The knock came just after lunch.
Not sharp. Not urgent. Just… tentative.
Aiko looked up from the couch, a game still half-paused in her lap.
Kaito stood in the kitchen, barefoot, a towel slung around his shoulders. He hadn't shaved. His hair was still damp from his shower, and the microwave was blinking again.
Another knock.
This time, a voice.
"Uh… Hello? Is this—uh—Kaito's place? Someone alive in there?"
Kaito blinked.
The voice triggered something. A vague twinge of familiarity—not words, not images. Just a tone.
Aiko crossed to the door, unlocking it cautiously.
Three boys stood in the hall. Teenagers, probably Kaito's age. All in casual clothes, carrying convenience store bags and nervous energy.
"Yo!" the tallest said, flashing a crooked grin. "We brought snacks."
Aiko frowned. "Who are you?"
The shortest one, with glasses and an oversized hoodie, raised a hand like a student. "Uh—Toma. I'm in his old cram school class."
"Jun," said the tall one. "And that's—"
"Ren," the third boy said, offering a small, awkward wave.
Behind her, Kaito stepped into view.
And froze.
They stared at each other in silence for a second too long.
Then Jun stepped forward. "You look like hell, man."
Kaito didn't know what to say.
His mind offered no names. No events. Just flickers of maybe. Like deja vu folded in on itself.
Toma nudged Jun. "Idiot, don't overwhelm him."
Ren took a step forward and held out a bag. "We brought melon pan. From that bakery you liked near West Exit."
Kaito blinked.
His mouth opened.
"…That place still open?"
Jun raised an eyebrow. "You do remember?"
Kaito hesitated.
"Not really," he said. "But I think I can taste it in my head."
The four of them gathered in the living room, which now felt a little too small.
Kaito sat on the floor. The others spread out—Jun lounging across the couch, Toma crouching over a bag of chips, Ren quietly sipping bottled tea.
Aiko hovered for a bit, watching. Listening.
Then slipped into the kitchen and let them have the space.
Not far.
Just far enough to listen.
Jun talked the most.
"Bro, do you know how many messages I sent? I even DM'd Aiko once. Like, respectfully, okay? I didn't say anything weird. Just like, 'Is your brother dead?' in the most chill way possible."
Toma groaned. "You seriously need a filter."
Ren smiled faintly. "We figured something happened when you stopped replying. Then the rift news came out."
"I didn't expect you to come back," Toma said. "I mean—sorry. That sounded bad."
Kaito shrugged. "It's alright. I didn't expect it either."
The room went quiet.
Jun clapped his hands suddenly. "Okay! Vibes are sad. Let's fix that. Ren, tell him what you did."
Ren looked up, confused. "What did I do?"
Jun grinned. "You cried. In public."
"I did not."
"You did. Don't lie. It was at the arcade."
Ren looked at Kaito. "I only cried because I owed you money and thought I was off the hook."
Kaito let out something like a laugh. Small. Croaky. But real.
Later, after snacks and awkward jokes and half-finished stories, the boys helped clean up without being asked.
Jun stacked cans like trophies. Toma tied up the trash. Ren stood by the sliding balcony door, watching the street below.
Then he turned and asked, "Can I see your room?"
Kaito blinked. "Uh. Sure?"
It felt strange—letting someone into that space. Aiko had been in and out, helping clean, but otherwise, it had remained untouched since he came back.
He led Ren down the hall, door creaking open.
The room was dim, dust soft on the desk and shelves. A few posters. A broken clock. Books neatly stacked. A framed photo turned face-down.
Ren entered slowly, not touching anything.
"You haven't changed much," he said.
Kaito stepped in behind him. "I don't remember how it looked."
Ren tilted his head. "You're standing like you do."
Kaito blinked.
He looked down.
He was leaning on the left wall with his arm folded—same way as the shadow worn into the wallpaper. Same posture. Same spot.
He stepped away quickly.
Ren didn't comment.
Just said, "Your sketchbook's still here."
Kaito looked where he pointed. A thick, navy blue pad of paper, tucked beneath a stack of manga volumes.
He pulled it out.
The cover felt heavy in his hands.
He opened it.
Inside: rough pencil drawings. Characters. Creatures. Notes in the margins.
Each one familiar.
None of them remembered.
He flipped to the last page.
A half-drawn sketch of a monster, part bird, part machine, staring forward with an empty hole where its eyes should be.
Written beneath it, in shaky lettering:
"What happens if the thing that comes back isn't me?"
Kaito stared at it for a long time.
Ren said nothing.
After the boys left—with awkward fist-bumps and vague promises to hang out again—Kaito lingered by the balcony.
Aiko joined him, arms crossed against the evening chill.
"They seem nice," she said.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"You like melon pan?"
"I guess."
"I hated it."
He looked over. "You used to steal mine."
"I only wanted what you wanted."
A small silence stretched between them.
Then Kaito said, "They knew things I didn't. But being around them didn't feel bad. Just… soft."
Aiko blinked.
"Soft?"
He touched the base of his neck. "Like muscle memory. Like I was borrowing a life someone else wore for a while."
She leaned against the rail.
"You are still you," she said.
"I don't know what that means."
She didn't argue.
They watched the trains in the distance, headlights flickering across the dusk.
Inside, the microwave blinked on by itself.