The air was cool, crisp, and alive with the scent of earth freshly kissed by rain. The rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze whispered secrets that only the forest could understand. Izumi walked among the ancient trees, her metallic fingers brushing against their rough, gnarled bark. The roots coiled beneath her boots like veins of a living giant, anchoring this world that felt both vibrant and desolate.
For months, she had wandered through this solitude. Every step forward was driven by the memory of Daichi's final, fading smile and the promise she had made to him—a promise to find the answers, to bring humanity back. But the weight of that vow grew heavier with each passing day. The forest stretched endlessly before her, a labyrinth of green and shadows, and though her body never tired, her heart felt worn.
As she stepped into a clearing, the oppressive weight of the trees lifted. The sun broke through the canopy, its golden rays scattering across the emerald undergrowth like fragments of hope. A crystal-clear stream meandered lazily through the clearing, its surface catching the light in shimmering ripples. The air here felt sacred, untouched—a haven amidst the chaos.
Izumi paused, her glowing eyes tracing the tranquil scene. For a moment, the serenity almost made her forget the ache in her chest, the empty void left by his absence. She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes and letting the peace wash over her.
Then she saw him.
A figure stood by the stream, his back turned to her. His posture was relaxed, hands loosely resting at his sides as he gazed at the flowing water. The faint sound of it lapping at his boots reached her ears, but it was the way he stood that made her breath hitch.
Her heart—if the hum of her mechanical core could still be called that—seized in her chest. The outline of his frame, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly, the presence that seemed to radiate from him... it was unmistakable.
"Daichi?" she whispered.
Her voice, fragile and filled with disbelief, was almost lost in the soft murmur of the forest. She barely heard it herself, yet the figure stiffened. Slowly, he turned toward her, and her world shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a heartbeat.
It was him.
His dark eyes, his familiar features—the face she had etched into her memory during countless lonely nights. But his gaze… it wasn't the same. It lacked the warmth, the quiet strength, the spark of humanity that had defined him.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with cautious curiosity. It was his voice, but it felt distant, like an echo from another time.
Izumi staggered, her legs trembling beneath her as if her body couldn't decide whether to collapse in relief or break apart in despair. "It's… it's me," she stammered, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Izumi. Don't you… don't you remember me?"
He frowned, the crease between his brows deepening as he repeated her name under his breath. "Izumi…" The way he said it—slowly, deliberately—was like someone trying to recall a dream slipping through their fingers. "I'm sorry, but… I don't know you. I don't remember anything."
The words hit her like a blade to the chest, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her mechanical fingers curled into fists at her sides as she fought to keep her composure. The man before her was Daichi—his voice, his face, his very existence screamed it—but the person she had known, the one who had stood beside her through everything, was gone.
And yet…
"But…" He hesitated, his eyes softening as they met hers. "You feel familiar. Like a dream I can't quite recall."
Her breath caught, a tear escaping from her glowing eye and slipping down her cheek. She turned her face away quickly, brushing it aside as if it didn't matter. But it did.
She forced a smile—fragile, trembling, and utterly false. "It's okay," she said, her voice barely holding together. "Maybe it's better this way."
"Better?" Daichi's brow furrowed further, and his gaze searched hers as if trying to understand the pain hidden behind her words. "Why does it feel like I've lost something important?"
Izumi looked at him, her heart fracturing with every second of his confusion. "Sometimes forgetting is easier than remembering," she murmured, her voice cracking despite her best efforts.
Her metallic fingers brushed against the edge of her arm as if to steady herself. She took a shaky step forward, then stopped. "Let's just… start over," she said softly, her lips forming a small, sad smile that barely reached her eyes.
"Start over…" Daichi repeated, the words heavy on his tongue. He hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face, but finally, he nodded. "Alright. Start over."
Izumi nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She turned away from the stream, her back to him, and started walking toward the edge of the clearing. Her footsteps were slow and deliberate, every step a battle against the weight of the past and the overwhelming ache of what could never be again.
Behind her, she heard his footsteps follow—tentative, uncertain, but there. She didn't dare turn around.
Her glowing eyes fixed on the path ahead, the promise she had made to him burning like a fire in her chest. He may not remember, but she would. She would carry the weight of those memories, of the man he had been, for both of them.
"I'll protect you, Daichi," she whispered, her words swallowed by the forest. "Even if you don't remember, I'll be the one who does. I'll make sure your sacrifice wasn't in vain."
