Anya arrived five minutes early the next morning.
She found the classroom already full.
Not full of students.
Full of noise.
The chalkboard was covered in symbols she couldn't read — not in Russian, not in Japanese. Just harsh, angular strokes like teeth. The lights flickered in time with the hum of something buried deep behind the walls. It sounded like an old film reel spinning in reverse.
And in the corner of the ceiling, someone had taped a paper sign:
"DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE BLACKBOARD."
She blinked.
The sign was gone.
The teacher arrived exactly on the hour. She didn't knock. She didn't speak.
She simply wrote a single word on the board, slowly and precisely:
REMEMBER
Then she sat down, opened a book that had no cover, and began reading aloud in a language none of the students seemed to understand — and none of them interrupted her.
Anya tried to focus. She couldn't. The word on the blackboard kept shifting.
Remember
Reminder
Remain
Return
Retire
Rewind
She blinked. It was blank again.
There were only five desks, arranged in a circle, not a grid.
Her name had been etched into hers — not written. Etched, deep enough to splinter the wood.
ANYA (A-31)
She touched the engraving and winced. It was warm.
Next to her sat Midori, the girl from yesterday. Her notes were… strange. Anya peeked while pretending to scratch her cheek.
No subject headings. No kanji. Just—
[mirror 17x, echo in hall, 3:12 PM]
[ask about "Yuki" — disappear?]
[check lavatory tile loose again?]
Anya whispered, "What are you writing?"
Midori didn't look up.
She whispered, almost under her breath:
"A pattern."
The others were no better.
A girl in twin braids kept glancing at the ceiling every few seconds — not fearfully, but like she was waiting for it to speak.
Another sat with perfect posture, but the pupils in her eyes reflected too brightly, like camera flashes — even when there was no light.
And the fifth student?
The fifth seat was empty again.
Or rather, the seat was occupied — the air above it shimmered.
Like heat on asphalt.
Anya stared.
The longer she looked, the more she saw a silhouette.
Short. Thin. Head tilted.
Then her pencil snapped in half.
At lunch, Anya didn't eat. She returned to the classroom while it was empty.
The teacher's desk had no drawers. No pen. No lesson plan.
Just a folder labeled:
CLASS 3-K
[Experimental - Observation Phase]
Inside, pages had all been redacted. Every single one.
Except one slip of paper, stuck between the sheets like a bookmark:
Kurobara Academy Internal Memo
Subject A-31 (Anya) placed back in cycle following failure of Host B.
Do not interfere with residual fragments. Unstable at 11% memory return.
Anya dropped the folder.
She turned toward the blackboard.
The words had returned.
Do you remember who you replaced?
That night, Anya sat in the East Wing hallway alone, back pressed against the cold wall.
She didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until the cold started to feel warm. Until the darkness around her flickered like film. Until her own breath stopped steaming in the air.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in the hallway anymore.
She was in Class 3-K, but older. The desks were burned.
Her name was on every single one — scratched in, over and over and over.
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
Anya
She turned around.
The girl with black hair and blonde ends stood by the window. Satsuki.
"They keep deleting me," she said, voice faint, distorted. "But they left pieces behind. They always leave pieces behind."
"Why do I remember you?" Anya asked.
Satsuki didn't answer.
She only raised a hand and touched the glass.
The mirror behind Anya cracked.
When Anya woke up, she was back in the hallway.
In her lap was a note, written in someone else's handwriting:
"Class 3-K never existed. You did."
— V