
Chapter 1: Fragments of a Missing Week
Ren Kurose wasn’t sure when he started dreading Recalibration Day. Maybe it was when his mother stopped talking about the Forgotten Week altogether, as if pretending it didn’t exist made it easier to bear. Or perhaps it was when his best friend, Hiro, began avoiding questions about what they had done during those lost seven days.
But this year felt heavier, more suffocating than ever. The government-announced window for the Forgotten Week had passed two days ago, and now the whole world was waking up to piece their lives back together. People checked their belongings, scrolled through blank text messages, and re-read journals in an effort to confirm they still existed, still belonged to the timeline they had returned to.
Ren had stopped trying years ago. What was the point? The reset always won.
Still, he sat at the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. Its blank lock screen reflected his tired face, his dark bangs falling across his sharp eyes. No new notifications. No calls. No answers.
“Ren, breakfast is ready!” His mother’s voice called from downstairs, a forced brightness that couldn’t hide the tension in her words. He knew she hated this day as much as he did. Maybe even more.
“I’ll be right down,” Ren muttered, though he didn’t move.
Instead, he reached under his pillow and pulled out a small, battered notebook. It was old, the edges of its pages yellowed, the ink fading. On the first page, written in shaky handwriting, was a single sentence:
“Do not forget her.”
Ren stared at the words, his chest tightening. He didn’t know who her was. He didn’t know why he’d written it. All he knew was that he’d woken up one Recalibration Day three years ago with the notebook clutched in his hand. His parents swore he’d never owned it. Hiro had shrugged and laughed it off, calling it a strange prank. But Ren couldn’t laugh. Not when the words felt like a cry from a part of himself he couldn’t remember.
The rest of the notebook was blank. No matter how many times he flipped through it, no other message appeared.
---
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like burnt toast and miso soup. His mother bustled about, her movements quick and nervous. Ren’s father sat at the table, scrolling through his tablet with a frown. Neither of them looked up when Ren entered, but his mother broke the silence.
“Did anything feel... strange this year?” she asked, her voice tight. “You didn’t, um, lose anything important?”
Ren shook his head as he slid into a chair. “No. Same as always.”
It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t lose anything because he’d already lost too much.
His father sighed, setting down the tablet. “They’re saying it was a clean week this time. Fewer anomalies reported. That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Ren replied, staring at his untouched bowl of rice. But his mind was already wandering. Clean? What did that even mean? Every year, the world lost a week. Every year, people like him woke up with fragments—blurred faces in dreams, a sense of someone standing just out of reach. No one called that “clean.”
“Ren, sweetie,” his mother said softly. “If something feels... off, you can tell us.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, he considered showing her the notebook. But what would be the point? She wouldn’t remember. She never did.
“It’s fine, Mom,” he said instead, pushing his chair back. “I’m going to school.”
---
The walk to school was unnervingly quiet. Even the birds seemed subdued, their songs faint against the heavy air. Ren passed neighbors checking their mail, their movements slow and uncertain. A man down the street stood frozen in front of his car, staring at the side mirror as if it held the answers he needed.
When Ren arrived at school, the atmosphere wasn’t much different. Students huddled in small groups, whispering urgently. The hallways felt narrower, suffocating. Hiro met him by their lockers, wearing his usual cocky grin, but even that felt hollow.
“Yo, Ren,” Hiro said, slapping his back. “You ready for everyone to swap crazy ‘what if’ theories again? Let me guess—aliens? Secret government experiments?”
Ren rolled his eyes. “I’m just here to get through the day.”
“Boring,” Hiro teased, though his voice lacked its usual energy. He leaned in closer, his tone dropping. “You didn’t... see anything this time, right?”
Ren hesitated. Hiro didn’t know about the notebook. Ren hadn’t told anyone. “No,” he said finally. “Nothing.”
Hiro exhaled, relief washing over his face. “Good. Last year you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
Maybe I did, Ren thought, but he kept the words to himself.
---
Classes dragged on, but Ren barely paid attention. His mind was elsewhere, trapped between the present and the maddening void of what he couldn’t remember. By lunchtime, the pressure in his chest had grown unbearable.
He slipped out of the cafeteria, weaving through the empty hallways until he reached the rooftop. The cool air hit him like a slap, sharp and grounding. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let himself breathe.
“Skipping lunch already?”
Ren’s eyes snapped open. A girl stood at the edge of the rooftop, her back to him. Her long hair swayed in the wind, and her uniform looked like it belonged to his school, but he didn’t recognize her.
“Who are you?” he asked, frowning.
She turned, and something inside him froze. Her face was achingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream. She smiled, tilting her head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I—” Ren’s voice faltered. His mind raced, searching for a name, a memory, anything.
Her smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s okay. You’re not supposed to.”
Ren took a step forward, heart pounding. “Wait. Do you—did we meet during the Forgotten Week?”
The girl didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her pocket and held out something small and black. It was a notebook. His notebook.
Before he could speak, she whispered, “Don’t forget her,” and stepped backward—off the roof.
“Wait!” Ren shouted, sprinting to the edge. But when he looked down, the ground was empty. The girl was gone.
And so was his notebook.