Chapter 2: Driftwood
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Time lost all meaning—seconds stretched to centuries or compressed to instants. The cold hardened around me like a shell, freezing me in place beside the woman in red. My mind was a storm-ravaged wasteland, echoing with one terrible question: "Am I the killer?"
Yet from the depths of that wasteland, something began to stir. Not thought, not reason, but something older and more powerful—survival instinct.
My body acted before my mind caught up. The violent shivering wasn't just fear—it was self-preservation, generating heat against the killing cold. My teeth chattered wildly, each click a reminder of the brutal truth: stay here much longer, and I wouldn't need a killer or cops to finish me—the cold would do it first.
I had to move. Now.
The thought didn't flash into my mind—it was squeezed from my body's desperate need. Move, not for truth or justice, but simply to survive. This primal imperative pierced through my panic like a steel needle, bringing clarity through pain.
I tore my gaze from that hypnotic red and scanned my surroundings. I was in a small park squeezed between two buildings—more of a glorified rest area than anything. To my left stood a tall, modern off-white apartment complex, at least ten stories high. To my right loomed an older gray building, six or seven floors, with weathered walls. The park itself held little beyond a few benches, a couple of swings, and some naked trees.
The place was dead silent, not a soul in sight. In the snow, I saw only my own tracks and the impression left by the corpse—no sign of anyone else.
I needed clues—anything that might tell me who I was, where I was, what had happened. I had to search without disturbing the scene. With new purpose, I hunched down like a predator, eyes scanning the snow inch by inch.
The snowfall was light, just a dusting like powdered sugar. Not far from where I'd awakened, something caught my eye—a dark rectangle half-buried in white.
I approached cautiously, knelt, and with numb fingers brushed away the snow.
A woman's wallet.
Leather, dark brown, simple and unadorned. My heart skipped. After a quick glance to confirm I was alone, I snatched it up. It felt cold and stiff in my hand, snow still clinging to the zipper. I opened it and explored inside.
No cash. Not a cent. My heart sank as I pictured a robbery gone wrong. But I dismissed the thought when I found several cards still tucked in the compartments. I pulled them out.
An ID card and a bus pass.
I examined the ID first. The plastic had turned brittle in the cold. The photo showed a woman with delicate features and shoulder-length hair. Her expression wasn't just serious—it was almost coldly indifferent, lips pressed tight, eyes staring through the camera as if seeing something far beyond.
Name: Sato Kiko.
Sato Kiko.
The name rippled through my consciousness like a stone dropped in still water. I rolled the syllables over my tongue, trying to fish any related memories from the depths of my mind. Nothing but silence answered back.
My gaze snapped to the corpse. Could she be Sato Kiko? Was this her wallet? With her face down, I couldn't compare. I had to know.
I returned to the body, my fear wrestling with my need for answers. The need won. I sucked in a painful breath of frigid air, crouched down, and with trembling hands, gripped her shoulder to turn her over.
She was heavier than I expected, rigor mortis already setting in. I strained to turn her just enough to see her face.
It wasn't her.
Despite the pallor and swelling from blood loss and cold, I was absolutely certain this wasn't Sato Kiko from the ID. Different hair, different bone structure—completely different women.
The realization froze me in place.
If the dead woman wasn't Sato Kiko...
Then this wallet... this ID...
A thought hit me like lightning, nearly knocking me over. It burned through my fear and confusion, bringing an almost ridiculous surge of hope.
If the dead woman wasn't Sato Kiko, then this ID card likely belonged to me.
I am Sato Kiko.
The idea blazed through the void in my mind like a searchlight. It came from nowhere, defied logic, yet felt absolutely right. "Sato Kiko" was no longer just a name—it was my lifeline, an anchor securing me to reality just as nothingness threatened to swallow me whole.
I am Sato Kiko.
I released the corpse, letting her fall back into the snow like a final farewell. Stepping back, I clutched the ID and bus pass in my fist, their sharp edges digging into my palm. The pain felt oddly comforting.
Sato Kiko... Sato Kiko... Sato Kiko...
I chanted the name silently, a spell to tame the panic clawing at my chest. With each repetition, a false but precious security wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I was no longer a nameless ghost at a crime scene. I was someone. I had an identity. I was Sato Kiko.
With this newfound identity, my scattered thoughts began to align.
I, Sato Kiko, don't know why I'm here. There's a dead woman beside me, and my memory's gone. This is my wallet, but the cash is missing. That explains it—I was robbed, just like the dead woman. I just got lucky and survived.
The explanation was Swiss cheese, but it was all I had to keep myself from falling apart.
Bolstered by this flimsy security, my pulse steadied. I stood tall and surveyed my surroundings more carefully. This time, I looked beyond the ground, scanning upward across bare branches and the looming apartment buildings.
Then I saw it.
My pupils shrank to pinpoints.
There in the narrow park between buildings, at a completely unnatural height on a bare tree branch—
Hung a bright red scarf.
Its color was identical to the dead woman's coat—that same vivid, eye-catching red, the same woolen texture. The cold wind made it flutter like a signal flag.
