Chapter Text
The world was a blur, not of colour, but of motion.
My mind was somewhere else. My hand was reaching toward a flash of iridescent cobalt. A butterfly. Its wings beat in a slow, rhythmic pulse that seemed to hold the only rhythm in my life. Just one more inch, I thought, my fingers trembling in the cool air. If I could just touch the blue, the fractured pieces of my memory-the "Gaps" that left me hollow-would finally snap back into place.
But as my fingertips brushed the velvet wing, the blue didn't settle. It shattered into a thousand black needles.
The needles peirced the air, dragging me back, stitching me into the present with a violent force.
The blur started to thin out, and suddenly I was back. The dark, heavy oak paneling of the West Wing lecture hall was pressing in on me again, it's the kind of room that just feels way too old. The cold stone floor was solid under my shoes, grounding me in a reality that my parents basically paid a fortune to lock me into.
I wasn't in the woods anymore. I wasn't back in the "Gaps." I was just stuck in my seat, my hair hanging over my shoulders, and my knuckles were white because I was gripping the edge of my desk so hard it hurt.
Then, the smell hit me.
It was heavy, sophisticated, and utterly commanding, the scent of expensive, dark-roasted coffee beans and the faint, citrusy bite of bergamot. It was a scent that demanded order. It was the scent of Professor Kento Nanami.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and the steady, calm resonance of Nanami's voice. He was standing by the window, a cup in one hand and a weathered book in the other. He wasn't looking at the students; he was watching the rain-slicked glass of the college grounds.
He was reading, and the words seemed to wrap around the room like a silk noose.
"But the law is not a light for you or any man to see by, the law is not an instrument of any kind. ...The law is a causeway upon which, so long as he keeps to it, a citizen may walk safely."
— Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons
Nanami closed the book with a soft thud that sounded like a coffin lid shutting. He turned, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the dim light. He didn't call me out. He didn't say a word about my mind wandering. Instead, he just stood there, his head tilted slightly to the side, studying my actions. He watched the way my breath hitched, uneven and shallow. I think he knew I had been gone.
I couldn't breathe. The scent of the dark roast was so concentrated now it felt like it was coating my throat.
When the bell finally rang, I shoved my books into my bag, desperate to leave, but as I reached the row of desks near the exit, a shadow blocked the light from the hallway.
Professor Hiromi Higuruma was leaning against the stone archway of the door. He looked exhausted, his suit jacket wrinkled and his tie pulled loose as if it were choking him. He didn't look at the students as they filtered past; his gaze was fixed solely on the man at the front of the room.
I slowed my pace, keeping my head down, my hair covering my face. They didn't even glance at me. To them, I was just another student disappearing into the fog.
"Kento," Higuruma said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp.
Nanami didn't look up from his desk. He continued straightening his papers with a clinical, terrifying precision. "You're late, Hiromi. I expected you ten minutes ago."
"The Dean was talking," Higuruma grunted, stepping fully into the room. "We need to discuss the archive incident. Now. Before the police report is filed."
I froze near the doorway, my hand tightening on my bag strap. Police report?
"The police won't find anything unless we want them to," Nanami replied, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of emotion. "The basement has been sealed. The air down there is... compromised."
"It's more than the air," Higuruma snapped, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The locks were cut from the inside‚ Kento․ The cases in back? We've cleared them out․ Everything from '94 is gone․" Nanami finally went still. For the first time, the perfect mask of the rhetoric professor seemed to flicker.
"Gone?" Nanami repeated softly. "That's impossible."
I didn't stay to hear the rest. I slipped out the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. My mind was spinning; the archives, the locks, 1994. The year my own memory began to turn into a white blur.
I went to my room in the dorms and fumbled with the key, my breath coming in jagged gasps. I burst inside and headed straight for my desk, reaching for my favorite display box; the one that held my prized Blue Morpho.
I flipped the lid open.
The box was empty.
The butterfly was gone. No wings, no dust. The only thing left was a silver pin stuck into the center of the black velvet‚ with a tiny scrap of paper impaled on the sharp point․
It was a single word, written in elegant, familiar calligraphy:
Found.