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You open your eyes to a familiar ceiling.
You sit up and look around—your room looks just like how you remember, from the candy piled on your desk to the closet doors that are slightly ajar because someone before you broke the hinges. It's not how you left it years ago when you graduated, but the game controllers neatly placed on the TV stand tell you exactly what time period you've been whisked back to.
There's a knock at the door and your heartbeat quickens. You know it's likely a phantom knock because you can't sense any cursed energy behind the door, but you still hold your breath as you stride across the room and open the door.
As you thought, there's no one there.
The hallway is empty and silent, but the door to the room next to yours is open just a sliver, inviting. You look around to check the door on the other side as well, but unlike the actual dorms, there are no other doors.
There is only your room and his.
You walk into the neighbouring room, and it too is exactly how you remember. The bed is neatly made. The curtains are open and bound, letting the large potted plant get the sunlight it needs. The books are neatly arranged in alphabetical order, but there's a single volume missing on the bottom shelf. The volume you borrowed and dripped ice cream on and never got a chance to return.
It's eerie to see the room that was always so warm and inviting this cold and empty, although you suppose that it turned out like this anyway in the real world.
You walk over to the desk and look at the photo taped to the wall above it. Looking at it, you can't help but smile. He was never a fan of taking photos and always had a look of disdain whenever you or Shoko would forcibly pull him in for one. This one is no different, so you don't know why he chose to put it up, but it makes you happy that he did, and you remember teasing him about it when you first found out.
The corner is peeling off, so you open the drawer to find some tape to fix it. You realize there's no point because this space isn't real anyway, but the drawer is already open.
There's a photo of the two of you inside.
Neither of you are looking at the camera, so it must've been a sneak shot that Shoko took. You're looking at the roses on the side of the road, and he's looking at you, smiling.
You don't remember any of this. Not when or where the photo was taken, nor that he had something like this at all.
It's possible that this place was created from your memories and the cursed spirit has taken some creative liberties to mess with you, but you know it's not that simple. Cursed spirits below special grade are stupidly straightforward—if it wanted to get you to drop your guard, it would've just made a clone instead of being roundabout like this. Of course, there's the possibility that it's incapable of replicating humans, but you recall why you approached this spirit in the first place.
“Come again!” The store owner says cheerfully. Satoru hums, looking excitedly at the bag of wagashi in his hands. Before he can get carried away fantasizing about how they’ll taste, the slightest hint of a familiar cursed energy catches his attention.
A familiar feeling that should not exist in this world anymore.
There’s a cursed spirit lurking at the street corner watching him carefully. Unlike most weaker spirits, it doesn’t run away immediately, instead maintaining eye contact for a few seconds before slowly slinking away, eyes still on him.
He has no choice but to follow.
It leads him into a dead end alley and activates its cursed technique. Satoru doesn’t resist, because strangely enough, he’d felt no hostility from this mysterious spirit.
It must have belonged to Suguru. Unlike shikigami, cursed spirits controlled using Cursed Spirit Manipulation are not bound to the user’s soul and don't die with them, but the cursed spirits from the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons had all been exorcised, so this one must have been released beforehand.
He had never known how to be honest.
Satoru closes his eyes and lets himself fall victim to the illusion.
You pick up the photo and burn it into your memory, but before long, there's another knock. You give the photo one last look-over before shutting it away forever.
When you open the door this time, it takes you to your old classroom. Three desks are lined up with all the chairs tucked in except for the one in the middle, and the date on the whiteboard reads September 18th. It’s the day before the incident.
There’s a note on his desk.
You pick it up gingerly.
It’s brief, but it makes your heart sink.
To Satoru:
I’ll buy you whatever sweets you want, so will you hear me out? I want to talk to you about something.
Suguru
You run your finger over the handwriting that’s messier than usual, and you can hear him calling your name, not by the power of the cursed spirit, but because he’s said it hundreds, thousands of times before and you loved hearing it.
You read the letter again and again and again and again, and you’re about to do it again, but it crumples itself up and dissolves away. The chair tucks itself in, scraping noisily against the wooden floors, and the room grows darker.
Whether you like it or not, time continues to flow. You trace the sides of his desk and the back of his chair. Thinking about the letter again, you tighten your grip and the chair shatters in your hands, broken pieces clattering to the ground.
You kick your old desk and it goes flying across the classroom. You lift your foot high and stomp down on your chair, crushing it underneath. You can hear him yelling your name, but it doesn’t stop you. You break his desk too, and pause before gently tipping Shoko’s over.
This place shouldn’t exist. You shouldn’t have let yourself be taken in by this stupid cursed spirit. You were okay with how things turned out. This case was supposed to be closed and you were supposed to move on. You know that this shouldn’t change anything, because it can’t change anything at this point. Your feelings for him won’t change. Then, why? Why leave this spirit behind? Why show you all this? You want to believe that he wouldn’t be the type to haunt you after death, but the words in that letter keep running through your head. If you’d pushed a little harder, would things have turned out differently? You knew that he would never come to you voluntarily, but you wanted so badly to believe him when he said everything was fine. You never stopped believing in him.
Right.
There was always a reason behind his actions. There must be something more to whatever is happening right now.
As if on cue, the space begins to warp, but this time you’re brought to an unfamiliar room. It’s a normal bedroom, but there’s a phone lying on the bed. You unlock it (there is no password) and there’s a single app.
The voice recorder.
Without hesitating, you open it and click play on the single entry on it.
“Satoru.”
He sounds just like he used to.
“I…”
There’s a long pause and you close your eyes, waiting to hear him speak again.
“I’m the one who threw it all away. So don’t blame yourself.”
The recording ends there. It starts to play again, but unlike the letter, you stop it and shut off the phone before it gets past your name.
You laugh.
All of this for one short goodbye that wasn’t even a minute long. Forcing you to experience the spectrum of human emotion for your own sake. Using a cursed spirit instead of just saying it himself. This roundabout, annoying plan is just like him. He loved to make an impact, and make an impact he did.
On your life, forever.
The bedroom fades away and you’re transported back to the real world. You look up at the clear blue sky above.
“At least curse me at the end!”