Every week, Fuyune Hisoki forgets. Who she is, those she interacts with. Like a never-ending cycle, she loses and loses and loses to the amnesia that's plagued her since childhood. Despite being an existence invisible to everyone, one winter morning...
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Episode 2.2: A Surprising Request
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• TUESDAY •
YUBIWA ACADEMY HAS a fairly strict curriculum. As a school that favours equality over individuality, the administration constantly infringes upon the students' freedom, and that's why they went so far as to remove art classes from its curriculum several years ago.
This middle school art room is supposed to have died along with it. Yet, here it is now, full of life and vitality.
Shiny, ornate vases. Stunning stone statues. The 88 constellations are painted across the ceiling in a makeshift night sky. There's even a canopy bed, sitting grandly in the corner of the room.
A room that should've been nothing but a bland storage space, is in fact, the headquarters of these so-called "pretty boy detectives."
"Fuyune-kun, what happened? All of us were patiently waiting for you to arrive yesterday after school, yet you did not appear. What was the reason? What were you doing?"
Hesitantly, my eyes flicker downwards, to the boy who greets me at the door.
"Are you Manabu?" I have to ask.
"I am, indeed," gladly answers the boy of sky-blue hair. "Judging by that particular question, am I correct in assuming your memories have reset for the week?"
There are four others in the room. At the entrance of the room where I loiter, I scan their faces, attempting to put names to them, to no avail. Only Nagahiro is easily recognizable, and that's because of our encounter yesterday.
"Don't be a stranger, after all this time." Manabu clasps my hand and drags me through the door. He hasn't stopped smiling. "Come inside, Fuyune-kun. Take a seat."
I collapse into the sofa he beckons me into, which just so happens to be facing the rest of them. As if I'm a painting on display, they admire me from all directions. My heart thuds and thuds and thuds against my ribcage. Up-close, it's easy to admit it—they're all worthy of the title "pretty boys." In fact, it's a title that can suit only them.
"Aw, I can't believe it really is true," whines the boy with blond hair. He has the facial proportions of an angel. The only thing is, he's lying flat on the sofa, his bare-legs propped onto another's lap. "When you said you lose your memories, I was holding onto a bit of hope. I mean, last week was extremely hectic. I doubt I could forget it all, no matter how hard I tried."
