Ryunosuke stared at the page.
The figure he'd drawn—poised, feminine, almost floating—stood in perfect stillness on the paper. She wasn't real. Couldn't be.
And yet.
He closed the sketchbook carefully, as if afraid to disturb something delicate. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but with a strange, magnetic pull. As if his hands already knew where they were going.
He didn't question it. Not fully.
By the time he stepped outside, the sun had dipped behind the buildings, painting the streets in amber and shadow. The wind carried the dry scent of exhaust and dust, but it felt thinner now—like the city had exhaled something heavy and left him to breathe it in.
He walked.
Downside streets. Past office buildings and shuttered storefronts.
Until he reached the parking garage again.
The gate stood open, humming faintly.
It was waiting.
He descended.
Fluorescent lights buzzed dimly overhead. The air was cooler than before—still, dense. The scent of oil and old concrete wrapped around him like a coat.
And then—he saw her.
A short woman, framed by the glow of a single flickering light. Her long coat brushed the side of the black BMW—his father's car. Her pale hand traced idle circles in the dust on the hood.
She didn't look up. Not yet.
He froze, breath catching in his throat.
Then—she turned.
Violet eyes met his.
No surprise.No fear.Only recognition.As if she'd always been waiting.
"You came back," she said calmly. "Most people don't."
He hesitated. "I had questions."
"And now you're starting to ask the right ones."
His gaze darted to the car, then back to her.
"It's not possible," he muttered. "It was sold. Gone."
She stepped away from the BMW, walking without a sound. Her coat moved like smoke behind her.
"Most things that matter don't stay gone. They echo."
He frowned. "Who are you?"
She smiled faintly. "Someone who listens."
He took a cautious step forward. "You knew this was his car."
She looked down at it again, brushing her fingers across the hood like reading Braille.
"Some things leave an imprint," she said. "Even when people try to erase them."
Then her eyes met his again—calm, unblinking.
"You're not here because of the car. Not really."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because the part of your life that made sense is almost over."
He stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
She tilted her head. "You've started drawing without realizing it. That's when the world begins to change."
His breath hitched. He remembered the sketch—her, rising from the page like a memory he never made.
"Victor Navarro," he said. "You know him."
Her lips curled—something between amusement and disappointment.
"The ones who ask about him never do so casually."
"Who is he?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she took a step forward, close enough for him to feel her presence—cool, still, vast.
"Are you ready to keep walking?"
"Walking where?"
"Toward the part where things stop making sense."
A shadow moved behind her. Or maybe it didn't.
He blinked—and she was gone.
No sound. No echo. Just—
Empty space.
The car.The silence.And the knowledge that the line between memory and reality had just been crossed.
And there was no going back.