The first thing he noticed was the sound.
Not voices. Not wheels. Not even the steady rhythm of hooves on packed dirt.
It was the creak. A long, drawn-out groan of wood under strain. Something tired and relentless, shifting with the motion of the road. The kind of sound that doesn't stop, only pauses between breaths.
Sora opened his eyes.
Or rather, Akiko's eyes.
The carriage interior was near pitch-dark. Thin slivers of moonlight leaked in between the wooden planks, jagged and faint. They danced like fractured bars across the floor, flickering with the sway of trees outside. Shadows shifted with every bump in the road, mimicking movement even in stillness.
He didn't move right away. His body—her body—was sore. His back ached where it had pressed into the carriage floor, and a deep, blooming pain lingered across one side of the ribs. Bruises. Not old ones, either. Likely from being hauled in and shoved around. It hadn't been a gentle arrest.
He sat up slowly, careful not to jolt anything. His hand moved instinctively to her side, pressing lightly. Tender, but no sharp pain. No swelling. Nothing broken.
Still breathing. Still intact.
That thought alone made something in him loosen.
It wasn't just relief. It was something quieter. Warmer.
He brushed a damp strand of her hair from her cheek. It stuck to the skin, tangled and heavy with sweat. The scent that clung to it was sharp—stale from days without washing, edged with the musk of dust, wood, and the faint salt of fear. A scent that didn't belong to a noblewoman in court robes, but to a fugitive in chains.
The silence inside the carriage seemed to press in tighter with that realization.
Outside, faint armour clinked as one of the mounted escorts adjusted position. Through a gap in the wood, Sora caught the briefest glimpse—dark lacquered bands and white cords, edged with gold. It was unmistakable.
Fujiwara armed men.
Not generic soldiers. Not mercenaries.
He'd seen this exact colour pattern before. In museum displays, tucked behind glass cases and digital infographics. The Fujiwara clan's ceremonial armour. So proud. So curated.
So detached from what it meant to see it now, men escorting a teenage girl to her political execution.
His stomach turned, but his face stayed still.
These men weren't hired to think. They were here to deliver. And they would do it efficiently.
He shifted again, back resting against the wall. It groaned under his weight. He turned his gaze toward the slits of light, trying to orient himself. Trees passed outside—dense, pine-shadowed slopes. No lanterns. No banners. No procession.
They were moving fast.
How long would it take to reach Heian-kyō from here? He tried to recall the journey he'd made to Tanba no Kokufu.
He counted days in the only way that felt natural now.
Akiko, me. Akiko, me. Akiko, me. Akiko.
Seven days, normally. Maybe three by imperial roads with proper stops.
But like this? No rest. No delay.
"One day," he whispered to the dark. "That's all they'll need."
The wheels hit a shallow dip, sending a ripple through the floorboards. He flinched out of reflex, but the pain was dull—more discomfort than danger. Still, it reminded him: this body wasn't his.
But he didn't mind.
His hand lingered just above her ribs. Not possessive. Not confused. Just careful.
If anything, he felt a strange, quiet responsibility.
As if he were watching over something that had once trusted him.
And maybe still did…
The carriage slowed.
Sora felt it first in his spine—the wheels shifting pitch as gravel gave way to packed earth. The creaking softened, then fell silent altogether as the cart came to a halt. He held his breath, leaning forward.
Boots struck dirt. Two men, maybe three. Voices traded clipped words outside, too muffled to catch. Then a barked command. A greeting?
A beat later, a new voice joined in. Clear. Formal.
"—special directive, sealed by both the Emperor's court and the Fujiwara clan."
A pause. Then the rustle of stiff parchment or lacquered wood, something being shown.
Another voice—more cautious, the gatekeeper, maybe—answered quickly, his tone suddenly tight.
"Understood. I—I beg your pardon. I hadn't been informed—"
"Open the gate."
A heavy groan followed—not from the cart, but farther off. Wood scraping. Ropes drawn. Torches crackled as shadows shifted.
Sora stayed still, listening. So that was it. A Fujiwara seal, and the imperial stamp. Together, they might as well have been divine law. No one would question what came next—not here, not on some nameless road checkpoint in the night.
Akiko hadn't stood a chance.
