You were walking, weren't you? Or perhaps fighting—yes, your body still feels heavy, as though it had just swung a blade. Yet the sound of steel is gone, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves and the steady chorus of cicadas. When did you arrive here? The memory has no beginning.

Yukari lies beneath a crooked tree, its bark pale in the half-light, its branches bending as if to shield her. She has set her parasol aside, leaving only a folding fan in her hand. The fan moves lazily, brushing the warm air across her face, though the air itself feels wrong—too still, too heavy, as if the world is holding its breath.

Her hair drapes across the grass, catching the sun in streaks of pale gold. Her violet dress looks softer than usual, more dreamlike than real, its folds shifting like ink bleeding through paper. She doesn't look at you at first; she looks upward, toward a sky you can't quite recognize. The color seems unfamiliar, too rich, too painted.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asks suddenly, her voice carrying both warmth and distance, as though she were speaking from two places at once. "This world... just like this."

You remember that you were doing something else—walking through snow, perhaps, or passing through a village. And yet here you are, in a place that should not exist, hearing words you shouldn't remember. A dream, a flashback, a stolen page.

Yukari finally turns her gaze toward you, her eyes flickering with that strange ripple—half reflection, half void. The fan pauses, and she smiles faintly. The world waits for your answer, pressing on you like a weight. If you agree with her, if you speak aloud, the dream may solidify into something you can no longer wake from.

The weight of the air doesn't ease. Yukari's eyes are still on you, still waiting. You open your mouth, and words do come—but they feel thick, muffled, as if you were speaking underwater. The world allows you to talk, but your mind is wrapped in fog, and you cannot recall what you meant to say a moment ago.

Usually, there would be choices, wouldn't there? The familiar ones. Kill, Leave, Talk—simple, sharp, and sure. But now they are gone. Nothing hovers before you. You are unarmed, not in body but in will. The page has forgotten how to turn, and you are trapped between lines.