The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. sharp.
I had set it that way since the start of the semester, not because I enjoyed waking early, but because my body refused to trust my own memory. If I let myself sleep until I "felt ready," I would end up rolling out of bed at noon and missing everything.
So 6:30 it was. Every day. Like clockwork.
I dragged myself out of bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. The faint hum of the old air conditioner rattled against the silence. Summer in Kanagawa meant the kind of heat that made the walls sweat. Outside, the cicadas screamed so loudly I could hear them through the glass.
I brushed my teeth, put on the same shirt I wore last Tuesday, and tried not to think too hard about anything.
Most people say university life is the most "free" time of your life. You can experiment, skip class, take a part-time job, confess to someone you like, do stupid things with friends.
But for me, most days felt like… drifting.
Not free. Just loose. Like a balloon cut from its string, waiting to float into nothing.
I checked my phone.
One unread message—from my mother.
She had sent me another article about job hunting: "Companies hiring new grads for 2026."
I didn't reply.
The station was crowded, as always. I squeezed onto the train, pressed between a salaryman scrolling through stock prices and a high school girl staring blankly at her reflection in the window.
The motion of the train always made me feel half-asleep. As the scenery blurred outside, I caught my own reflection in the glass. My hair was unkempt, my shirt wrinkled, my face neither handsome nor ugly.
I looked exactly how I felt: forgettable.
But then, for just a second, I noticed something strange.
In the reflection, my eyes didn't seem to move with me. The train rocked, my body shifted, but my eyes—stayed fixed, as if something else were watching through them.
The moment passed as quickly as it came. A jolt, another stop, more passengers cramming in. My reflection looked normal again.
I shook my head. Lack of sleep. That's all.
Campus was buzzing when I arrived. Exams were only two weeks away, and the air was thick with a mix of stress and boredom. Some students carried stacks of books, others laughed too loudly in groups, pretending they weren't panicking.
I sat under a tree outside the economics building, eating an onigiri I had bought from the convenience store. The rice was too dry, but it gave my hands something to do.
A familiar voice called out.
"Enomoto! You're early for once."
I turned to see Kawabata, my classmate. Tall, lazy smile, messy hair that somehow made him popular with girls. He always treated life like a game he couldn't lose.
"Morning," I said.
"You look like a ghost. Studying too hard?"
"Something like that."
He flopped down next to me, unwrapping a melon bread. "Nah, you don't study. You just… think too much. Your brain's your enemy, man."
I didn't answer.
Maybe he was right.
After class, I lingered in the library. The air conditioner there worked better than in the lecture halls, and it was quieter. Rows of students hunched over notebooks, some actually studying, others secretly scrolling on their phones.
I wasn't looking for any book in particular. I just wandered the shelves until I stopped in the psychology section.
One book caught my eye: The Mask of Normalcy.
I flipped through it. The introduction said something like:
"Most people wear masks not to deceive others, but to deceive themselves. What they fear most is not being exposed, but realizing they have nothing underneath."
I closed the book quickly. The words felt too sharp, like they were aimed directly at me.
By the time I left campus, the sun was low. The sky turned orange, cicadas still shrieking as if desperate to outlive the day.
Walking back to my apartment, I thought about how ordinary everything had been. Classes, Kawabata's jokes, the dry onigiri, the crowded train.
An endless loop of meaningless repetition.
And yet…
For reasons I couldn't explain, the whole day felt staged. Like props on a set.
As if everyone I met had been reading lines from a script only they could see.
I told myself I was imagining it. That I was just tired.
But when I opened the door to my apartment—
I saw it.
An envelope.
White, thin, perfectly placed at the threshold.
As if it had been waiting for me.
The envelope sat on my desk all night.
I didn't open it. Not yet. I told myself it was just trash mail, maybe a mistake. But the longer I ignored it, the heavier it seemed to grow.
By morning, it almost felt alive.
I stuffed it into my bag without looking at it and left for campus.
University in summer always had this dull tension, like everyone was pretending to be busier than they really were. The cafeteria smelled of instant curry and cold noodles, students were clustered in cliques, and the fans overhead just pushed hot air in circles.
I sat with Kawabata again. He was telling me about some girl he had been texting.
"She replies with stickers only. You know what that means?"
"That she's not interested?"
"Wrong. It means she's testing me. Seeing if I can keep the conversation alive. You have to read the atmosphere, man."
I sighed. Kawabata was always like this—turning nonsense into strategy. Maybe that's why people liked him. He made even boredom look like a game.
Across from us sat Ayane Shiraishi, one of the top students in our seminar. Straight posture, clear eyes, always with perfectly neat notes. She was the kind of person professors praised in front of the class.
But today, she looked distracted. Her chopsticks hovered over her soba for a full minute before she even touched it.
"You okay, Shiraishi?" Kawabata asked.
She blinked, as if waking from somewhere far away. "Yes. Just… tired."
I glanced at her bag.
For the briefest moment, I thought I saw the edge of a white envelope sticking out from it.
But when I blinked again, it was gone.
