The humming of the heater is even, cushioning itself over other sounds like a heavy quilt. As Yukio tilts his head against the car window, orange-tinted lights pass by in blinks, caught on the reflections of droplets skidding across the glass.
In the hazy fog between sleep and awareness, an old memory comes back to him. It’s different from before, yet he knows it’s true. He knows it with that strange, unshakable certainty of dreams.
He’s standing in a hallway.
Sunlight streams through the blinds, pale and translucent enough to catch on the motes of dust hanging in the air. For now, it’s still morning. The floorboards are silent when he walks across them. When he looks closely, he can make out a long, thin shadow fluttering at the edges.