Day 2, August 19, 2015
In her old life, she'd opened her first account with a no-frills brokerage, one of those discount shops that didn't care if your seal was crooked or if your residence certificate was a few weeks out of date.
So she went there.
Except now, it was different.
The logo had been updated. The website too.
The office smelled of new plastic and air freshener.
The clerk was young. Polite. She smiled in a way that made her nervous.
He took one look at her packet and said,
"We've updated our compliance policy. A seal and a residence certificate are both required. Sorry."
She blinked.
"That wasn't the case before."
He just nodded sympathetically.
"It changed last year."
Of course it did.
She walked out into the street and didn't move for a long time.
The sun felt heavier than before.
She realized something then.
She had remembered the future. But the future had already shifted.
Even when you cheat with memory,
you still have to play by the rules of the present.
And sometimes, those rules change.
She hadn't planned to go to Matsui.
In fact, she'd avoided them on purpose—too formal, too many steps, too much bureaucracy.
But now that her "easy route" had vanished, she had no choice.
If she wanted to trade, she'd have to do it the hard way.
Aria stared at the Matsui Securities building like it might bite her.
It was smaller than she remembered, just five floors, tucked between a karaoke chain and a shuttered travel agency. The sign was a little faded. The reception glass looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the financial crisis.
She stepped inside anyway.
The air conditioning hit her like a slap. Sharp, too cold. Sterile. Two middle-aged men were arguing quietly near the copier. A junior-looking woman behind the counter looked up, clearly trying to calculate if Aria was a walk-in or a problem.
Aria walked up to the desk and placed the brokerage packet down.
"I want to open an account," she said, trying to sound bored.
The woman nodded, took the form, and frowned.
"This page is missing a seal."
Aria blinked. "I don't have a seal."
"You need a seal."
"I don't—" She paused. "I thought you could sign now?"
The woman smiled the way bureaucrats smile in every timeline.
"If you don't have a registered seal, you can apply for an unregistered one at the city hall, but you'll still need a copy of your residence certificate. Have you brought that?"
Aria stood there, blank for half a second.
Then nodded. "I'll come back."
Outside, the sun was already angling toward the train lines.. She didn't have time to be frustrated. She walked two blocks south, found a 100-yen shop, and bought the cheapest seal they had. It said "lin" in a font she hated. Too bubbly.
The clerk didn't even blink when she paid in coins.
City hall was worse, packed, chaotic, fluorescent. She stood in line behind a woman arguing about daycare subsidies for nearly forty minutes. When she finally got to the front, the clerk asked if she had proof of address.
Aria handed over her rental contract.
The clerk examined it, tilted his head, and said, "This is from last year."
"It's the same apartment."
"But you'll need a certificate of residence that's dated within the last three months."
She smiled. Too wide. "Of course."
The seat beside her smelled faintly of spilled beer. A high school couple across from her was sharing a crepe.
Aria opened her phone and tapped out a note:
Things they don't tell you about time travel:
Even if you know the market, you still have to stand in line.
Even if you know the future, you still need a fucking seal.
She looked up. The city rushed past.
The next morning, she returned to city hall with fresh documents, her new ¥100 seal in a plastic case. By noon, the paperwork was done. She handed it over at Matsui Securities without a word.
"We'll notify you by email once it's approved," the clerk said.
Aria nodded. She already knew.
Time was moving again.