The streets grew quieter as I walked, my footsteps echoing faintly against the pavement. The neon signs above cast a kaleidoscope of colors onto the wet ground, but I barely noticed them. My mind was a tangled mess of fragmented memories—images, emotions, and whispers that refused to come together.
I wasn't sure how long I'd been walking. The city stretched endlessly in every direction, yet something about this path felt… familiar. My breath hitched as I stopped in front of a particular street. The rows of brick houses, the flowerpots perched on windowsills, the faint scent of freshly baked bread lingering in the cold night air—it all struck a chord deep inside me.
A sharp shiver ran down my spine.
I knew this place.
But why?
My feet moved forward before my mind could catch up, as if something unseen was pulling me toward a destination I couldn't name. My pulse quickened, the air around me thick with an unshakable sense of déjà vu.
Then, I saw it.
A house stood quietly at the corner of the street, bathed in the glow of a nearby lamppost. Pale yellow walls, a small front porch, and a wooden fence that had seen better days. It was painfully ordinary, yet my chest ached just looking at it.
I swallowed hard. My heart pounded so loudly that it nearly drowned out the silence.
"This… this is my old neighborhood," I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice.
My hands trembled as I climbed the short steps leading to the front door. I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the knocker. My thoughts raced.
What if no one's there? What if this is all a dream?
Before I could second-guess myself, the door swung open.
"Daichi! Why are you so late? I thought you went missing!"
The voice struck me like lightning.
I blinked, my breath catching in my throat. Standing in the doorway was a woman, hands on her hips, an apron dusted with flour tied around her waist. Her neatly tied bun framed a face that was both familiar and foreign—a face I hadn't seen in years.
I gasped. "Mo… Mom?"
She frowned. "What kind of question is that? Of course, I'm your mother. You look pale, Daichi. Are you feeling alright?"
The warmth in her voice unraveled something inside me. My vision blurred as unshed tears stung my eyes. This wasn't possible. I shouldn't be here. And yet, she was standing right in front of me.
I clenched my fists. If this was an illusion, it was the cruelest one imaginable.
"Stop staring and bring those groceries in, will you?" she huffed, snapping me out of my daze. "Your dad and siblings will be home soon, and I'm nowhere near done with dinner."
I nodded stiffly, stepping inside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the scent of home-cooked meals wrapped around me like a long-forgotten embrace. I glanced around, my gaze sweeping over the familiar sights—the small clock ticking on the wall, the slightly frayed edge of the living room rug, the framed family photos lining the shelves.
Everything was the same.
Everything was… exactly as it should have been seven years ago.
I placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter with shaky hands. My mother was busy stirring something in a pot, stealing quick glances at me over her shoulder.
"Daichi, are you sure you're alright? You've been acting strange ever since you got back."
"I'm fine," I forced out, though my voice was barely steady. "Just… tired."
She nodded. "Go rest in your room. Dinner will be ready soon."
I hesitated. My room…
Would it be the same, too?
Nodding stiffly, I turned and ascended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. My fingers traced along the railing, remembering every small chip in the wood. When I reached the end of the hallway, my breath caught in my throat.
A wooden plaque hung on the door in front of me.
"Daichi."
I reached out, my hand trembling as I turned the knob.
The moment the door creaked open, my heart stopped.
Everything… was untouched.
The neatly made bed. The posters I had pinned on the walls. The bookshelves lined with my favorite novels and small trinkets. My old desk, still cluttered with notebooks, pens, and unfinished sketches.
It was like I had never left.
I stepped inside, my fingers trailing over the desk's surface. A small toy robot caught my eye, one I hadn't seen in years. I picked it up, the familiar weight of it stirring memories I thought were lost forever.
"This… was my life," I whispered, my voice barely holding together.
I turned to the desk, pulling open a drawer at random. Scraps of paper, old notes, and sketches spilled out. My fingers trembled as I flipped through a notebook, scanning the childish handwriting scrawled across the pages.