The carriage lurched forward again. The wheels bit back into the dirt. As they rolled past the checkpoint, a flicker of firelight spilled through the wooden slats—orange and gold, like slivers of flame licking through the gaps.
He turned toward it, adjusting to the glow.
That's when he saw it.
Just above the floorboards, half-concealed beneath the folds of Akiko's robe, the edge of a carving. Faint. Scratched deep into the wood with something sharp—a hairpin, maybe.
He brushed the fabric aside, careful not to tug it too harshly.
There, etched in uneven pressure, was a single kanji.
The strokes were hesitant. Uneven. The lines wavered mid-curve, as if her hand had trembled while carving them. The final brush of the character trailed off mid-motion, unfinished or abandoned. It had been done in the dark. With effort. With urgency.
Sora stared at it.
The word was simple, "Sorry", but it weighed more than he expected. Like it had been carved into his chest instead of the wood.
He exhaled through his nose, unsteady.
"Akiko…" he whispered, the name catching in his throat. "You didn't do anything wrong."
The words didn't feel like his. But he meant them. Fiercely.
His fingers hovered just above the carved surface, but he didn't touch it. As if to press against it would make it vanish. Or worse—betray the care it had been made with.
She hadn't carved it for the guards. Or the driver.
Not even for herself.
She had left it for him.
The thought struck with unexpected force—quiet, but sharp, like stepping barefoot on a pebble you hadn't seen.
She knew.
She knew he would be here. That he would read this. That he would see it—feel it—and carry it with him, as if it had always been meant for his hands.
"Akiko…" he whispered again, softer now. "Why would you—"
But he knew why.
Because she thought she was a burden. Because she thought her survival came at someone else's expense. Because even in silence, even in fear, she still found a way to apologize.
His throat tightened.
She didn't owe him this. Not an apology. Not anything.
And yet—here it was.
His hand curled into his lap, empty, as the carriage wheels began to turn once more.
The light faded. The road stretched on beneath them, steady and indifferent.
Sora sat back, the word still etched into his mind as vividly as it had been into the wood.
This isn't just her burden anymore, he thought.
Not just her life. Not just her survival.
It's mine too.
We're in this together now.
He let his gaze fall once more on the carved character, its edges catching the last sliver of passing moonlight.
Not her skin.
Ours.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko.
BZZZZZZT. BZZZZZZT. BZZZZZZT.
Akiko stirred to the sound of Sora's alarm.
Her eyes opened—not slowly, not startled—just open. Awake.
The ceiling above was pale and familiar. A loose curtain rustled near the cracked window. Dim morning light filtered through. Her head rested against the side of the kitchen table, legs tucked loosely beneath her. One arm had gone numb beneath her side.
She shifted slowly, bracing herself with both hands as she sat up.
The floor was cool beneath her. The apartment quiet. She took in the faint clink of glass nearby—a cup resting on its side, still damp from a spill. Had she—no, had he—dropped it?
She looked down at her—his—hands. Her arms. The cotton shirt loose around her frame. Nothing hurt. No bruises. No blood. Just lingering fatigue in the muscles, like they had given out.
Did he fall asleep here? Or… something else?
She didn't know.
But what she did know was the quiet. The silence that replaced the creak of carriage wheels, the stench of damp robes, the pressure of being watched. Only the faint hum of Tokyo getting ready for another day.
She stood, rubbed her eyes, and moved toward the bathroom.
The light flicked on with a soft hum. The mirror greeted her—not with surprise, not even discomfort. Just Sora's face. Familiar now. With the back of her hand she wiped away the drool of last night's rest.
She reached for the toothbrush on the sink.
Her memory filled in the blanks: the note she'd seen taped inside the cabinet the first time she came here. The blue toothpaste. Back molars. "Spit, rinse, smile."
The brush moved without hesitation. She'd done this before.
While brushing, she picked up Sora's phone from the counter and tapped it awake.
Kazuki:I'll be there in 20!
She blinked at the message, a hint of warmth returning to her face.
Kazuki again. As casual as ever.
She scrolled up.
Kazuki: I'm at your door in 5! Better be ready!
Sora: 👍
There it was—that same emoji.
