I wake up before I open my eyes.
It's the silence that tells me something is different.
Not the silence of my room—the one with faint traffic leaking through the window and the neighbor's mixer screaming at seven in the morning. This silence is softer. Like the house itself, it wakes up on time and expects everyone inside it to do the same.
My fingers move first.
Silk sheets.
Not mine.
My eyes open slowly.
The ceiling is unfamiliar—plain, pale, and without stains or cracks. No crooked fan. No peeling paint. Just clean lines and quiet order.
For a second, panic rises.
Then memory settles in pieces.
The car. The weight in my head. His voice was somewhere close. I must've fallen asleep.
I push myself up on my elbows.
My bag is placed neatly beside the bed. My phone rests on top of it.
Within reach.
I stare at that for a moment.
I check my phone—100 per cent. I don't remember unplugging it. The wallpaper lights up: me laughing at something stupid, half his shoulder caught in the frame beside me. I lock it.
My shoes are off.
Socks too.
I definitely didn't do that.
I swing my legs off the bed and finally look around properly.
His room is exactly what I should have expected.
Minimal.
The bed is perfectly made except for the side I ruined. Dark grey sheets. A single structured pillow. No unnecessary cushions. A wooden side table with nothing on it except a lamp and a book placed squarely in the centre, like even objects here know their boundaries.
There's a wardrobe built into the wall—closed, no clothes hanging out, no chaos. The curtains are light beige, pulled back evenly so the morning sun enters in straight lines.
The floor is wooden. Clean enough to reflect light softly. No scattered shoes. No forgotten socks. No mess.
It feels disciplined.
I stand and walk to the door, opening it slowly.
The hallway is narrow but bright. Framed art hangs on the wall—simple landscapes in muted colours. The air smells faintly of coffee and something clean. Maybe him.
The living room opens up ahead.
Neutral sofa. Dark fabric. A low wooden table. A bookshelf arranged with almost military precision—spines aligned, no bending corners. No random decorations. Just a few plants near the window, trimmed neatly.
Even the sunlight looks organised here.
The house is quiet but not empty.
There's movement somewhere. A cupboard closing. Water running.
He's awake.
Of course he is.
I glance at the mirror near the hallway. My hair is a mess, half of my bun hanging loose. There's a faint crease on my cheek from the pillow. I try to smooth my hair with my fingers, then give up.
Pointless.
I step into the living area.
He's in the kitchen.
Back straight. Sleeves rolled up. Making coffee with slow, exact movements. He doesn't turn immediately, but I know he's aware I'm there.
"You're awake," he says calmly.
I lean against the wall. "Seems like it."
My voice is rough with sleep. I clear my throat.
"You slept properly," he says.
"I did?"
"You didn't move for hours."
I look down at my hands. That explains the heaviness in my limbs—the good kind. The kind that comes from actual rest.
A small pause stretches between us.
I step a little further into the room. Morning light falls across the wooden floor in straight lines. Everything about this place feels structured. Stable.
"Why didn't you take me to my place?" I ask.
He finally turns to look at me fully.
"You were tired," he says simply. "And you wouldn't have rested there."
He hands me a cup.
Milk coffee. The way I drink it.
I take a sip.
It's warm. Strong. Grounding.
"Next time," I say lightly, "at least warn me before kidnapping me."
"Next time," he replies evenly, "try staying awake."
After a pause
"So what happened?" he asks, bending backward toward the fridge.
"What happened where?" I reply, reaching for the cookie placed neatly in front of me. Even the plate is centred on the table. Of course it is.
"In your hometown."
I chew slowly.
"Hm," I exhale. "I don't know… it just felt like something was missing."
"Missing?" His tone doesn't change, but his eyes sharpen slightly.
"When I entered my mom's room…" My fingers tighten slightly around the cookie. "I clearly remember where she kept her diary. Second drawer. Right side. Wrapped in that old blue cloth."
I swallow.
"When I opened it, it was empty. Not just that. The house was locked for years. You remember that incident." My voice lowers slightly. "I ran away. After that… no one would go there. And we don't have any ancestral wealth. There's nothing worth stealing."
He leans back slightly. "So?"
I look at him directly now, "there were shoe marks in my room. Faint. But fresh enough. Like someone had walked there. Recently."
He frowns.
"That diary… my mom wrote everything in it. Everything. Even if she saw a leaf fall from a tree, she would write about it. She used to say she liked revisiting her memories. "Like reliving them."
Nanami studies my face carefully.
"And when you said I was gone for one whole week…" I continue slowly, "I still don't understand that part." I did what my mom used to do. The ritual. I remember sitting inside the tree. I remember closing my eyes."
My fingers tremble slightly, so I place the cookie down.
"It felt like a few hours. Not a week."
Silence stretches between us.
"You're saying you don't remember those seven days?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"I remember entering. I remember… a stone wall. It wasn't bright. It was warm. Like being underwater but still breathing."
My voice becomes distant without me meaning it to.
"And then I remember walking. Outside. Weak. You were there."
He doesn't look away from me.
The air between us feels tighter now. Not emotional.
Strategic.
"Dia," he says evenly, "why don't you speak to the higher-ups?"
I almost laugh.
"The higher-ups?" I repeat.
"They're aware of your family history. Your mother wasn't invisible to them. If something unusual happened—especially something that kept you gone for a week—they would want to know."
"That's exactly why I don't want to go to them," I say quietly.
His brows shift slightly. Not surprised. Just listening.
"You know how they are," I continue. "They don't investigate to protect. They investigate to control. If I tell them I lost a week inside a cursed tree and don't remember what happened, they won't treat it like confusion. They'll treat it like liability."
Nanami doesn't interrupt.
"If they think I'm unstable… or possessed… or hiding something," I go on, "they won't ask gently."
Silence.
He understands.
The higher-ups don't believe in coincidence. And they definitely don't believe in mercy.
"So what are you planning?" he asks.
I exhale slowly.
"The Jujutsu library."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"I want records," I explain. "Old cases. Ritual bindings. Time displacement phenomena. Cursed objects tied to trees or memory anchors. Something. Anything."
"You think this is documented?"
"If it's happened before, it is." My voice steadies as I speak. "The school archives go back centuries. There are sealed sections most sorcerers never touch."
"And you believe you'll find answers there."
"I believe I'll find patterns," I correct.
Nanami studies me for a long moment.
"And if you don't?" he asks.
"Then I'll talk to them," I admit. "But not before I understand what I'm walking into."
He nods once.
"That's reasonable."