The blaring alarm sliced through the tranquility of the morning, dragging Miyamizu Mitsuha out of a dream that felt too vivid to be imagined. Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by the familiar wooden ceiling of her room. For a long moment, she simply lay there, unmoving.
Her body was awake, but her mind lingered elsewhere—in Tokyo.
A luxurious café with glass windows glowing golden under the city lights… the delicate aroma of layered mille-feuille… the breathtaking skyline from Tokyo Tower… Every detail remained etched into her mind with clarity that no dream should ever possess.
"That… wasn't just a dream, was it…?"
Her chest fluttered with excitement, but also a strange weight. She sat up slowly, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. The alarm clock was still ringing beside her. Mitsuha blinked in confusion.
"Eh? I don't remember setting an alarm yesterday…"
She thought back. Could it have been because she planned to meet Sayaka and the others today? That would explain it—unless something else was at play.
She reached for her phone, intending to dismiss the alarm—and then froze.
[Your journal has received a letter.]
Her brows furrowed. A message from her journal? That wasn't something her phone normally said. And who would even write a letter to her journal?
A chill ran down her spine.
Trying to brush off the oddity, she turned off the alarm and stood up—only to immediately collapse back onto her futon as a sharp, aching wave surged through her legs.
"Ngh…!?"
Soreness bloomed from her calves, spreading across her body like aftershocks from a quake. It felt like she had run a marathon.
But that made no sense—she hadn't done anything strenuous yesterday. In fact, the only movement she remembered was in that… dream.
Mitsuha's breath caught in her throat. Slowly, painfully, a realization began to dawn.
Everything she had experienced—the people, the tastes, the streets, the shopping—it had all been real.
Scrambling slightly, she glanced around and spotted her journal—right where it had always been. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it.
The previous entries were hers—her own handwriting. But yesterday's page had something new. Elegant, sharp brushstrokes of kanji that looked like they'd been etched by a practiced calligrapher. But the katakana was different—wild, messy, almost childish in comparison.
[Miyamizu Mitsuha, hello. My name is Yukima Azuma.]
Her heart skipped a beat.
"That's… his name?"
She could see his face clearly in her mind—tall, refined, aloof yet magnetic. The boy she had become. The one who lived in a Tokyo high-rise and got approached by beautiful girls on the street as if it were an everyday occurrence.
She had never known his full name… until now.
[First of all, what you experienced was not a dream, but an actual identity swap. Please understand this.]
She read it again. And again.
An identity swap. That explained everything—the sensations, the memory retention, the aching in her legs.
Then came the next line:
[While you spent one day in Tokyo, seven days have passed in Itomori.]
"Seven days!?"
She bolted upright, ignoring the soreness, and frantically opened her phone. Sure enough, a full week had passed. Her hands flew to the gallery.
Photos she didn't remember taking flooded the screen—selfies at the local café, desserts from their small town patisserie, a group photo with Sayaka and Teshigawara smiling beside her.
A laugh bubbled in her chest, dry and awkward.
"This place looks so… plain compared to Tokyo."
She slapped her cheeks with both hands.
"Stop it, Mitsuha! Focus!"
The high of the Tokyo experience faded, replaced by a new, sinking feeling: guilt.
She remembered what she had done as him—flirting with girls, hugging his cat like a plushie, and most damning of all… going on an online shopping spree. She had no idea how much she spent.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "If I ever meet him, I'll have to seiza kneel until my legs go numb…"
And yet… even with that guilt gnawing at her, the journal's next line gave her hope.
[The identity swap may continue sporadically until summer vacation ends.]
There was a chance—one more opportunity to make things right.
But at what cost? What if he was furious? What if he demanded repayment?
"How long would I have to work to repay it…? Decades?"
Her eyes welled up slightly, but she quickly blinked the moisture away.
A knock on her sliding door interrupted her spiral.
"Onee-chan, breakfast is ready!"
It was Yotsuha, her younger sister. Mitsuha stood up with effort, wincing again.
As she stepped out, Yotsuha tilted her head.
"You're walking funny."
"My legs… are just a little sore."
A pause.
"Hey, Yotsuha… have I been acting weird this past week?"
"Huh? Not really. Same as always."
Mitsuha's heart calmed a little. So he had played her part well—so well that not even her own sister noticed.
Meanwhile, she had caused chaos in just one day.
How frustrating. How amazing.
After breakfast, she returned to her room, only to be summoned again.
"Mitsuha," her grandmother called, "today you have to help make Kumihimo."
Right—Kumihimo weaving. A sacred tradition passed down in their shrine.
As she followed her grandmother and sister down the winding path to the shrine, she spotted a group of classmates approaching.
The usual suspects. The ones who made fun of her, snickered behind her back.
Ugh. Not them again…
She prepared to lower her head, to slip past like always.
But something strange happened.
The moment they saw her—they stepped aside. No smirks, no whispers. Just nervous eyes and bowed heads.
Mitsuha blinked. Was that fear?
Confused, she kept walking, watching them glance at a rock like it was a priceless treasure to avoid making eye contact.
Only after she passed did she hear a relieved sigh behind her.
It was as if they were terrified of her.
"…He did this, didn't he?"
She could almost imagine it—him using her body to put them in their place, using calm words, intimidating presence, unwavering confidence.
He had done something in those seven days that she could never manage in years.
Suddenly, she felt a strange mix of admiration and envy.
He had handled her life better than she ever could.
And she didn't even feel bitter—just… curious.
Inside the sacred weaving room, Mitsuha sat with her grandmother and Yotsuha.
The sun poured in through the wooden slats, casting warm shadows over the threads of every shade.
Kumihimo—the sacred cord connecting people and gods. Emotions could be woven into it: love, longing, memory.
She chose a red-orange thread.
As her fingers danced, slowly, carefully, she thought of Yukima Azuma.
She poured her guilt, her curiosity, her gratitude—into every loop and twist.
When the cord was finally complete, it glowed softly in the afternoon light.
She set it beside her.
If he ever came to Itomori… she would give it to him.
A small token of apology.
And, perhaps, a sign of connection.