirmary, an old piece of paper on the wall next to the door caught my eye. The color was slightly yellowed. It had the title "Guidelines for Student Mental Health Care" written on it. I could see a date at the bottom. Autumn, three years ago. I wondered if something had happened. But at that moment, I didn't think about it any further. --- Sixth period ended. Homeroom was dismissed, and classmates streamed out of the classroom. Voices heading to club activities. Voices heading home. Voices heading somewhere else. I slowly packed my bag. I didn't talk to anyone. As usual. The classroom grew quiet. Orange sunlight streamed in, making the desk surfaces glow. I could hear club activities from outside the school grounds. Distant voices. No waver came. I was gazing vaguely out the window. The sky was dyed orange, and the fence on the main building's rooftop became a clear silhouette. A metal fence about 1.5 meters high. I think I'd heard they made it taller after the incident. It was originally 1.2 meters, or so. Near the fence—beyond it—there was a figure. I narrowed my eyes. Long black hair. A silhouette backlit by the setting sun. The outline was clear, but the face was invisible in the backlighting. But it was definitely facing toward me. Something in my chest began pounding violently. The rooftop should be locked. Someone in class had said so. It's been locked since the incident three years ago. So why is someone there? I grabbed my bag and left the classroom. --- I ran up to the fourth floor. The staircase from the third to fourth floor was poorly lit and a bit dark. I turned at the landing and headed toward the end of the hallway. The end of the fourth-floor hallway. An iron door. A heavy-looking door with a rusty appearance. I put my hand on the doorknob. —It didn't budge. It was locked. Of course it was. But I felt air flowing through a small gap in the door. The smell of wind. The air from outside, from the rooftop. Or maybe I heard something like a voice. It might have been my imagination. I moved closer to the door and tried to bring my ear near it. At that moment— "[angry]Hey. What are you doing there?" A low voice flew at me from the end of the hallway. I turned around. A male teacher was walking down the hallway. Suit. Around forty, with a solid build. Sharp eyes. It was Takeda, the discipline teacher. I'd never had him in class, but I saw him in the hallway often. "[cold]The rooftop is off-limits. Didn't you know?" "[scared]Oh... sorry. I made a mistake," I bowed my head and gripped my bag tighter. My heart was pounding. I was a bit worried it showed on my face. It's a bad habit of mine—my emotions show easily on my face. Takeda said nothing. He kept his eyes on me until I turned the corner in the hallway. I felt that gaze on my back as I went down the stairs. The image of that girl wouldn't leave my head. --- On the way home toward Minase Station. I walked down the residential district slope. The sun sank further, and the sky turned red-purple. Street lights began to flicker on one by one. I passed in front of the convenience store "Daily Shop." The automatic door opened, and the smell of coffee leaked out. My feet almost stopped for a moment, but I kept going. I took out my phone. I typed "Seiryou High School rooftop locked" in the search bar. Suggestions appeared. Among them, I saw the text "Fall accident 3 years ago." I hesitated for a moment, then rewrote the search to "Seiryou High School fall accident." Several articles came up. Old news site articles. Reports from local papers. I tapped the top article. The screen opened. —Three years ago in October, a second-year female student at Seiryou High School in Kanami City, Tokyo, fell from the rooftop and died— I stopped walking. I read the article. Whether it was an accident or suicide couldn't be determined, and it was ultimately classified as an accident. No suicide note. No evidence of bullying. No witnesses. There was a small black-and-white photo near the bottom of the article. A photo used in a statement from the school. A student's photo. I enlarged it. Long black hair. Quiet eyes. Something in my chest stopped. The silhouette I'd seen beyond the rooftop fence earlier—the same face. My hand holding the phone trembled. I looked at the photo again. There was a name written. Amamiya Mio. Age at death: 16. The girl who died three years ag