The world smelled of roses and burned sugar.
Kiyoshi opened his eyes to darkness thick enough to taste—sweet, cloying, wrong. His hand found Sakura's wrist by instinct, her pulse hammering against his fingertips.
"What—" Her voice cut through the void, sharp with panic.
Then light. Sudden and blinding.
They stood in a meadow that shouldn't exist. Grass too green, sky too violet, and floating above them—hundreds of translucent cards spinning like autumn leaves caught in an updraft. Each one glowed with handwritten wishes in scripts he'd never seen before.
A porcelain doll the size of a child stood three meters away, its painted smile too wide, joints clicking as it turned toward them.
"Welcome to the Wishing Hour," it said in a voice like wind chimes and grinding glass. "Your desires have been heard."
THREE HOURS EARLIER
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
Kiyoshi's phone vibrated across the nightstand. He cracked one eye open, squinting at February sunlight.
Valentine's Day. Of course.
His room was a disaster zone of achievements—science fair trophies, textbooks in precarious stacks, a robotics award dangling from a lamp. He'd stayed up until 3 AM researching quantum entanglement. Self-sabotage as a lifestyle choice.
The phone buzzed again.
Takeshi: Dude where are you?? Aiko brought her friend. You're missing out 😭
Kiyoshi deleted it. Takeshi's "help" usually meant ambush double-dates with girls who looked at him like a boring documentary.
He stood, stepped toward the bathroom, and immediately crashed into a stack of physics journals.
Smooth.
Three seconds of floor-staring later, he dragged himself up.
"—KOK shopping mall is THE place this Valentine's Day! Couples receive—"
"Mom," he called down, "please turn that off."
"Kiyoshi! Perfect timing. I need you to pick up groceries."
He closed his eyes. Of course.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in downtown Tokyo wearing a stained hoodie and clutching a shopping bag. Around him, couples moved like synchronized swimmers—holding hands, sharing earbuds, existing in their own private universes.
He was a white rose in a field of red. Conspicuous. Alone.
Takeshi: You're missing EVERYTHING. This is your life, man. Passing you by.
Kiyoshi stared at his phone. Last year he'd confessed to Yumi from Chemistry, only to watch her face cycle through confusion, pity, and that worst expression—the one planning how to let him down gently.
He was popular, technically. "Oh, Kiyoshi? The science guy. Kinda weird but smart." Useful. Never wanted.
A massive billboard caught his eye: Your Perfect Valentine's Day, Guaranteed.
His finger moved before his brain could object.
ONE HOUR LATER
Kiyoshi had changed clothes three times and was currently having an existential crisis in front of his mirror.
The website's rules echoed: No excessive contact. No personal questions. No expecting genuine connection. You are purchasing time, nothing more.
He'd chosen her from seventeen profiles. Sakura. Brownish hair in the photo, eyes that seemed both present and absent.
Now he stood at the meeting spot—a café near the mall—wearing his least-wrinkled shirt and Christmas cologne.
Then he saw her.
Brownish hair cascading past her shoulders, almost to her hips. Roughly his height. She moved through the crowd with careful grace, her expression settling into pleasant neutrality when she spotted him.
"Kiyoshi?" Her smile activated like a light switch. "I'm Sakura. Your girlfriend for the next three hours."
The word "girlfriend" landed like a stone in his chest.
"Hi. Yeah. That's—that's me." He sounded like a malfunctioning robot. "You look—I mean, thank you for—"
"Where would you like to go?"
"Maybe ice cream?"
"Sounds perfect." Her smile never wavered.
He reached out without thinking. "Can I hold your hand?"
Her expression flickered—something genuine passing behind her eyes. "Hands only," she said, her tone cooling by exactly ten degrees.
The rejection landed with surgical precision. He withdrew his hand, face burning.
The ice cream shop drowned in Valentine's décor—heart-shaped everything, roses, couples feeding each other with unselfconscious joy that made Kiyoshi's chest ache.
They ordered the Valentine's Special—two spoons, one sundae, manufactured romance.
"So," he tried, "do you do this often?"
Her spoon paused. "That's a personal question."
"Right. Sorry. The ice cream's good."
"It is," she agreed, and he watched something sad flicker through her expression before it smoothed away.
She's good at this. But good at what? Pretending? Or hiding?
They finished in silence punctuated by small talk about weather, the mall's expansion, safe topics that meant nothing. She laughed at appropriate moments—bright sounds that never quite reached her eyes.
By noon they'd reached KOK mall—a sensory assault of perfume samples, jewelry displays, and "couples' specials."
That's when Kiyoshi's brain short-circuited.
His parents stood fifteen meters away, his mother holding his father's arm, both looking unfamiliarly young and happy.
"Oh no—" He grabbed Sakura's elbow and steered her behind a pillar.
"What—"
"My parents. They can't—"
Too late. His mother materialized beside them, eyebrows rising. "Kiyoshi? Why are you here?"
"Why are you here, Mom?" His voice climbed an octave.
Her cheeks colored. "It's Valentine's Day. Your father and I—" She glanced at Sakura, expression cycling through surprise and dawning delight. "Oh. Oh. Is this—?"
"We were just leaving," Kiyoshi blurted, already moving.
They ducked into a side corridor, his heart hammering.
"That was—" Sakura started.
"A disaster."
When he looked up, she was almost-smiling, the expression transforming her face into something unguarded and real.
"Your mom seems nice," she offered.
"She's going to interrogate me for weeks." But he found himself smiling back.
They drifted toward a small shop tucked between a bookstore and watch repair place. A hand-painted sign read: WISH CARDS - Write Your Heart's Desire
A woman in a maid costume stood in the doorway, holding rainbow-colored cards. "Write a wish! The magic of Valentine's Day makes them come true!"
Kiyoshi expected Sakura to roll her eyes. Instead, she stopped.
"Let's do it," she said quietly.
"You don't actually believe—"
"Does it matter?" She was already taking two cards, pressing one into his hand.
They found a quiet corner. Kiyoshi stared at the blank card, pen hovering.
What do you wish for when you're paying someone to pretend to care?
Finally, he wrote: I wish to know what love feels like.
He glanced at Sakura. She bent over her card, writing with surprising intensity, hair falling forward to hide her expression. When she finished, she held it against her chest.
"What did you write?" he asked.
"That's between me and the wish card." But there was something vulnerable in her voice, the professional mask cracking.
They deposited their cards in the ornate box. The maid winked. "Check back next year!"
The clock read 2:47 PM. Thirteen minutes left.
"Do you want to—" he started.
The lights went out.
Not gradually. One moment the mall blazed with brightness, the next—absolute darkness.
Around them, people gasped. Phone lights clicked on, casting long shadows.
But around Kiyoshi and Sakura, the darkness was different. Thicker. And it smelled—
"Roses," Sakura whispered. "Do you smell—?"
The scent intensified, sweet and cloying, mixing with caramelized sugar. Burned matches. Wrong.
"Kiyoshi." Her hand found his in the dark, gripping tight. No longer professional. Afraid.
Music began—a slow, distorted melody like a drowning music box.
Shapes materialized. Balloons drifting closer, surfaces reflecting light that didn't exist.
And there—
A figure. Small. Porcelain-white.
The doll's painted eyes found them through the impossible dark. Its mouth, a red crescent smile, didn't move when it spoke:
"How about a picnic?"
It snapped its fingers.
The world inverted.
Kiyoshi's stomach lurched as reality twisted, gravity reversing, sound becoming color becoming sensation becoming—
Darkness.
Complete.