The pages of the textbook curled at the edges, worn from restless fingers and repeated use. A faint smudge of ink marred the corner, evidence of hurried notes and half-formed thoughts. The air in the classroom was thick with the scent of old paper and chalk dust, a quiet hum of murmured voices blending with the rhythmic creak of a slowly rotating ceiling fan.
Yuer stared at the open book, her gaze unfocused, the printed words blurring together. Her fingers, resting lightly on the wooden desk, gripped a ballpoint pen with a steadiness uncharacteristic of her fifteen-year-old self. The tip of the pen tapped the paper once—an absent, idle motion. A perfect black dot bloomed on the page.
Then, she moved her fingers again. A second tap.
Except… she hadn't moved at all.
The realization sent a slow chill through her spine. The movement was hers, and yet, it wasn't. Her breath hitched, but she kept still, fingers poised over the notebook, her posture rigid. Perhaps it was just a trick of her own nerves—muscle memory, a subconscious tic.
But deep down, she knew better.
A ghost of a sensation trailed through her mind—a whisper of something foreign. It wasn't a voice, not exactly. More like a presence pressing at the edges of her thoughts, as if she were standing at the threshold of someone else's memory. A flicker of something unfamiliar flashed in her mind's eye—a room that wasn't hers, a language she didn't recognize, the subtle weight of a suit jacket draped over her shoulders.
Yuer shivered.
The sounds of the classroom faded into a dull hum. The teacher's voice, the scrape of a chair, the muted giggle of a classmate—it all dulled as something shifted within her, just beneath the surface. Her own thoughts suddenly felt… crowded. As though someone was there. Watching. Waiting.
Her fingers twitched again.
Yuer inhaled sharply and gripped the pen tighter, willing herself to ignore the growing sense of unease. Maybe she was tired. Maybe this was nothing. A small, insignificant anomaly.
But then, a thought brushed against her own—not in her voice.
You're finally noticing.
Yuer's pulse spiked. Her head jerked up, scanning the classroom. No one was looking at her. The teacher droned on about historical events, completely oblivious. Her classmates were lost in their own worlds—doodling in notebooks, scrolling through hidden phones, daydreaming out the window. No one had spoken to her.
And yet, she had heard it.
No.
She hadn't just heard it.
She had felt it.
As if the thought had originated from her own mind—except it hadn't.
Her grip on the pen tightened until her knuckles turned white. Her body felt distant, a half-second lag between thought and movement. As if she were a marionette being tested by invisible strings.
The unseen presence remained silent now, patient. Observing.
Yuer swallowed against the dryness in her throat, forcing her breathing to steady. This wasn't normal. She wasn't normal. Something was very, very wrong.
And for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if she was alone in her own head.
Takeda Ryūsei.
The name surfaced, unbidden. Unfamiliar, yet intimate.
Somewhere, someone else was waking up, too.