Later, in the seminar room, we were joined by Kazuya Morimoto. He was tall, built like an athlete, though he hadn't joined any sports clubs this year. He carried himself with a kind of restless energy, like a dog forced to stay indoors too long.
He tapped his pen loudly against the desk during lecture, earning glares from half the room.
When the professor dismissed us, Morimoto leaned back and muttered, "What a waste of time. Who cares about macroeconomics when the world's already collapsing?"
"Collapsing how?" I asked without thinking.
He smirked. "Read the news. Heat waves, stock crashes, suicide rates up. People pretend it's normal, but it's not. None of this is stable."
There was something in his tone that unsettled me—not just cynicism, but certainty. Like he knew something the rest of us didn't.
After class, Kawabata dragged me to the campus courtyard to join a small group. He was always better at socializing than me.
Among them was Mizuki Aihara, a quiet girl from the literature department. She wore her uniform even though she didn't need to, long sleeves despite the heat. She kept her hair tucked behind one ear, though it fell back into her face constantly.
Kawabata teased her gently, asking about her favorite books.
"Anything with ghosts," she said without hesitation. "I like stories where you don't know if the dead are really gone. Or if they're still watching you."
Everyone laughed nervously, thinking she was joking. But her expression didn't change. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, just for a second too long.
I looked away first.
We lingered until evening. By then, the sun was low and the air felt heavy.
Kawabata was telling some ridiculous story about a part-time job gone wrong when he stopped mid-sentence.
"Hey, Enomoto."
"What?"
"You've been off lately. Distracted. Something on your mind?"
I froze. The envelope in my bag seemed to burn against my side.
"Just exams," I said quickly.
He studied me for a moment, then grinned. "Right. Exams. Don't let the pressure kill you."
It was a casual joke, but it landed wrong.
Too sharp.
Like a warning.
When I finally got home that night, I sat at my desk and took out the envelope.
It was perfectly blank. No sender, no stamp, no sign of human touch.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a single slip of paper.
"Congratulations. You have been selected."
That was all.
The handwriting—or whatever it was—looked the same as in my dream. Uniform, but not mechanical. Devoid of personality.
I dropped it onto the desk, heart racing.
Was this a prank? A scam? Some underground club?
I thought back to the people I'd seen today.
Shiraishi, distracted.
Morimoto, muttering about collapse.
Mizuki, whispering about ghosts.
Even Kawabata, who seemed carefree but watched me too closely.
Did they have envelopes too?
The thought chilled me.
Because if they did—
None of this was a coincidence.
That night, I couldn't stop turning the letter over in my hands. No matter how many times I read it, the words didn't change.
You have been selected.
For what?
By who?
And why me?
The cicadas outside screamed until my ears rang. I pressed my pillow over my head, but it didn't help.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it wasn't peaceful.
I dreamt of the white room again.
Empty. Silent.
But this time, there were shadows moving at the edges.
Shadows shaped like people I knew.
The dream clung to me even after I woke.
My throat was dry, my sheets damp with sweat, and for a long moment I couldn't tell if I was still asleep. The white room. The shadows. The silence that rang louder than cicadas.
I sat up and stared at the envelope on my desk.
It hadn't moved. Of course it hadn't.
But in the haze of morning, I almost expected it to.
At campus, everything looked the same as always. Students rushed between buildings, laughing, yawning, checking their phones. The world kept spinning as though nothing had changed.
And maybe nothing had.
Maybe I was just overthinking a stupid prank.
That's what I told myself—until I saw Ayane Shiraishi again.
She was in the library, hunched over her notes. Her bag sat open beside her chair, and there it was.
The envelope.
Plain white. The exact same size as mine.
I froze in the aisle between bookshelves, staring. My pulse quickened.
Was it coincidence? Some kind of campus survey? No—no, it was too specific.
As if sensing my gaze, Shiraishi looked up. For a fraction of a second our eyes met, and I knew—she saw the same thing in my bag.
Neither of us spoke. She calmly closed her notes, slipped the envelope deeper into her bag, and left without a word.
The more I looked, the more I noticed.
In the cafeteria, I spotted Morimoto stuffing something white into his pocket when he thought no one was looking. His eyes darted around the room before landing briefly on me.
He didn't smile.
Later, in the courtyard, Mizuki Aihara sat alone under the shade of a tree, sketching in a small notebook. The wind flipped a page, and I glimpsed an envelope tucked beneath it, weighing the paper down.
When she realized I'd seen, she pressed her hand flat against the notebook. Her lips curved into a faint smile—not embarrassed, not apologetic. Almost like… relief.
Relief that she wasn't the only one.
I didn't mention the letter to Kawabata. Not yet.
He was too carefree, too loud. If I told him, he'd laugh, make a joke, maybe tell the whole seminar. And yet…
That evening, as we walked out of class together, I caught him glancing at my bag. Just a flick of the eyes, nothing more.
But I knew what he was looking for.
And I wondered—was his envelope hidden better than mine?
By the time I reached my apartment that night, I was suffocating in silence.
