Footsteps In The Dark

Perfect Strangers

 (The picture is Ayame in the past in high school)

Present 2017:

Takemichi's fingers fumbled for the remote, his heart sinking as the screen flickered between channels before settling on the evening news. Anchored in a plush armchair that had become his after-work sanctuary, he froze, eyes widening in disbelief at the grim scene unfolding. The anchor's voice, usually a monotone drone, cut sharply through the room: "In a tragic turn of events, siblings Hinata and Naoto Tachibana were pronounced dead at the scene following a catastrophic collision with a runaway truck..."

The memories cascaded over him like a relentless tide—Hinata's laughter, Naoto's earnest face—and in a blink, years peeled away, revealing the raw ache of a past love lost to time. He slumped deeper into the chair, a hollow void expanding within his chest.

"In other news," the anchor continued, her voice a somber echo in Takemichi's numb mind, "Ayame Sano, wife of Tokyo Manji gang leader Manjiro Sano, was found fatally shot in their upscale penthouse."

Ayame's image flashed on screen, a still from better times—a smile bright enough to outshine the sun. Memory struck again; Ayame and Hinata, side by side, bubbling with the joy of youth in the hallways of their high school. She had been kind, an unexpected warmth amidst the chaos of teenage life.

He shivered, unable to shake the iciness that crept up his spine. Three lives gone, two a memory, the other one a specter of what could have been.

Takemichi heaved himself up, the weight of the news anchoring him no longer; he needed air, space, reality. His sluggish steps carried him through the dim hallway and out into the world, a world that suddenly felt too sharp, too real.

As he trudged back home, the city's heartbeat thrummed beneath his feet, indifferent to his turmoil. He approached the train station, his mind a tangled mess of grief and shock, when chaos erupted. An unseen force barreled into his back, sending him stumbling forward, arms flailing for something that wasn't there.

Concrete rushed up to meet him, and then—darkness.

•• ━━━━━ ••✾•• ━━━━━ •••• ━━━━━ ••✾••

Past: 2005

Light seeped into Takemichi's consciousness, and with it came the sting of asphalt against his cheek. His eyelids fluttered open, confusion clawing at his senses. This wasn't the cold, hard edge of a train platform. Instead, he found himself sprawled on familiar ground—the worn path they used to take after school.

"Hey, Takemichi! You took a pretty nasty spill there. You okay, man?" A voice pulled him further from the fog. He knew that voice.

Takemichi lifted his head, his gaze locking onto the concerned faces of his middle school friends, unchanged by the cruel hands of time. Their uniforms, their backpacks, even their youthful grins—it was all too vivid, too detailed for a dream.

"Wha—" His voice cracked. Desperate for answers, he reached for his phone, the device appearing alien in its outdated design. The date on the screen screamed at him—years in reverse, mocking his understanding of reality.

"Is this... high school?" he muttered to himself, disbelief etching furrows in his brow.

His friends exchanged glances, a mix of amusement and worry playing across their features. "Dude, you seriously hit your head or something?"

Takemichi's heart thundered against his ribcage. No collision, no chilling news broadcast—just the pulse of adolescence coursing around him. He had been thrust backward in time, back to a life where tragedy had yet to strike, where futures were still bright and unmarred by loss.