The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and the lingering touch of rain. The forest whispered with the rustling of leaves, its voice ancient and knowing, like it held secrets that only the wind could decipher.
I moved forward, my metallic fingers grazing the rough bark of a towering tree. The texture was uneven, alive, yet so fragile in comparison to what I had become. Beneath my boots, the roots coiled and twisted like the veins of a slumbering giant, anchoring this world that felt both vibrant and desolate all at once.
For months, I had wandered through this endless solitude, with nothing but the memory of Daichi's final, fading smile to guide me. His voice—soft yet resolute—still echoed in the depths of my mind, tethering me to the promise I had made.
Find the answers. Bring humanity back.
But each step forward felt heavier than the last. No matter how much time passed, the ache in my chest never lessened. The weight of his absence was something I could never escape.
As I pushed through the dense foliage, I stepped into a clearing.
The sky above opened up, sunlight piercing through the thick canopy and spilling golden rays across the emerald undergrowth. A small stream meandered through the clearing, its crystal-clear waters catching the light, shimmering like fragments of a forgotten dream. The air was different here—calm, sacred, untouched by time or despair.
I took a slow breath, letting the serenity settle over me like a fragile embrace. For just a fleeting moment, I could almost believe that the world was still beautiful. That there was still something left to fight for.
And then—I saw him.
A lone figure stood by the stream, his back turned to me. His posture was relaxed, his hands resting loosely at his sides as he gazed at the flowing water. His presence was quiet, almost peaceful.
But it wasn't his stillness that made my breath catch in my throat.
It was the way he stood.
The outline of his frame, the familiar tilt of his head, the way the light played against his dark hair—it was impossible. It couldn't be real.
My voice barely escaped my lips, fragile and trembling with disbelief.
"Daichi…?"
The sound was so soft, I almost thought I had imagined it. But then—he stiffened.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turned.
And my world shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a single heartbeat.
It was him.
His face, his eyes—so achingly familiar, so deeply etched into my very being. But something was missing. The warmth. The quiet strength. The undeniable spark of humanity that had always defined him.
His gaze met mine, steady yet distant. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with wary curiosity.
My heart—if I could still call the hum of my core that—seized.
"It's… it's me," I stammered, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Izumi. Don't you… don't you remember me?"
His brow furrowed slightly, my name rolling off his tongue like something half-remembered, a fading dream slipping through his fingers.
"Izumi…" His tone was slow, uncertain. "I'm sorry, but… I don't know you. I don't remember anything."
The words struck like a blade to my chest, sharp and merciless.
I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I had imagined this moment so many times—finding him again, seeing his face, hearing his voice. But never, not once, had I prepared myself for this.
For him to look at me like a stranger.
For him to forget everything we had been.
And yet—
"…But," he hesitated, his dark eyes searching mine, "you feel familiar. Like a dream I can't quite recall."
Something inside me cracked.
A tear slipped down my cheek, glowing faintly as it caught the light. I turned my face away quickly, brushing it aside as if it didn't matter. But it did.
It mattered more than anything.
I forced a smile, though it trembled at the edges. "It's okay," I whispered. "Maybe it's better this way."
"Better?" His frown deepened. "Why does it feel like I've lost something important?"
I looked at him, at the face that had once held so much warmth, and felt my heart fracture all over again.
"Sometimes forgetting is easier than remembering," I murmured, my voice barely holding together.
A silence stretched between us, filled with the weight of unspoken truths. Then, gathering whatever strength I had left, I took a slow step forward.
"…Let's just start over," I said softly.
His gaze lingered on me, searching for something—anything—that might bridge the void between us. He hesitated, then finally nodded.
"…Alright. Start over."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned away from the stream. My footsteps were slow, deliberate, every step a battle against the past that threatened to pull me under.
Behind me, I heard him follow.
I didn't dare look back.
"I'll protect you, Daichi," I whispered to myself, the promise burning in my chest like an unextinguished flame. "Even if you don't remember, I'll be the one who does."
The road stretched endlessly before us, the sky painted in hues of fragile hope.
I kept walking.
Not just for myself.
For him.
For the promise that still remained.