❝In the tale of fate, the red string connects us all, but not every thread leads to a soulmate.❞
In a world where love is entwined with fate, an abandoned conductor escapes the confines of an unnatural train into a universe he's forgotten.
As he nav...
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The days in Emi's home passed more peacefully than Hotaru Junpei ever thought possible. From the moment she jokingly gave him the name, it clung to him like a forgotten part of his past—something that felt oddly comforting.
He hadn't had a name for centuries, yet when she called him "Hotaru," he felt the stirrings of an identity, a sense of belonging he hadn't known since before he stepped onto the Bound Line.
He admitted he liked it, even if it was given as a joke. "Hotaru Junpei," he'd repeat to himself in the quiet moments, letting the syllables roll around in his mind. It grounded him in a way that felt almost too human.
Each morning, they shared breakfast together. Simple meals of rice or noodles that Emi cooked with an ease he envied. For someone so deeply ingrained in the strange, surreal world of the Bound Line, something as ordinary as sitting at a table, drinking tea, and making idle conversation felt like the truest magic. He often stared out the window while they ate, watching the sunrise, painting Tokyo in hues he did not know the sky could create.
Emi never pushed too hard for details about his past. When he was ready, he told her bits and pieces—how he had been trapped on the Bound Line, how its rules were unbreakable, and how it had stripped away every part of him that had once been human. She listened like a child hearing a dark fairy tale, her face showing disbelief, but also an underlying curiosity that made him nervous. He tried to keep the stories vague, unsure of how much was safe to reveal, but he could see it in her eyes—something about his stories intrigued her.
In the evenings, they would watch TV together. The quiet hum of the screen became the background to their conversations. Emi had a habit of switching through channels until she found a program they could agree on. One night, as the TV flickered to life, something odd caught his attention.
There was a new show, one he hadn't seen before—an advertisement, really, but with an unsettling edge. The screen displayed a train, much like the Bound Line, with a faceless anchor urging viewers to "get on the train." His skin prickled with a sense of familiarity, but when he looked at Emi, she didn't seem to notice the same eeriness. He didn't say anything, but a shadow of dread settled over him.
The nights were the hardest for him. Lying on the couch in Emi's living room, he often found himself listening for the distant hum of the Bound Line's wheels, expecting the cold clang of its doors to echo in his mind. But it never came. For the first time in centuries, he slept without the constant pull of the train, without the suffocating weight of its presence looming over him.
Yet, in the quiet, his mind couldn't rest. Each time he closed his eyes, he dreamed of fragments from his forgotten life—fighting with friends, running away from home, boarding that cursed train on a freezing December night. It was all scattered, like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together.
As the week wore on, he noticed small signs that unsettled him. The first was the smell—a faint, metallic scent that reminded him of the train's cold, sterile air. It was barely there, but enough to make his skin crawl. Then there were the sounds: a distant whistle, like the Bound Line calling out to him. At first, he dismissed them as tricks of his imagination. He wanted so badly to believe that he had truly escaped, that this new life was real and not just a fleeting illusion.
But as more days passed, the signs became harder to ignore. He began noticing subtle shifts around Emi's apartment. Objects would move—small things, like a book shifting an inch or a cup no longer where it had been left. The air would feel heavy, and oppressive, like the Bound Line's presence was leaking through the cracks of reality, creeping into his newfound refuge.
One evening, as they sat together watching TV, Hotaru caught sight of something that made his stomach drop. On the screen, the same faceless anchor appeared, this time more insistent, their voice almost hypnotic. "The train is waiting," the anchor said, their voice cold and emotionless. Hotaru's heart pounded as he turned to Emi, who still didn't seem to notice. It was as if the message was only meant for him. He swallowed hard, pushing the rising panic deep down. He couldn't let her see how much it was affecting him.
The Bound Line was trying to take him back. He was sure of it now.
He tried to ignore the signs, but they only grew more persistent. He'd wake in the middle of the night to the sound of distant wheels, the faint chime of the train's bell. Each time, he'd sit up, sweating, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but the room would be as quiet as ever. Yet, the Bound Line was always there, lingering just beyond the edges of his reality, waiting for him to slip, to give in.
Almost a week had passed since he had escaped, and Hotaru was beginning to feel the weight of it all. The Bound Line wasn't going to let him go so easily. No one escaped. Not for long. He found himself constantly on edge, waiting for the moment when the train would break through, dragging him back into its cold, endless grasp.
He didn't want to believe it, but the signs were undeniable. The Bound Line was watching. It was patient. It wouldn't stop until it had him again.
