A Glimmer of Light

Chapter 1: Not so familiar

His eyes flutter open, meeting the faint morning light that filters through thin curtains in a room he doesn't recognize. As he stirs, there's a heavy stillness within him, a strange numbness that borders on unsettling. The bed beneath him is hard and unfamiliar, the scent of old linen and faint dust in the air. He blinks, scanning the small, dimly lit room around him, but there's nothing here that sparks even the smallest flicker of recognition.

Sitting up, he looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. They feel foreign, like they belong to someone else. There's an odd sense of detachment, as though he's observing himself through a pane of glass. Even the sound of his own shallow breathing feels strange, echoing in the small, sparse space.

Across from him, a cracked mirror reflects his disheveled appearance—hair tousled, clothes wrinkled as if they've been slept in too long. He stares at the reflection, hoping something will stir, but the face looking back at him is a stranger.

Turning away, his gaze lands on a small wooden table near the bed, cluttered with a few items that may hold some answers. He leans over, finding a phone resting on the table's surface. He picks it up; there's no password, just an empty screen waiting for him to unlock it. When he powers it on, there are no messages, no recent calls, no clues at all. It's as blank as his mind.

Beside the phone is a worn leather wallet. He flips it open and finds a bank card, embossed with a name that catches his attention. He reads it slowly, hoping it might spark something—*Haruka Shiratori.* The name is unfamiliar, almost strange on his lips as he murmurs it to himself. And beneath the bank card, there's an ID card.

He pulls it out carefully, his eyes scanning over the details. Haruka Shiratori, 27 years old, born on March 15. He repeats the information in his head, a feeble attempt to let it sink in. This is his identity, his life—at least, according to the card.

But beyond the ID, there's nothing. No address, no personal mementos, nothing that tells him who he is beyond a name and a number.

Haruka glances around the room again. It's small, worn, and bare, as though the person who lives here—whoever that may be—has only just managed to scrape by. To his left, there's a tiny kitchen area with a chipped counter, a few dishes piled in the sink. A lone, dented pot rests on the stove, while mismatched utensils and a single mug are lined up neatly on a shelf above. To his right is a closet, barely big enough for a few hangers, and inside, he can see only a handful of clothes—four or five pieces, all faded and nondescript.

At the center of the room, a small, circular table sits with only one rickety chair. There's no clutter, no warmth, no signs of personal touch. The walls are bare, painted in a dull, peeling grey. A door to the side leads to what he assumes is the bathroom, and a quick look confirms it's as cramped and minimalist as the rest of the space. The bathroom has a tiny sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall—no bathtub, no luxury of space or comfort.

Haruka stands there for a long moment, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, unsure of what to do next. The silence presses down on him, and an uneasy emptiness fills his chest, almost as if he's looking at a blank page where his life story should be written.

But for now, there's nothing. Nothing but a name, a date, and a single question echoing in his mind: Who am I?

Haruka's gaze drops back to the wallet in his hand, his fingers brushing against the two crisp bills inside. Each is worth 10,000 yen, along with a scattering of coins totaling 500 yen. It isn't much, but it's something. Still, his eyes return to the bank card, lingering on it with the faintest glimmer of hope. If there's any money on this, he might be able to hold out a while longer.

He picks up the phone again, tapping the screen to bring it to life, and scrolls through the apps. One icon catches his attention—a bank app. It's worth a try, he thinks. His fingers hesitate for only a moment before he taps it, but almost immediately, the screen prompts him for a password.

Password?

He draws a blank, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. No idea comes to mind, no instinctive code he might try. Frustration flickers through him as he looks around the room, searching for any clues that might help him unlock this mystery.

A slip of paper catches his eye, tucked in the corner of the bed. He picks it up, feeling a spark of hope as he reads the numbers written there: 2233778179Ax. Maybe it's the password?

He types it in carefully, but the screen flashes an error. Wrong password. His shoulders slump, but he isn't ready to give up yet. Setting the phone aside, he scans the room again, this time with sharper focus, his eyes combing over every surface, every corner, every edge.

Then, at the back of the closet, barely noticeable in the dim light, he spots something scrawled in faint ink—a line of letters and numbers. He can't make out exactly what it says, but it seems like another attempt at a password. With a quiet breath of determination, he types it into the phone.

Success. The bank app opens, and Haruka holds his breath as he waits for the account balance to load. When it finally appears, his eyes widen. A balance of 1 million yen.

He releases a small sigh of relief, feeling a strange sense of gratitude—he'd be okay for at least a month with that amount. The words "Thank God" slip through his mind, and he blinks, surprised. Thank God? He shakes his head, brushing away the stray thought.

With the weight of his finances lifted, at least temporarily, he allows himself a small moment of calm. One question is answered. But a hundred others still linger, waiting, pressing in, as he looks around this unfamiliar room, wondering what kind of life he's stumbled into.