The evening wind of Verlyn carried the scent of dried wheat as we passed through the city gate.
The sound of cart wheels, horse cries, and merchants shouting blended into one, but Lyona's steps slowed instead.
"Strange…" she muttered.
"What?" I asked.
Lyona looked at the city's information board, as if trying to remember something she couldn't grasp.
"Six years ago I passed through here… but I don't remember the season, I don't remember who was with me, or even the reason why I was there." She bit her lip, uneasy. "The missing feeling is too clean."
I swallowed hard. Just like that researcher said.
The mist doesn't only steal people.
It steals time.
We walked toward the central plaza. People were gathered around a large wooden board full of notices: missing persons, reports of returns, and other strange records.
Lyona touched one worn-out notice. "Look at this."
> OFFICIAL REPORT OF VERLYN — 11 YEARS AGO
A man of unknown identity, white hair, medium height, found emerging from the mist in the eastern part of the city. No memories.
Disappeared again after 3 days.
I froze.
The face drawn in the notice… was me.
But older.
His gaze was cold. Too calm for someone without memories.
"Makoto…" Lyona's voice was soft. "This looks like you, but… not you."
I tried to breathe slowly, holding back the chill rising from my spine.
"If that's me… why don't I remember?"
"Because that's not you," Lyona answered quickly, as if wanting to protect me from another possibility. "Or… you from another time."
I didn't know which was scarier.
We sat on a wooden bench near the fountain.
An old man—a herbal seller—watched us from his small stall.
"You two reading that old report?"
His voice was rough, like rusted.
Lyona turned. "You knew that man?"
The old man nodded slowly, his face wary. "I was the one who saw him come out of the mist. Exactly the same as the young man beside you… but his gaze was different. Like he already knew what was going to happen."
My heart pounded.
"Did he say anything?" I asked.
"There were two things."
The herbal seller closed his eyes, trying to remember.
"First… he asked about the time."
"Time?" Lyona repeated.
"Yes. 'What year is this?' he said. As if he feared the number he'd hear."
Lyona stiffened.
"And the second?" I asked.
The old man opened his eyes—slowly, as if afraid of the memory.
"He looked toward the mist… and said:
'I'm late again.'"
Lyona froze.
I lowered my head, staring at the reflection of my own face on the rippling fountain water.
"Late again."
What happened to me 11 years ago?
Or… what will happen to me later?
As we stood to leave, the old man added something without looking at us:
"If you want to know about the missing years… go to the Northern Archive. They keep the reports of people who returned from the mist."
He swallowed.
"Including the white-haired girl… found seven years ago."
Lyona's entire body stiffened. Her face turned pale.
"M-me…?" her voice trembled.
I looked at her.
She avoided my eyes—afraid of her own answer.
"Makoto… was I ever lost?" she whispered.
I held her shoulder. "We'll find out together."
But when Lyona lifted her head…
I felt something strange.
Her gaze—for just a second—felt like… déjà vu.
As if I had seen Lyona standing with that expression, in that same place, but long… long… ago.
And in the reflection of the fountain, for a split second, I saw another silhouette standing behind me—taller, calmer, and looking at Lyona in a way I couldn't understand.
When I turned around, no one was there.
But my heart knew:
Makoto B was watching.