Creak—
Takakai pushed open the door from the small bedroom into the living room.
If the bedroom had felt like something from the late 90s to early 2000s, this living room was far older—and far more decrepit. It looked like it had been abandoned for years.
But he couldn't observe it properly.
Because Takakai refused to lift his head.
His eyes remained fixed on his hand—on the words scrawled across his skin:
[I am alone.]
His surroundings? He could only glimpse them in his peripheral vision, leaving his awareness vague and fragmented.
So far, he hadn't noticed anything wrong.
In his memory, he had been alone this whole time. His exploration of this place had been entirely solitary, entirely normal.
But the words on his hand told a different story.
The handwriting was undeniably his—yet he had no recollection of writing it.
No signs of mental corruption, no gaps in his consciousness… just this inexplicable inconsistency.
After careful consideration, Takakai concluded he might be experiencing cognitive blocking.
Human perception worked in stages: first, the senses received external information—sight, sound, touch. Then, the mind processed that information into coherent understanding.
Mental corruption typically struck during the processing stage—twisting perception as the brain interpreted tainted data.
But if he wasn't corrupted, yet still missing memories… the issue had to lie in the input stage.
Some force is preventing me from perceiving certain things. Or maybe I am perceiving them, but my brain can't interpret the data—so it just… discards it.
The fact that he'd managed to write [I am alone.] suggested there were moments when his perception worked correctly. But those moments were unstable. Unless some condition was met, his mind defaulted to erasure.
It reminded him of a certain fictional concept: anti-memes.
Entities you could only perceive while directly observing them. The moment you looked away, your mind purged all memory of them.
Or, to put it another way—his memories of certain things were like encrypted files. They became readable only under specific conditions. The rest of the time? They might as well not exist.
Which was why Takakai now kept his gaze locked on his hand, relying on peripheral vision to navigate.
It was awkward. Exhausting. But he had no better options.
The bedroom was empty.
After a brief search, Takakai confirmed no one else was present.
But from behind the curtains, he could faintly hear—
Knocking.
And voices.
He didn't investigate. Instead, he tried the computer—only to find it dead, its power long cut.
The living room's table held an admission notice.
Logically, this should be his first time seeing it.
But Takakai suspected he'd read it before.
And forgotten.
Click— Click—
The door beside the fireplace was locked.
Even with his enhanced strength, Takakai couldn't force it open. The wood, though ordinary in appearance, refused to yield—not even a scratch.
Another indestructible object. Annoying.
He moved to the next door—a sturdy metal security door behind the sofa.
This one opened easily.
Beyond it lay darkness.
Takakai flicked on his flashlight, revealing rows of small beds—clearly meant for children.
A sign on the wall read:
[Nap Room]
Beside it, a notice:
Shirasawa Elementary Nap Room Regulations:
The Nap Room is only accessible between 12:30 PM and 1:50 PM.
Only supervising teachers and students may enter.
At all other times, the room must remain locked.
During nap time, teachers must stay awake and monitor all students.
No student may leave for any reason.
Use the Nap Room's auxiliary restroom if necessary.
If a student goes missing, the teacher must immediately notify other staff. No one may leave until the missing student is found.
Students are forbidden from whispering. Those who refuse to sleep must be disciplined.
Corporal punishment is permitted if necessary.
All rumors about the Nap Room are false. Teachers must correct students who spread such superstitions with scientific facts.
After nap time, the teacher must ensure all students have left before departing. If the session runs past 1:50 PM, the teacher must remain until relieved by a substitute.
In the margins, a child's messy scrawl added:
[Why doesn't it say what to do if there are too many kids?]
Too many?
As in… more students than there should be?
Takakai ignored the question, keeping his eyes level with the words on his hand as he advanced deeper into the room.
Dust coated every bed—evidence of long disuse.
But as he walked further, the dust began to fade.
The room was cleaning itself, reverting to its former state.
Snap!
Lights flared to life.
Takakai flinched, blinking against the sudden brightness—
—and when his vision cleared, he saw them.
Dozens of children.
Sitting upright in their beds.
Staring at him.
They had always been there.
Watching him.
This strange adult who had wandered into their domain.
Instinctively, Takakai looked down again—
—only to find a small hand clutching his own, blocking his view of the writing.
A child stood beside him, tilting its head.
"Mister… are you our nap teacher today?"
Teacher? Me?
For a moment, Takakai almost denied it.
But the rules were clear: Only teachers and students may enter.
So instead, he heard himself say:
"Yes. I'm your teacher today."
Something shifted.
A presence that had been lurking behind him… vanished.
But when Takakai turned, he saw only the children.
Their blank, curious stares.
And nothing else.