6:30 a.m., the alarm rang.
Sharp, persistent, yet—an ordinary sound, as always.

Aiba Ren blinked while staring at the ceiling and slowly exhaled. Through the gap in the blinds, the faint morning light entered in stripes. The stillness of summer filled the room, somehow pleasant and at the same time faintly suffocating.

He remained lying there for a while, feeling the ticking of the wall clock melt into the back of his awareness.

At last, he reached out, turned off the alarm, and sat up.

The room looked the same as ever.

On the chair by the desk lay his neatly folded uniform.
On the floor, a half-finished bottle of barley tea.
From beneath the pillow, a manga volume peeked out slightly.

Ren stretched, let out a large yawn, and ran his hand through his hair as he looked into the mirror.

The face reflected there looked somewhat dull.
There were faint dark circles under his eyes—probably because he had spent too long looking at message boards on his phone during the night.
But nothing unusual. No strange points.

A few minutes later he changed into his uniform, slung his bag over one shoulder, and put earphones in his ears.
It was the same morning as always.

As he went down the stairs two steps at a time, the wooden steps creaked slightly.
The scent of miso and grilled fish drifted from the kitchen, and the voice of a news program flowed in the background.

“Morning.”
He spoke casually as he entered the kitchen.

His mother was already standing in front of the stove, moving the frying pan with practiced ease.
She glanced over at him, their eyes meeting.

“Ah… good morning.”

There was no warmth in her voice. It was not cold, but by no means warm.

His father sat at the table, looking at his phone as always.
Steam rose from a half-finished cup of coffee beside the newspaper.

Ren sat down across from his father and picked up his chopsticks without thinking.
He scooped miso soup and brought rice to his mouth.

Everything was a familiar scene.

—And yet, within the silence, there was a faint sense of wrongness.

His father did not complain about the weather.
His mother did not ask about his exams.
The air felt heavy, as if somewhere within their daily life, something had forgotten how to breathe.

It happened when he stood up to get his bag.

That was when he noticed it.

The name tag sewn onto the shoulder strap—had disappeared.

The red-thread-stitched “Aiba Ren.”
It had certainly been there until yesterday. Yet now, only the stitch marks remained.

Ren frowned.

“…Mom?”
“Did you fix my bag?”

His mother glanced at him and raised her eyebrows slightly.

“No? Why?”

“The name tag… it’s gone.”

His mother narrowed her eyes and looked at the bag.

“It was on there before?”

“…Yeah.”

She blinked once and tilted her head.

“Maybe it came off in the wash?”

“It was sewn on.”

“Hmm. But that might be your imagination.”

Ren did not answer immediately.

Then, just in case, he forced a small smile.

“You’re seriously not remembering? You’re the one who wrote it, Mom.”

His mother tilted her head, but no smile appeared.

“…Sorry. What was your name again?”

Her words struck heavier than he expected.
Like a sudden cold wind blown into an ordinary breath.

“…Huh?”

Ren let out a dry laugh.

His father finally lifted his gaze from his phone.
A crease formed between his brows as he looked at Ren with caution.
He was not irritated, nor angry.

—Just distant.

“…Who are you?”

His father’s voice was far too plain, far too lacking in reality.

Ren’s heart thumped loudly.

“What are you talking about. It’s me. Ren. Aiba Ren. I’m your son.”

His mother’s face stiffened, as if hearing that name for the first time.
His father slowly stood up.

“Go outside. I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t mess around.”
Ren raised his voice, forcing a laugh.
“You’re joking, right? You’re not serious, are you?”

His mother’s hands were trembling.

“We don’t know who you are.”

Ren stepped back, nearly knocking over his chair.

“I’ll prove it! My ID—look!”

He took a card from his bag and thrust it out.

“Aiba Ren, Class 1-B! Just look!”

They looked at it.
But—they did not see it.

As though it were a blank card.

“I’m calling the police,” his father repeated.

Ren turned his back and ran out the door.
Trying not to hear the ringing of the phone.

Outside, the sky was unnaturally pale.
Neither gray nor blue—just light. The light was too strong.

Ren ran. He sprinted halfway down the street and then began to walk.
Toward the school.

The school gate was already open, with students entering one after another.

There were familiar faces.
A girl he had spoken with briefly in his second year of middle school.
She smiled as she passed him, but it was the smile one gave a stranger asking for directions.

A security guard blocked his way at the gate.

“Lost?”
The man put a hand on Ren’s bag strap.

“…What?”

“This isn’t a tourist spot. Move along.”

“I’m a student here.”

“Show me proof.”

Ren once again held out his ID. Slowly.

The man narrowed his eyes and glanced at the card.
Then he pushed it back at him.

“Good day. Go home.”

Ren could not move.

He looked up at the windows of the school building.
Inside were the classmates who had laughed with him, studied with him, called his name.

—Or had been.

But now, he was—

No one.

The gate closed behind him.