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Kurokawa City was wrapped in a kind of light that seemed too still to belong to reality. The streets shimmered with an amber glow as if time itself had paused to take a breath. The air was heavy with the smell of rain that hadn't yet fallen — electric, tender, melancholic.
Akira Takahashi stood by the rail of a bridge that overlooked the long stretch of the Kurokawa River. The water reflected the fractured colors of the sky — oranges melting into violet, fading into the gray of dusk. His reflection rippled with every faint breeze, scattering into shapes that seemed almost familiar. Sometimes, he thought he could see other faces reflected beside his own — blurred silhouettes of people he couldn't name, yet his heart twisted every time he tried to remember.
He didn't know why it hurt.
Behind him, the sound of a skateboard clattered along the path. A familiar voice — light, teasing — broke the silence.
"Yo, Akira! You're here again? You always come to this bridge after work, huh?"
Akira turned. Daisuke Mori — dressed in his mechanic's jumpsuit, smudged with oil and dust — rolled to a stop, grinning like always. There was something effortless about him, a confidence that came from not knowing the weight of memory.
Akira smiled faintly. "Guess I like the view."
"Yeah, right. You like brooding," Daisuke laughed, leaning his skateboard against the railing. "You ever gonna tell me what you're always thinking about? You stare at that river like it's got all your answers."
Akira chuckled under his breath. "Maybe it does."
A silence lingered between them, not awkward, but filled with something unnamed — something deep and ancient, like an echo from another time. Daisuke leaned forward, peering into the reflection.
"You ever get that feeling," Daisuke said suddenly, "like you've been here before? Not just the place, but the moment? Like… déjà vu, but heavier?"
Akira froze. His heartbeat skipped.
"…Yeah," he whispered.
Daisuke laughed it off, though his voice trembled slightly. "Man, it's weird. Sometimes I dream of wind and light — like a storm chasing me, and someone calling my name. Woke up with tears once. Don't even know why."
Akira didn't respond. His gaze lingered on the water, and for a moment — just a flicker — he heard it.
A faint sound.
A whisper.
A note of music.
It was like an echo, soft but painfully clear — the faint strum of a guitar string, a melody that vanished before he could catch it.
---
Later that evening, Akira walked through the narrow backstreets of Kurokawa. Neon lights reflected off puddles, and the city felt both alive and unreal — like a painting someone had half-finished. He stopped in front of a small ramen shop. Inside, Hiroshi Tanaka sat near the window, sleeves rolled up, laughing with the shop owner.
"Akira!" Hiroshi called out, waving him over. His voice was warm, confident — the kind of tone that made people trust him without question.
Akira stepped inside, and the scent of broth and soy hit him like a memory. He sat down opposite Hiroshi, who handed him a steaming bowl.
"Still working those late shifts, huh?" Hiroshi said, sipping his soup. "You need to learn to slow down, man."
Akira smiled faintly. "You sound like an old man."
"Maybe I am," Hiroshi laughed. "But it feels good, you know? Simple life. No drama, no fights, just good food and peace. Sometimes I wonder if I even deserve it."
The words struck something deep in Akira — like a note played from a song long forgotten.
He looked at Hiroshi — really looked — and saw flashes in his mind.
A blade of fire.
A storm of sparks.
A man standing in the ruins, shouting his name — Akira, stay back!
It vanished before he could grasp it.
Akira pressed a hand to his temple, his head spinning.
"You okay?" Hiroshi asked, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Yeah," Akira said, forcing a smile. "Just… a headache."
Hiroshi grinned. "Probably all that thinking again. You always carry the world on your shoulders. Relax once in a while."
Relax.
The word echoed like a cruel joke.
---
That night, Akira walked home under the rain. The city lights blurred through the droplets, creating streaks of color like brushstrokes across the world. He lived in a small apartment overlooking the skyline — neat, quiet, filled with old records and scattered music sheets.
As he closed the door, a gust of wind rattled the window. The faint hum of a melody filled the air again — that same echo from the river. He turned sharply, but there was no one there.
On his table lay a small, cracked cassette tape. He didn't remember buying it. The label was worn out, the ink smeared. All he could read were the faint letters: E—h— C—mb—r.
He froze.
His hands trembled as he placed it in the old player. The tape clicked, whirred, then played.
Static.
Then — a voice.
Not words. Just a hum. A gentle, familiar hum that wrapped around him like the warmth of an old memory. The sound of someone laughing — faint, overlapping with wind and the echo of footsteps.
Then, a voice.
Clear. Soft.
"Akira… can you hear us?"
The cassette snapped with a sharp pop, and the player went silent.
Akira stumbled back, heart pounding. The city outside flickered for a moment — lights dimming, shadows warping. He could hear something outside his window, like whispers carried through the rain.
He looked out — and saw them.
Three silhouettes, standing under the streetlamp below. One held an umbrella; another had his hands buried in his coat pockets; the third leaned against the lamppost, head tilted upward as if he felt Akira's gaze.
Hiroshi. Daisuke.
And… Kenji.
Akira's breath caught in his throat. Kenji — the man he couldn't have possibly known — looked up with that same calm, protective expression. His lips moved, but the rain drowned out the words.
And then they were gone.
---
Morning came gray and quiet. The world seemed normal again, but Akira couldn't shake the feeling that something was cracking beneath the surface.
He walked to work — the sound studio near downtown Kurokawa — but the city felt… different. Buildings seemed taller, streets narrower, faces unfamiliar. Yet everyone acted as though nothing was wrong.
Inside the studio, Akira sat before the soundboard. The hum of the monitors filled the silence. He put on his headphones and pressed play on the tape he'd recorded last night — the one he thought was just white noise from the storm.
But what came out wasn't noise.
It was voices.
His voice.
Hiroshi's voice.
Daisuke's laugh. Kenji's deep tone.
Faint, distorted, overlapping like fragments of an impossible memory.
"…Akira, hold the frequency steady!"
"…Don't let it break!"
"…Kenji, behind you—!"
"…Akira, we're out of time—!"
He tore off the headphones, trembling. The monitor flickered, showing flashes — faces, battles, the ruins of Kurokawa burning under a blood-red sky.
Then everything went black.
When the lights came back on, he was alone. The room was silent. The tape had vanished.
Akira pressed his hand against his chest. His heart beat wildly — not from fear, but recognition. Deep, aching recognition.
He didn't know who they were.
But he knew one thing with certainty.
He wasn't supposed to forget them.
And somewhere in the air, carried on the faint hum of the city, came that same echo —
soft, distant, but unmistakable.
"Echo Chamber… awake."
---
The rain began to fall again over Kurokawa City, washing away the light, the sound, the illusion of peace — and somewhere in its rhythm, Akira Takahashi began to remember.
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