Every choice matters now.
Yuto felt it in his bones—the subtle shift of air when he stepped left instead of right, the ripple caused by a single sentence said differently. The loop was no longer a rigid timeline; it was alive, watching, adjusting.
He and Aira spent the next loop carefully experimenting. Small actions. Minor variables. No sudden waves—just ripples.
Yuto skipped school one morning. The vice principal made an announcement about increased security later that day. A butterfly's wing had flapped.
Aira told her best friend, Kana, that she loved her like a sister. In that loop, Kana didn't get into the fight with another girl that usually ended with suspension.
Every shift revealed hidden gears behind the day's events—people bumping into strangers who later saved them from traffic, or a single joke sparking a chain of friendships that hadn't existed in other loops.
But for every good change, something dark followed.
Crows began gathering on rooftops. Clocks in the school started running backwards for seconds at a time. Yuto caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure standing at the base of the stairs—only to vanish when looked at directly.
"Something's reacting," Aira whispered one night as they met in the empty gym. "Every time we change the script, something else starts pushing back."
Yuto nodded grimly. "Then we push harder."
They began leaving signals for themselves in future loops—scratches on desks, notes in library books, coded messages under chairs.
And slowly, their bond deepened—not just from the knowledge of danger, but from the growing sense of only us. No one else remembered. No one else carried the burden.
One night, in the library, Aira reached across the table and took Yuto's hand.
"I'm not afraid of dying anymore," she whispered. "I'm only afraid of forgetting you."
The words struck him harder than any explosion.
He squeezed her hand back.
"You won't forget. I won't let you."
Outside, thunder rolled. Not from clouds—but from something deeper, older.
The world was listening.
And it was not pleased.