Fourth Loop, Chapter 19 : 忘れられた命の断片 (Fragments of a Forgotten Life)

The streets grew quieter as Daichi walked, his footsteps echoing faintly against the pavement. The city lights blurred into the edges of his vision, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors that felt out of place in his mind. His thoughts churned with fragments of memories, none of them cohesive.

He stopped abruptly in front of a familiar-looking street. His eyes scanned the surroundings—brick houses lined the road, flowerpots perched on window sills, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread wafting from a nearby home.

A chill ran down his spine. He knew this place. He didn't remember how or why, but his feet moved forward on their own, driven by instinct rather than reason.

"This… this is my old neighborhood," he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with disbelief.

As if pulled by an invisible thread, Daichi approached a particular house. It stood quietly at the corner of the street, its pale yellow walls dappled with light from a nearby lamppost. The sight stirred something deep within him—a faint warmth, buried under the weight of years of survival and despair.

He climbed the short steps to the front door and hesitated, his hand hovering over the knocker. His heart raced.

What if no one's there? What if it's not what I think?

Before he could overthink further, the door swung open.

"Daichi! Why are you so late? I thought you went missing!"

The voice hit him like a lightning bolt. A woman stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, wearing an apron dusted with flour. Her hair was tied neatly in a bun, and her face—though slightly stern—radiated warmth.

Daichi's breath caught in his throat.

"Mo… Mom?" he stammered, his voice barely audible.

The woman blinked, her expression softening. "Yes, I'm your mother. What kind of question is that? You look pale, Daichi. Are you feeling okay?"

Daichi couldn't respond. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears as he stared at her, his mind struggling to reconcile the woman before him with the faded, distant memories buried deep within him.

"Stop staring and bring those groceries in, will you?" she said hurriedly, gesturing toward the bag in his hand. "Your dad and siblings will be home soon, and I'm nowhere near done with dinner."

"R-right," Daichi muttered, stepping inside.

The house smelled of home-cooked meals and something faintly floral. Everything about it felt familiar—too familiar. As he set the grocery bag down on the kitchen counter, his gaze wandered. There was the small clock ticking on the wall, the slightly frayed edge of the living room rug, the family photos on the shelves.

His hands trembled.

This can't be real…

"Daichi?" His mother's voice brought him back to the present. She was stirring something in a pot, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright? You've been acting strange ever since you got back."

"I'm fine," he replied quickly, forcing a smile. "Just… tired."

"Well, go rest in your room. Dinner will be ready soon."

Nodding, Daichi left the kitchen and ascended the stairs. His feet carried him to a door with a wooden plaque hanging on it, carved with the name Daichi. He hesitated again, his hand trembling as he reached for the doorknob.

When he pushed the door open, he froze.

The room was exactly as he remembered it—or rather, as it should have been seven years ago. The neatly made bed, the posters on the walls, the shelves lined with books and small trinkets… it was all untouched by time.

His legs felt heavy as he stepped inside. He trailed his fingers across the desk, picking up a small toy robot he hadn't seen in years. Memories rushed back—faint but unmistakable.

"This… was my life," he whispered, his voice breaking.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind spinning. Pulling open the desk drawer, he found notebooks, pens, and scraps of paper with doodles he vaguely remembered drawing. He opened one of the notebooks and flipped through its pages, hoping to anchor himself.

But as the memories poured in, so did the questions.

"What happened to the time I came from? To the Vanishing? Did all of that… just disappear?" he asked aloud, his voice filled with frustration.

He grabbed a blank notebook and pen, his hand moving instinctively. Writing had always helped him process things, and now was no different. Slowly, methodically, he began documenting everything—the Vanishing, his life as an android, Izumi, the sacrifices he'd made, and the blinding light that had brought him here.

Hours passed as he pieced together fragments of his thoughts. By the end, he stared at a single conclusion scrawled on the last page:

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.

His hand hovered over the notebook. "It's all connected… but how?" he muttered.

The voice of Izumi echoed faintly in his mind.

"The chance of regaining your memories isn't guaranteed."

Daichi closed the notebook with a sigh. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was far from clear.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he headed back downstairs. The smell of dinner filled the air, and he found himself seated at the table with his family—his father, his younger brother, and his little sister.

"Brother, let's eat!" his sister, Hana, chirped, her small face lighting up with excitement.

Daichi stared at her, then at his brother, Daisuke, who was busy piling food onto his plate. They looked so young—so full of life. For a moment, he struggled to remember their names, but the warmth of their smiles made his heart ache.

"Yeah," he said softly, picking up his chopsticks.

The dinner passed with lighthearted chatter. Daichi barely spoke, too absorbed in the moment. The warmth of his family surrounded him, and for the first time in years, he felt… human.

But that warmth was bittersweet. As he climbed the stairs after dinner, his mother called out to him.

"Daichi, are you alright? You seem exhausted."

He paused, glancing back at her. "Don't worry, Mom. I'm fine," he said with a faint smile.