I pulled the envelope from my bag and spread it out on the desk. The paper was thin, but not cheap. High-quality stock. The message inside hadn't changed.
"Congratulations. You have been selected."
The ink seemed darker than yesterday. Or maybe I was imagining things.
I stared at the words until they blurred. "Selected" for what? A scholarship? A secret club? Something darker?
My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
[OPEN IT.]
My breath caught. I checked again. The sender ID was blank. No number, no name. Just the message.
I swallowed hard and typed back:
"Who is this?"
No response.
For minutes I sat frozen, watching the screen. Finally, another vibration.
[TOMORROW.]
That was all.
Sleep was impossible. I lay awake, the cicadas screaming outside, the letter heavy on my desk. I couldn't shake the thought:
Everyone else had one too. Shiraishi, Morimoto, Mizuki. Even Kawabata, probably.
Eight of us? Ten? More?
How many had been selected?
And by who?
My eyelids grew heavy, my mind slipping.
I dreamt again.
The white room. Blinding, endless.
This time, the shadows were clearer. They had faces.
Kawabata. Shiraishi. Morimoto. Mizuki.
Each of them staring at me.
But when they opened their mouths to speak, no sound came out. Only a single word appeared, written across their lips like a brand:
[LIAR.]
I woke gasping, nails digging into my palms.
The letter sat where I'd left it, motionless.
But now it felt less like paper, and more like a key.
A key to something I didn't want to open.
I didn't go to class the next day.
When my alarm rang at 6:30, I turned it off and lay there, staring at the ceiling. The white paint was cracked in places, faint lines branching out like veins.
The message on my phone wouldn't leave my mind.
[OPEN IT.]
[TOMORROW.]
Tomorrow was today.
But nothing happened.
No knock at my door, no follow-up text, no announcement from the sky.
And yet the silence felt… heavy. Like the world was waiting.
I tried to distract myself. Cleaned my desk. Folded my laundry. Made instant ramen I didn't feel like eating.
Every time I turned my back, my eyes found the envelope again.
It sat exactly where I'd left it. Plain, thin, ordinary. The kind of object you'd forget existed if not for what it meant.
I picked it up. The paper was cool against my skin, though the air in the room was warm. My thumb brushed the ink of the word "selected."
For a wild moment, I thought I felt it pulse.
I dropped it immediately.
By evening, the cicadas had grown louder, shriller. Their cries no longer sounded like insects but like metal grinding against metal, an endless shriek drilling into my skull.
I couldn't take it anymore. I shoved the envelope into a drawer, slammed it shut, and pressed my palms over my ears.
The silence that followed was worse.
When night finally came, I left the lights on. I told myself it was because I was reading, but the book lay unopened on my desk.
Midnight passed. Then one. Then two.
My body begged for sleep, but my mind refused. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined shadows at the edge of the room. Figures standing just beyond sight, waiting for me to notice.
I checked my phone again. No new messages. The screen glowed too brightly in the darkness, making the room around me look dimmer by comparison.
At some point—I'm not sure when—I dozed off anyway.
I opened my eyes, and I wasn't in my room.
The transition was seamless, like I had simply blinked myself into another world.
The walls were white.
The floor was white.
The ceiling was white.
A room so clean it felt sterile, as though nothing had ever lived there. No doors, no windows. Just light, endless and merciless.
And I wasn't alone.
Shiraishi stood a few meters away, clutching her bag like a shield. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp, darting from corner to corner.
Morimoto was pacing, muttering under his breath, words I couldn't make out. His fists clenched and unclenched like he was preparing for a fight.
Mizuki sat cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in her notebook, her lips moving silently as if reciting something to herself.
And Kawabata—
Kawabata was smiling. Not his usual easy grin, but something tighter, almost hungry.
I tried to speak, but no sound left my throat. My voice had been stolen.
Instead, a crackling sound filled the room. From above. From everywhere.
A voice.
Distorted, genderless, stretched by static.
"Welcome, participants."
The others froze. Mizuki dropped her pen. Morimoto stopped pacing. Shiraishi's grip on her bag tightened.
The voice continued:
"You have been chosen.
You carry your secrets with you.
But secrets cannot remain hidden forever."
My chest constricted. The words pressed down like weights, though they were only sound.
"Soon, the truth will decide who survives."
A long silence followed. Then—laughter.
Not from the voice. From one of us.
Mizuki's quiet giggle echoed unnaturally in the empty room, rising into a brittle, hysterical laugh.
"Secrets…?" she whispered. "Do you have any idea how many I've buried?"
Her words made the air colder.
And then—everything went dark.
I woke with a start, gasping, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The ceiling of my apartment loomed above me, cracked and familiar. The lamp on my desk was still on.
For a moment, I thought it had been just another dream.
But the envelope was no longer in the drawer.
It sat neatly on my desk.
Open.
Waiting.
I stared at it until the sun rose, unable to move, unable to breathe.
And though I told myself it was impossible, I swore I heard it.
A faint, distorted crackle.
Like a voice just beyond hearing.
"Tomorrow."