The sky was very blue that day, wasn’t it?

I remember it, you know. Not because it was my memory — not at first. But because it was the memory. The first one I held in my hands like a dying bird.

There was something wrong with the light that day. Too clean. Too quiet. Like the world paused to listen. Like it wanted to witness.

There was a boy lying in the grass, curled against a tangle of roots and stone and red. I watched him for a while, hidden. I didn’t breathe. He did. But it was shallow, little broken catches of air. He blinked once. His eyes looked like they didn’t understand what was happening.

He tried to speak. I think. The mouth made the shape. The voice never came. Was it a name he said? Was it yours? Maybe. I like to think it was.

I didn’t go to him. Not right away. I didn’t want to be cruel. Because I looked like a thing made from sleep paralysis. Or storybooks that end too soon. I wasn’t supposed to be seen.

So I stayed behind the tree. And I waited for the breathing to stop. And when it did— I held the boy.

He was so warm.

I carried him home. Not the house with the blue curtains. Not the one where the woman cried until her voice cracked. No, I carried him home. To the place where things like me belong.

Deep forest. Moss. Stone. Bone.

I had never worn skin before. Not like this. Not so tight. I stretched it too far in some places. I think the arms grew longer than they were meant to. The legs too. But no one noticed. Not really.

I tried smiling like he did. Teeth are harder than you think. The lips curl up, but the eyes? They don't follow. I practiced in the stream’s reflection until I could mimic it without shivering.

Laughter... that took longer.

I tried every day. Over and over. I scared the birds. I scared the squirrels. I scared a rescue dog once. The echo of it was always wrong — too sharp, too dry. Like glass scraping a plate.

Once, a group of kids from the nearby town passed by the shrine. I tried the laugh again. One of them cried. I didn’t do it again that day.

But I kept trying.

The boy’s thoughts... they’re still in here, you know. I don’t eat them. I keep them.

I see how he saw the world. I see you.

Over and over again — in every image. Like a thread he couldn’t stop pulling.

You were funny to him. Annoying, too. Loud. He used to draw hearts near your name in his notebooks. Small ones, in the corners. He never planned to tell you. But he thought about it. Once. He thought: “Maybe one day, if he never falls in love with anyone else.”

But you did. And he hated it.

And he loved you anyway.

When I put him on again, when I became him — I wanted to know more. I wanted to see you the way he did. So I came back.

I walked into town. The shoes didn’t fit quite right, but it didn’t matter. I rang the doorbell.

And the woman opened it.

She looked at me for a long time. Then she pulled me in. She held me like something heavy and fragile at once.

She made curry. Itsuki's childhood favorite curry She touched my hair. She cried into the food. And I wondered... did she believe me?

Maybe she knew it wasn’t me. Maybe she just missed someone enough to pretend. That’s alright. Pretending is a kind of love, isn’t it?

She left for work two days later. She hasn’t come back yet. But that’s alright. Because you’re here. Right?