Fourth

But, that was the least of my concerns.
More bewilderment came from the insides of the novel itself, rather than the dust cover, the spine, or the promotional sleeve. 
Not to mention how out place all these things are in a rustic, European, Gothic bedchamber like this one.
What had sparked such confusion and amazement was a bookmark sticking out from the top, peeking out and crumpled against the low ceiling of the shelf above. I reached my hand into the dusty crevasse, deeper and damper than it seemed from above, and carefully pulled the book and the faded, bright yellow bookmark, now revealing itself as more of a receipt or promotional pamphlet, and slid it cleanly out from the top.
Although it was close to the floor, the shelf was still high enough that, when changing into my new, strangely modern clothes, I had unconsciously gazed over at the books lining it while strapping my belt across my waist.
A large, scarlet character was printed at the top, covering the dangly part that had fallen over the side of the book, just below the words that were crunched right against the top.
"How the hell did it not even occur to me that this bizarre thing might mean something..." I wondered, but it was probably an easy answer. Being overloaded with so much new information, my brain was probably struggling to juggle all this new stimulus alongside the roaring questions that blared bright red questions marks in my head.
                                         Suzerain of Limbo - Queen In White - Vote now!
                                      Please hand in your slips to Shirojoshi at the gates!
                                     (Food and drink will be provided, alcohol prohibited)
                                                          Featuring D&V performance!
Alongside these vaguely familiar words, what had caught my eye, was the imprinted, cartoon character probably supposed to represent whoever the Queen in White was, and a large, black and white speech bubble overhead, reading; My husband's death is a sadness that will push us onward to a brighter future! What was more concerning was the very distinct sign the character was holding, splattered with black pain reading;
"Osamu! Osamu! A human! In our hearts!... Just what is going on here?" I sputtered, almost clutching my head in my palms like a mental patient in one of his works.
Why the hell was Osamu Dazai's wife running for office?
Rather, what office was she running for that had titles like 'Suzerain' and 'Queen'?
Everything else on the pamphlet seemed standard procedure, with extensive paragraphs about the woman's life, the state of the political climate, proposed reforms... even a barcode-like symbol was imprinted in the bottom right, with strange writing bordering the picture.
Behind me, the slow footsteps of the long-haired man only now echoed out into the room, but I couldn't tell if he was just stepping in, or I was too engrossed in my re-discovery to notice his presence.
His hair touched the ground before his fingers, as he bent down to my right, and touched another wedged-in book with his willowy fingers.
"What the hell is right... Look at this" he proffered, pushing the novel he had pulled out, another pastel cream-striped paperback, although lacking the same inserted pamphlet. 
"Ningen Naru, by Osamu Dazai... It looked like his career really took off in this world."
"It's not like he wasn't popular in his time back home, even if it was mostly for retelling of folktales, but look at these designs. It's modern paperbacks lining this whole shelf, and most of them are Dazai's."
However, before we could discuss any further, the cool toned voice of the woman drifted in from the hallway, like a mother who's caught her child playing videogames while walking down the hallway at night.
"Please do not mess with the personal effects in the rooms. Also, please follow me. I don't want to rush your acclimation, but we need to begin heading out now", and with that, she bowed slightly at us, like an obstinate daughter forced to work at a Ryokan, before trailing her long dress out from the doorway.
With a glance at each other, confusion mixed with concern over what we were beginning to discover, and why it was seemingly important enough that our attention was being diverted elsewhere. But maybe it wasn't anything that suspicious. It seems like we really were lagging behind on whatever itinerary this woman had planned for us. Like a nurse that was getting the patient whose being in a coma reacclimated through daily activities, it seemed like she had something planned to help us 'acclimate', but to what, we would have to continue investigating, although, maybe a part of the process is some kind of introductory explanation.
For all that she had done, how she was acting, it seemed likely that we would be getting some kind of explanation. But whether it would be some biased, glamourised picture being painted, one that neglects and indecent, unwanted history or less attractive secrets that she wanted to keep hidden.
For all we know, we could be some kind of human cloning, or artificial biological entity experiment, and we would be led out into a world without even knowing it.
Maybe all that was waiting for us was medical equipment and a dimly lit room, and soon, some rich person's brain would be implanted into these miracles of human engineering, and would live out his second, third, or maybe even hundredth life out in this new replacement body.
I pinched my forearms, not to test whether I was dreaming, but more in vain hopes that I could glean whether I was really real or not.
The man next to me watched as this trepidation contorted my features, and seemed to be feeling his own kind of anxiety at what was to come.
"Maybe it's nothing so special, but I get the feeling it won't be anything bad" he muttered, and although his words were those of a senior comforting an underclassman, they seemed directed more at himself than me.
His eyes were narrowed against the open doorway where the woman's dress had drifted by, like the afterimage was revealing some kind of secret that he had to scrutinise to understand better. Behind him, the garish, marble-shaded rays illuminated all the dust swirling around us like fairies, and it almost seemed like those corals of jade were fluctuating between cerulean, turquoise, and indigo hazes. His concentrated expression, the way his shoulders arched forward into a prominence that his looming waves of black curls reinforced, draping him like a biological cape, ringed through sparkling loops calmed its intensity, all gave the impression of a man that was singularly preoccupied with a single, linear purpose in his life. I couldn't tell what, but it's the kind of deeply human look you see with the students at art colleges as they stroll around with a canvas tied to their back and brushes still dripping with ink clutched between their teeth.
Both of us, so significantly different in nature, in motivation, in purpose, or at least, from what I could intuit, nonetheless strolled forward towards the same fate, all washed in the bright white of the unknown world.