When I open the apartment door, the familiar smell of Souta greets me. It seems to come from a far-off land just out of reach, and it makes my chest constrict. We were together in this room only a day ago—fourteen hours ago. It feels like the distant past.
The study is a mess. The books that had been piled with such charming liberty on the floor are knocked over, and about half of those previously on shelves are scattered on the tatami floor. A breeze from the open window is rustling their pages. This is the worm’s fault, I realize as I slowly remember what happened. The brief jolt when the second Keystone was pulled up destroyed what little order had governed this room.
First, I need to clean myself up.
There’s a little sink next to the kitchen and a bath beyond that. It has a shower and a tiny bathtub. I take off the clothes Chika gave me, fold them neatly, and set them on the washing machine, then walk naked into the bathroom, turn on the warm water, and step under the showerhead. My hair is stiffer than it’s ever been, and the water that runs from it is black. I take a long time washing my hair and body, making sure the water running onto the tile floor is clear.
Next, I work on the soles of my feet. There are several deep cuts on both of them. I scrub off the dried blood with my hands and pick out all the sand and gravel with my fingernails. My eyes tear up, and I grit my teeth, but the pain feels like it’s buried far in the back of my mind.
A bath towel is folded neatly on a shelf above the washing machine, and next to it is a plastic box of toiletries. The box is neatly packed with shampoo, soap, a toothbrush, a razor, and some hair gel. A proper adult, I think. These signs of his methodical personality overwhelm me with sadness. I borrow a towel to dry myself off and take some adhesive pads from the box for my feet.
I stand in my underwear and bra and dry my hair, then take my school uniform out of the sports bag. The clothes from Chika are all torn up, so I can’t wear them. I put on the white button-down shirt, dark-green skirt, and silk socks. I tie the red ribbon tight on my chest and put my hair in a high ponytail. I’m wearing the same clothes and the same hairstyle as the day I left Kyushu, yet something has irrefutably disappeared from my body. I feel like I’ve lost the weight that kept me grounded in this world. It’s like I look the same but weigh half as much—like my body has been replaced with air, leaving me unstable. I’m still angry. Something was given to me without my asking—pushed on me—and then stolen away for no reason. Again? I want to yell at the gods, or whoever’s in charge of running this world: Stop making me feel so stupid! I glare at my gaunt face in the mirror and say out loud, “Stop making me feel stupid!” But my voice is shaking and tearful, and I look pathetic even to myself.
Before I leave Souta’s apartment, I quickly tidy up the fallen books. I don’t know how he had them organized, so I stack them on the floor in knee-high piles. Then I close the window and the curtains.
“Souta, I’m borrowing your shoes,” I mutter before stuffing my feet into the black work boots in the entryway. They’re huge on me, but I pull the laces tight until they’re securely strapped to my feet. I lock the apartment door behind me and walk toward the station.
It’s still only a little past eight in the morning.
The streets are finally starting to fill up with commuters and kids on their way to school. I join the stream of people wordlessly walking toward the station and tally up the time in my head: one, two, three…
It’s my fifth day.
This is the morning of the fifth day since I met Souta.
I plan to go to Tokyo Station first. From there, I’ll transfer to the Shinkansen. I no longer need to look at my phone to navigate.
I travel along the sidewalk next to Kanda River (the worm was on this riverbank yesterday), turn at the intersection, cross the big bridge, and I’m already at Ochanomizu Station. It’s rush hour, so people of all ages are crowded outside.
“Hey, you!” someone says as I’m walking up the slope to the ticket gate. They can’t be talking to me. I don’t know anyone around here.
“Suzume!”
“Huh?!”
I turn around. A bright-red convertible is pulled up in the drop-off lane outside the station. The man in the driver’s seat is staring at me.
“…Serizawa?”
It’s the man who came by Souta’s apartment yesterday. He has on a black jacket over a red V-neck with way too many silver necklaces jangling against his chest.
“Why are you—?” I begin.
“Where are you going? To see Souta?” he interrupts, looking at me grumpily from behind his round glasses. I don’t know why he’s here, but right now, I’m at least as grouchy as he is.
“…I’m going to look for a door,” I say, too quietly for him to hear.
“What?”
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry.” I turn my back on him.
“Hey, wait, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He grabs my arm from behind.
“What are you doing?!”
“You’re not really Souta’s cousin, are you?”
“What’s it to you? Let me go!”
“Get in,” he says, still leaning out of the car and gripping my arm.
“You’re kidding.”
People around us are starting to stare.