She remembered choosing it. She hadn't known what else to type, and it felt… safe.
She opened the thread with Asuka.
Asuka: Thank you for this afternoon, I really enjoyed it! You are a good listener, Sora 😊
Sora: 👍
The same reply. Again. Safe.
Back to the mirror. Spit. Rinse. A small smile—barely there, but real.
No notes today. No new instructions. But everything was still where he left it.
She returned the brush exactly as it was. Folded the towel with quiet care. Adjusted her—his—shirt, ran fingers through her hair, and stepped into the room with silent purpose.
She turned toward the desk.
There, above the closed laptop, pinned to the corkboard, was the calligraphy she had written the day before.
She didn't need to read it again. She remembered every stroke, every pause, every decision. The weight of the brush. The smooth pull of the ink. The care it took to make something worthy of his eyes.
It was still there. Unmoved. Uncrumpled.
He had read it.
A breath settled deep in her chest—some quiet sense of continuity. She hadn't left it behind for nothing.
She reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the paper, not to adjust it, not to straighten it.
Just to acknowledge it.
Toacknowledge him.
Yes, she was safe for now. In his world. In his skin. In a room that hummed gently with light and silence. No ropes. No cold wood. No iron weight of judgment.
But her own body—her real self—was still on the road.
Still bound by history.
Still being carried toward Heian-kyō in the back of a prisoner's carriage, bruised and helpless. She had felt the jolt of every bump in the road. The dread. The silence. The exhaustion.
Now it would be his turn.
Sora.
He was the one inside her skin now. Facing the trial she couldn't avoid. The one written in placards. In museum glass.
She closed her eyes, jaw firming slightly.
This wasn't just her burden anymore.
It was his.
Theirs.
And if he was strong enough to carry her fate, then she had no excuse not to carry his.
Even if her heart trembled at the thought of what lay ahead.
She looked once more at the note, then turned away from the desk.
"I entrusted you with my life," she murmured under her breath. "So I'll treat yours with the same care."
She finished fastening the collar of the school uniform, smoothing it down with quiet precision. The bed behind her was neatly made. Of course, Sora hadn't slept in it. She'd awoken slumped near the sink, where his body had collapsed. That much was clear from the slight tilt of the bathroom stool and the half-empty glass still on the counter.
She glanced once more around the apartment—small, efficient, and now strangely familiar. Her gaze lingered on the school bag beside the desk. She crossed the room and picked it up, adjusting the weight on her shoulder.
She turned away and reached for the books still stacked near the bed. Almost forgot them. A quiet chiding echoed in her head—his head, for now. She slipped them into the bag, pulled on her shoes, and stood fully dressed by the door.
Three quick knocks.
Right on time.
She opened the door.
"Yo," Kazuki grinned. "You look alive. Didn't think you'd be up and dressed already."
"I set an alarm," she said simply.
They fell into step, joining the morning current of Tokyo commuters. Bikes whirred past them, children in uniforms raced toward nearby elementary schools, and delivery men weaved between crosswalks with practiced ease.
Kazuki spoke casually, voice half-lost in the noise of the street. "Where'd you go yesterday after classes? You seemed in a hurry."
Akiko's eyes flicked forward. A second's pause.
"I had to pick something up. A book I reserved."
"Book?" Kazuki gave her a sidelong glance. "Wow. Nerd alert."
She gave him a faint smile. "So I've been told."
The metro station swallowed them in a low hum. They passed the turnstiles, and she followed his lead through the crowd. The train arrived just as they reached the platform, its windows reflecting the ghost of their figures.
She glanced at the glass.
And froze.
Her reflection stared back—only, it wasn't Sora.
It was her. Akiko.
Kneeling. Pale. Robed in white. The execution square behind her, silent and waiting.
Her breath caught.
She blinked—and it was gone.
Just Sora again. Just her, in his body, gripping the handlebar as the train lurched forward.
Kazuki didn't notice. He was watching a dog with a backpack pass by.
"You've been acting weird lately," he said after a moment. "Not in a bad way. Just… different. Some days you look like you're walking in your sleep. Other days, you're laser focused. It's like you've got moods I don't even have names for."
She said nothing.
But her grip on the rail tightened slightly.