Then, I stopped.
A realization hit me like a freight train.
"The Vanishing… Izumi… my life as an android…"
I gritted my teeth. It wasn't just a dream. I had lived it. But now—now I was here, in a past that shouldn't exist.
I grabbed an empty notebook and started writing. My mind worked furiously, connecting fragments of memories that refused to align.
The key doesn't solve the Vanishing.
It throws me back into the past, merging my soul with my younger self.
Time travel doesn't guarantee change.
I pressed the pen harder against the paper.
"It's all connected… but how?"
Izumi's voice echoed in my mind.
"The chance of regaining your memories isn't guaranteed."
I clenched my jaw. I needed answers.
But before I could think further, my mother's voice called from downstairs.
"Daichi! Dinner's ready!"
I exhaled shakily, closing the notebook.
For now… I had to act normal.
I made my way downstairs, stepping into the dining room where my father, younger brother, and little sister were already seated. The moment I saw them—saw their smiles, heard their laughter—something inside me ached.
"Brother, let's eat!" Hana chirped, her small hands reaching for my sleeve.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a smile. "Yeah… let's."
The dinner passed in a blur of conversation and warmth. I barely spoke, too overwhelmed by the reality of it all. The way my father chuckled at my mother's nagging, the way Daisuke stuffed his face with food like nothing else mattered, the way Hana beamed up at me with innocent joy…
It was all so painfully real.
Too real.
As I climbed back up to my room after dinner, my mother's voice stopped me.
"Daichi, are you alright? You seem exhausted."
I turned back, trying to hold my expression together.
"Don't worry, Mom," I said, offering a small, weary smile. "I'm fine."
But as soon as I closed the door behind me, my composure shattered.
I sank onto my bed, burying my face in my hands. My chest tightened, and the dam of emotions I had been holding back broke loose.
"I… I had this," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I had a family. I had a home."
Tears spilled onto my hands, silent and unrelenting.
I had lost it all once.
And now, I was terrified.
Because I didn't know if I would lose it all again.
. The weight of my past crashed over me like an unforgiving tide, dragging me down into the depths of despair.
I cried until my body could no longer take it—until exhaustion wrapped its cold arms around me and pulled me under.
Sleep didn't bring peace. Instead, it swallowed me whole, plunging me into a dreamscape that felt too real to be a mere figment of my imagination.
I stood in an endless expanse of shimmering white mist, the ground beneath me rippling like water yet solid underfoot. There was no sky, no horizon—just swirling shadows and light, twisting and merging in a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic dance.
A faint breeze stirred, sending a strange mix of warmth and cold across my skin, making me shiver. My breath came out in a foggy wisp, dissolving into the emptiness around me.
"Where… am I?" My voice barely carried, swallowed by the vastness of the space.
A sound—distant yet distinct—reached my ears. Footsteps? Whispers? I turned sharply, searching for the source, but there was nothing. Just silence stretching infinitely in every direction.
Then, the mist began to shift. Shapes flickered in and out of existence, like broken memories desperately trying to stitch themselves together.
A ruined city, its skyline collapsing into dust. Scorched earth, lifeless and barren. Izumi's tear-streaked face, her sorrow piercing through me like a blade. The glowing fragment I had left behind, pulsing faintly with remnants of a lost past.
Each vision struck me with an unbearable weight, forcing me to relive everything I wanted to forget.
Before I could even catch my breath, the images melted away, replaced by a lone figure standing in the distance.
Tall. Unmoving. A presence that sent a shiver down my spine.
I couldn't see his face. It was blurred, as if reality itself refused to define his features. And yet, his mere existence held an undeniable authority that rooted me in place.
Then, he spoke.
"Don't forget your purpose, Daichi."
His voice was deep, resonant—yet muffled, like words spoken from beneath an ocean's surface.
