The library had no checkout system.
Books simply appeared in your dorm when they wanted to be read.
At least that's what Midori claimed, half-jokingly, half-afraid.
Anya tested it.
She visited the East Library after last bell, walked through aisles warped with time and mold, and paused at the photography section. She touched nothing.
Still, when she returned to her dorm that night, there was a book waiting on her bed.
No title.
No spine.
Just a worn, black cover with the texture of old skin.
Inside: grainy, high-contrast photographs — all from Kurobara Academy, some as old as the 1920s.
And in the very center, a photo dated 1989.
Burnt at the edges.
Five girls in uniform, standing in front of a fire escape.
Four clearly visible.
The fifth — shorter — had her entire face burned out of the paper.
But her posture. Her height. Her messy updo with blonde ends.
It was Anya.
Or Satsuki.
Or both.
She showed the photo to Midori and whispered, "Who is this?"
Midori shook her head. "We're not supposed to talk about her."
"But who is she?"
Midori lowered her voice to a thread.
"Her name was erased."
"By who?"
"The school. Or the system. Or maybe… herself."
Anya folded the page and tucked it in her sleeve.
That night, she slipped into the East Wing again.
Class 3-K's door creaked open without her touching it.
Inside: five desks.
All empty — except one.
Satsuki was sitting in Anya's seat.
Black hair with blonde ends. Burnt sleeves.
Bangs covered her eyes like shadows that didn't lift.
She didn't look up.
She didn't speak.
But her fingers moved — tapping the desk in a slow, steady pattern.
Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash. Dot.
Anya recognized Morse code.
R
U
N
Satsuki's head twitched. Her mouth opened. A dry whisper crawled out like smoke:
"They keep making you forget me. But you're the one who set the fire."
"No," Anya said. Her voice sounded smaller than it had ever been.
Satsuki turned to face her.
"Then why do you always wake up when it starts burning?"
The classroom lights flared. The air grew hot.
Anya turned toward the blackboard.
This time it didn't say REMEMBER.
It said:
THIS IS NOT YOUR BODY.
Anya ran.
Down the stairwell, past Room 404, through the dorm hallway.
Every window reflected Satsuki. Every one.
Her eyes were still covered.
But her mouth moved in every reflection.
"Give it back."
"Give it back."
"Give it back."
In her dorm room, Anya grabbed a pair of scissors. Marched to the mirror.
She chopped her bangs short.
They fell into the sink like dead moths.
She stared at her full reflection for the first time in weeks.
Nothing looked familiar.
The girl in the mirror whispered:
"You got the wrong name."
That night, she slept with the burned photo clutched in her hand.
When she woke…
The photo was gone.
In its place: a note, written in neat script.
"You didn't just replace her.
You volunteered."
And below it, in different handwriting — jagged, frantic, bleeding:
VERONIKA KNOWS.
Ask her what happened to the sixth desk.