They stepped off the train, the crowd funnelling them forward. More idle chatter—Kazuki talked about someone from class trying to ask out their math teacher again. She nodded, offering the occasional response when required.
But inside, she felt it.
The distance.
Because her body—her real one—was still far away.
On a road toward Heian-kyō.
Toward trial.
Toward death.
And Sora, kind and reckless, now walked that road in her place.
She was here, yes. Safe in his body. But only for now.
They would both have to survive this. Together.
At last, the school gates came into view. Students in uniforms trickled inside in small groups. Some laughing. Some tired. Some with faces still flushed from running to avoid being late.
And there, waiting by the entrance, blonde ponytail catching the light, was Asuka.
She waved.
The hallway hummed with voices—students trading last-minute answers, some still eating bread rolls from the corner store, others trudging forward in silence, heads heavy with sleep. Akiko walked just behind Kazuki and Asuka, trying not to look too out of place.
Her fingers brushed the metal key in her pocket—the key to locker 227. The small charm hanging from it, shaped like a wide-eyed cartoon cat with one paw raised, bounced against her leg with every step.
Asuka turned her head slightly. "You're quiet this morning," she said.
Akiko offered a polite smile. "Ah. Just... thinking."
A pause followed. Not heavy, but noticeable.
"Are you okay?" Akiko asked softly.
The hallway thinned a little as students veered off into different classrooms. For a moment, it was just the two of them.
Asuka hesitated. "Yeah. Everything's fine."
The lie was practiced—tight-lipped and casual. But not convincing.
Akiko slowed her pace just a touch. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she said, her voice calm. "I just thought you looked a little... weighed down."
Asuka gave a short laugh—half grateful, half evasive. "I guess I'm just tired."
They stopped in front their lockers. Akiko knelt and slotted the key into the lock, trying to mimic how she had done it last time. The cat keychain tilted as she twisted the key—click. The door opened with a soft creak. Inside, his shoes, a folded gym shirt, and a few books neatly stacked.
She switched her indoor shoes with practiced care. She had done this before, and repetition dulled the nerves.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Asuka glance at her, like she wanted to say something more—but didn't. Instead, the girl adjusted her skirt, smiled faintly, and turned toward the classroom.
Akiko followed.
The bell rang just as she stepped inside. She moved toward the seat in the second row, between Asuka on the right and Kazuki on the left. Their desks were close enough to almost touch, the kind of closeness that could only come from familiarity. She sat down, adjusted the strap of her bag, and exhaled quietly.
The teacher entered moments later, tapping his clipboard.
"Homeroom roll call," he muttered. "Let's begin."
One by one, names were called. Akiko tried to keep her breathing steady, eyes forward, hands folded neatly.
"Sasaki Kazuki."
"Yo," came the casual reply.
"Maruyama Asuka."
"Here," Asuka said, voice bright but composed.
Then—
"Ishikawa Sora."
A beat.
Akiko's chest tightened.
She raised a hand. "Here."
It came out just a bit too formally. She felt it. As did Kazuki, who glanced at her with one eyebrow raised, though he said nothing.
She looked away quickly.
The chalk struck the board with a dull scrape.
"Today," the teacher announced, "we continue with quadratic equations—specifically, the formula used to find their roots."
Akiko sat straighter in her chair, but her eyes couldn't follow the string of numbers and symbols that now unfurled across the board like a foreign spell.
"ax² + bx + c = 0," the teacher said, his voice steady. "And so, the solution becomes—"
He underlined it with force:
x = (-b ± √(b² - 4ac)) / 2a
Her breath hitched.
What...?
It wasn't just the complexity. It was the speed. The certainty in how everyone else's eyes followed the formula like it made perfect sense. Like it belonged.
To Akiko, it was a string of arcane symbols—both beautiful and incomprehensible.
Was this truly common knowledge in Sora's time?
The teacher continued, explaining how the part under the square root—called the discriminant—determined the number of solutions. His words blurred into background noise. Numbers replaced words. The chalk danced. Students scribbled notes.
She sat still. Too still.
"So if b² minus 4ac is less than zero," the teacher said, "then there are no real solutions. We deal with imaginary numbers at that point."