Once in his room, the smile crumbled. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he sank onto his bed, burying his face in his hands.

"I… I had this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I had a family. I had a home."

The weight of the past—his past—crashed over him. He cried until exhaustion took over, pulling him into a restless sleep.

As Daichi drifted into sleep, the world around him dissolved into an ethereal haze. He found himself standing in a vast expanse of shimmering white mist, the ground beneath him rippling like water but feeling solid underfoot. There was no sky, no horizon—just endless light and shadow swirling together in an almost hypnotic dance.

A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying with it a strange mixture of warmth and cold that made him shiver. He turned, trying to make sense of his surroundings, but there was nothing. Just the faint sound of something—footsteps? whispers?—echoing in the distance.

"Where am I…?" he murmured, his voice barely audible, swallowed by the vast emptiness.

Then, the mist began to shift. Shapes emerged from the void—fragmented images of his life flickering like projections on a broken screen. A ruined city, scorched earth, Izumi's tear-streaked face, and the glowing fragment he had left behind. Each vision stabbed at his heart, forcing him to relive the moments he desperately wanted to forget.

Before he could react, the scenes melted away, and a figure appeared in the distance. The man stood tall, his face obscured by a blur, as though reality itself refused to reveal his identity. His presence was overwhelming, radiating an unspoken authority that rooted Daichi in place.

"Don't forget your purpose, Daichi," the man said, his voice deep and resonant, yet oddly muffled, as if coming from underwater.

Daichi's breath hitched. He tried to step closer, but his legs felt as heavy as lead. "Who… who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling with confusion and urgency.

The man didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand, pointing at something beyond Daichi's line of sight. The swirling mist parted like curtains being drawn, revealing a glowing, broken key suspended in the air. It pulsed faintly, each beat sending waves of energy rippling through the space.

Daichi's chest tightened. That key—it was the same one he had used to turn back time. The same one that had brought him here, to this fragmented existence.

"What do you mean?" Daichi's voice cracked as he tried to steady himself. "What purpose? What am I supposed to do?"

The man didn't respond. His form began to dissolve, scattering into the mist like grains of sand in the wind. But his voice lingered, echoing in Daichi's mind.

"Save humanity… and yourself."

The key shattered before his eyes, the fragments exploding into a blinding light that engulfed him entirely. Daichi shielded his face, the warmth of the light searing into his skin—and then, he was falling. The sensation of weightlessness gripped him as the world around him spun violently.

Daichi jolted awake, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. The faint morning light filtered through the curtains of his room, painting golden streaks across the walls. His heart pounded in his chest, his body trembling from the lingering intensity of the dream.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, now damp with sweat. The man's words echoed in his mind like a haunting refrain.

"Don't forget your purpose…"

Daichi clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He didn't know who that man was or why the dream had felt so real, but one thing was certain—he couldn't ignore the message.

With renewed determination, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked out the window at the peaceful neighborhood below. The world around him may have seemed ordinary, but he knew better. There was something he needed to do—something only he could achieve in this timeline.

The dim light of Daichi's desk lamp flickered as he buried himself in his work, a chaotic mix of scribbled notes, hastily drawn diagrams, and fragmented thoughts sprawled across the table. Each word he wrote felt like carving into stone, a desperate attempt to solidify the elusive truths of his fractured memories.

The images haunted him: the glow of the artifact, Izumi's tear-streaked face, the suffocating darkness of a collapsing world. He gripped his pen tighter, his knuckles whitening as he drew connections between events.

"The sacrifice… the ship… the anomaly… They're all pieces of the same puzzle," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "But how do they fit?"

The quiet hum of the television filled the room as news anchors droned on about mundane topics—politics, weather updates, trivial city events. But Daichi heard none of it. To him, it was all just noise. Beneath it, he could feel the ticking of an invisible clock.

He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing. "They don't know what's coming," he whispered. "But I do."

Days turned into nights, each one restless and heavy with unanswered questions. He barely slept, the weight of the Vanishing pressing on him like a phantom. On the fifth night, his head jerked up from the desk, his eyes wide.

A memory had surfaced, sharp and vivid: a forest clearing, an unnatural stillness, the massive silhouette of a ship half-buried in the earth.

"That's it," he said aloud, his voice filled with urgency. "That's where it started. That's where it ends."

One evening, as he watched the news on the living room television, he leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrest. The anchors reported nothing unusual—politics, economic updates, and local events. But Daichi's gut told him otherwise.

"It's too quiet," he muttered under his breath.

His sister Hana looked up from her drawing, tilting her head curiously. "What's too quiet, big brother?"

Startled, Daichi forced a smile. "Oh, nothing, Hana. Just talking to myself."

Hana giggled. "You're so weird sometimes."

The innocence in her voice tugged at his heart, but it also strengthened his resolve. He couldn't let this peaceful world, this timeline, fall into the same abyss as the one he had left behind.