My breath hitched. My heart pounded against my ribs. I tried to take a step forward, but my legs felt like they had turned to lead.
"Who… who are you?" My voice trembled, the question laced with desperation.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he slowly raised his hand and pointed behind me.
I turned, and the mist parted like curtains being drawn.
There, suspended in the air, was a broken key.
It pulsed faintly, its glow sending ripples of energy through the space, each beat syncing with my own erratic heartbeat.
My chest tightened. I knew that key. It was the same one I had used to turn back time. The same one that had brought me here—trapping me in this fragmented existence.
"What… what does this mean?" My voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do?"
Still, the man remained silent.
His form began to dissolve, scattering into the mist like grains of sand caught in the wind. But his voice… his voice lingered.
"Save humanity… and yourself."
The moment his words faded, the key shattered.
A blinding light erupted from its core, engulfing everything in a flash so bright it burned into my vision.
I raised my arms instinctively, shielding my face as heat seared my skin.
And then—I was falling.
Weightless. Spiraling. The world twisted violently around me—
Until I woke up.
My body jolted upright, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat.
The soft morning light filtered through my curtains, painting streaks of gold across the walls. But the warmth did nothing to ease the ice lodged in my chest.
My breath came in uneven pants. My fingers trembled as I ran a shaky hand through my damp hair. Sweat clung to my skin, cold against the morning air.
The dream still clung to me, every detail vivid as if I had truly been there.
That man's voice echoed relentlessly in my mind.
"Don't forget your purpose…"
I swallowed hard, my fists clenching.
I didn't know who he was or why the dream had felt so terrifyingly real, but one thing was clear—this wasn't something I could ignore.
I swung my legs over the bed and stood up, my gaze drifting to the peaceful neighborhood outside my window.
Everything looked so… normal. So undisturbed.
But I knew better.
Beneath the quiet facade, an unseen force was already set in motion.
And I had to figure out what my place in it was—before it was too late.
The dim glow of my desk lamp flickered as I hunched over a chaotic mess of scribbled notes, diagrams, and fragmented thoughts.
Every line I wrote felt like carving into stone—a desperate attempt to solidify the truths that kept slipping through my fingers.
Images haunted me: the glow of the artifact, Izumi's tear-streaked face, the suffocating darkness of a collapsing world.
I gripped my pen tighter, my knuckles whitening as I drew connections between them.
"The sacrifice… the ship… the anomaly… They're all pieces of the same puzzle," I muttered under my breath. "But how do they fit?"
The television droned in the background, filling the silence with meaningless news about politics, weather updates, trivial city events.
It was all just noise.
None of them knew what was coming.
But I did.
I glanced at the screen, my eyes narrowing.
"It's too quiet…"
Days blurred together. Nights felt endless. Sleep was a luxury I could no longer afford.
Then, on the fifth night, something clicked.
A memory surfaced—sharp, vivid, undeniable.
A forest clearing. An unnatural stillness.
And a massive ship, half-buried in the earth.
My breath caught. My pulse quickened.
"That's it," I whispered, pushing back from my desk. "That's where it started. That's where it ends."
Later that evening, as I sat in the living room, the news played on the television, voices droning about mundane things.
But my gut twisted with unease.
Something was wrong.
My fingers dug into the armrest, my grip tightening.
"It's too quiet," I muttered under my breath.
A soft voice interrupted my thoughts.
"What's too quiet, big brother?"
I turned, startled.
Hana sat on the couch beside me, her tiny hands clutching a colored pencil as she worked on one of her drawings. She tilted her head, looking at me with wide, curious eyes.
I forced a smile. "Oh, nothing, Hana. Just talking to myself."
She giggled. "You're so weird sometimes."
Her laughter was light, innocent—completely untouched by the weight pressing down on my chest.
I watched her for a moment, my heart tightening.
This world… this timeline…
I couldn't let it fall into the same abyss as the one I had left behind.
I had to protect it.
No matter what it took.