Akiko blinked. Imaginary numbers? As if the real ones weren't already difficult enough.
Panic began to simmer under her ribs. Her pencil hovered, then retreated.
Then—a soft nudge on her right.
Asuka.
She slid her notebook halfway onto Akiko's desk, angled just enough to be visible. Her handwriting was neat. Gentle arrows. Color-coded variables. Beneath the formula, she'd written in mechanical pencil:
→ Start by identifying a, b, and c
→ Plug them into the formula step by step
→ Don't worry, I'll help after class ☺
Akiko's eyes softened. She turned, just enough to meet Asuka's gaze.
The girl didn't say anything—just gave a small nod, her lips barely lifted in a reassuring smile.
Akiko whispered, "Thank you."
She meant it more than she could show.
The teacher continued, calling on a student in the back to solve the next equation. Meanwhile, Akiko tried to trace the letters Asuka had written. The arrows helped. The calm layout helped more.
She didn't understand it yet.
But maybe she could. With time. With help.
Her pencil moved—hesitantly at first, then with growing steadiness.
Line by line, she copied Asuka's notes.
"...And that's how you isolate the variable," Asuka said softly, tapping her pencil beside the final step in Akiko's notebook.
Akiko blinked, trying to retrace the numbers and symbols. Letters becoming numbers. Numbers becoming… answers?
The logic is there, she told herself. Like following the flow of a tea ceremony—just with strange ingredients.
Asuka smiled. "You're getting it. Slowly."
"Only because you explain it well," Akiko said, before catching herself. She lowered her gaze. "I mean… thanks."
Their eyes met for a brief moment—Asuka's full of quiet warmth, genuine and steady. It made something stir in Akiko's chest.
She hadn't done anything to earn this kindness. Not really. And yet here it was, offered freely.
Kazuki, meanwhile, had resorted to doodling what appeared to be a very muscular frog in the margin of his notes. "So if x equals my hunger, and y equals the cafeteria line, how long until I collapse from starvation?"
Asuka giggled. "I think we just found the limits of your mathematical ability."
"I'm a visual learner," Kazuki declared, holding up his frog masterpiece proudly.
Akiko smiled faintly, but the ache beneath her ribs lingered. They really think I'm him.
How long can I keep pretending to be someone I'm not?
But there was no time to linger in doubt.
The bell rang.
Its chime felt louder than usual, slicing the room in half. Students rose like tidewater pulling back, the chatter of freedom replacing the drone of formulas and facts.
Akiko rose with them, gathering her things. Her movements were precise, careful—folding the notebook closed, slipping the pen into its elastic loop, placing it inside the school bag Sora had carried countless times before.
This body is his, she thought again. But for now… I'm the one carrying it through the day.
Kazuki stood and slung his bag over one shoulder. "Balcony?"
"Balcony," Asuka confirmed, already making for the door.
Akiko hesitated for just a second—her hand tightening on the strap of her bag.
Then she followed.
The corridor buzzed with students, voices bouncing off tile and glass. The warm scent of lunchboxes drifted in waves—rice, fried chicken, curry. Her stomach growled quietly.
She hadn't eaten at all.
They moved through the halls as a trio, Kazuki leading with the easy energy of someone who never overthought things, Asuka beside her with that calm, radiant presence. Akiko walked between them, shouldering a body not her own, carrying a guilt that no one else could see.
As they passed a window, something caught her eye.
A reflection.
Just for a second, she saw herself—not in Sora's clothes, not in this school—but back in her own world. Kneeling. Bound. A blade glinting above her head.
She blinked.
Gone.
The hallway returned.
Voices. Footsteps. The distant ring of laughter.
She exhaled slowly and pressed forward.
You're not there right now, she reminded herself. You're here. You're safe.
But that safety wasn't hers alone. Not anymore.
He's in danger too now. And it's my danger.
The bento box in Asuka's hands. The lazy slouch in Kazuki's step. The laughter. The warmth.
And her stomach, again, groaning gently.
I forgot how hungry I was…
The door to the balcony slid open. Sunlight spilled in. The wind carried the smell of spring and fried food.
She stepped out with them, blinking into the light.
The food of this time…
It wasn't just nourishment.
It was colour. Texture. Life.
It tastes better.