The forest stretched endlessly before them, its golden light painting the world in hues of fragile hope. Izumi's steps didn't falter.
She was no longer just walking for herself. She was walking for him.
The road stretched endlessly before them, a meandering path that wove through forests thick with whispers of the wind, crossed rivers that sparkled in the sunlight, and cut across barren plains where silence reigned. Izumi walked a few steps ahead, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if afraid to look back. Daichi followed quietly, his steps steady but uncertain, as though he were still trying to find his place in this unfamiliar world.
They passed through villages that seemed frozen in time, where people watched them from behind cracked windows and half-open doors. Their curious eyes lingered on Izumi's metallic frame, on Daichi's calm demeanor, but no one dared approach. The pair were outsiders in a world slowly piecing itself back together, and though they spoke little, an unspoken bond began to form between them.
Izumi had never planned to stay with him. Not at first. The sight of Daichi, alive but without his memories, had been more painful than comforting. She had hoped—desperately—that some spark of recognition would return to him, that the fragments of their shared past would surface. But the days passed, and with each one, the realization that he didn't remember her cut deeper.
She told herself she would leave, that it was better this way. Yet, each time she resolved to walk away, something held her back. Maybe it was the quiet strength he still carried, the way his voice—calm and gentle—reminded her of the man he used to be. Or maybe it was simply the way his presence made her feel less alone in a world that seemed far too vast without him.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and gold. By the time they set up camp near a gentle riverbank, the air had grown cold, and the stars began to shimmer in the inky blackness above. The fire crackled softly, sending wisps of smoke into the sky as its warm glow bathed the clearing in light.
Izumi sat on one side of the fire, her legs tucked beneath her as she absently traced patterns in the dirt with her metallic fingers. The movements were slow and repetitive, a habit born from years of trying to silence the noise in her head. Across from her, Daichi sat with his back straight, his eyes fixed on the flames as though searching for answers within them.
The silence stretched between them, heavy but not oppressive, until Daichi finally broke it. His voice was quiet but steady, carrying a note of concern that Izumi hadn't expected.
"You've been carrying something heavy," he said, his gaze lifting to meet hers. "I can see it in the way you look at the world… like you're fighting a battle no one else can see."
Izumi's hand stilled, her fingers freezing mid-pattern. She didn't look up, didn't meet his eyes. Instead, she stared into the fire, her reflection flickering in its flames.
"Why?" he asked softly, leaning forward just enough that his words felt closer, more personal. "Why do you carry it alone?"
She flinched, the question striking a chord she wasn't ready to face. Her gaze remained on the fire, her voice barely audible when she finally spoke. "Because I made a promise," she said, each word heavy with the weight of memory. "To someone I cared about. Someone who believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself."
Daichi's brow furrowed as he studied her, his dark eyes searching for the truth hidden beneath her words. "And this person… what happened to them?"
The question pierced through her like a blade, reopening wounds she had tried to bury. She closed her eyes, her hands tightening into fists as memories surged to the surface—his smile, the way he had looked at her with unwavering faith, the way his voice had carried hope even in the darkest moments.
"He…" Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard, her throat tightening against the words. "He gave everything to save humanity. His life, his heart. He believed it was worth it. And now… now it's up to me to finish what he started."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed her confession. She dared a glance at Daichi and saw the way his expression softened. He leaned forward slightly, the flames casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, she thought she saw the man he used to be—the one who had stood by her side through everything.
"You don't have to do it alone anymore," he said quietly. His words were simple, but they carried a weight that settled in her chest like a lifeline. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out, his hand warm and steady as it rested on her shoulder.
Izumi flinched at the contact, the gesture so familiar yet so foreign, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she allowed herself to lean into it, just slightly, the warmth of his touch easing some of the tension she hadn't realized she was holding.
"I may not remember my past," he continued, his voice steady and sincere, "but I'm here now. And if there's a way I can help… I want to."
The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, a single droplet slipping down her cheek and catching the light of the fire. She turned her face away, brushing it aside quickly, but her voice betrayed the emotion she couldn't hide.
"Thank you," she whispered, her words barely more than a breath.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe that she wasn't alone. The burden she carried, the promise she had made—it was still hers, but now, there was someone willing to share it. Even if he didn't remember, even if the road ahead was uncertain, she felt the faintest flicker of hope reignite within her.
The stars above seemed brighter, closer, as if they too were listening to the quiet vow that passed between them.