Garbage Shift

RIIIIING RIIIING RING!

"Huh?" I turned toward the clock.

". . . I'm screwed."

For crying out loud, it's already 7:30!

I jumped up and looked in the mirror . . . still wearing yesterday's clothes? Hadn't I changed them? Couldn't remember. I must have slept like a rock.

Well, more time for me!

I sprinted to the bathroom, gave my face a quick two-minute wash, then went straight to the kitchen to gulp down yesterday's rice balls, the one I'd bought at the convenience store down the street.

Now it's 8:00, and—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

There it is. It's him.

I threw on my uniform, grabbed my gloves, and—zoom!—out the door.

---------------------------

"Late again today," he says. That's Kenji, full name Ota Kenji, my one and only childhood friend.

"It's not like anyone's in a rush, anyway."

"Yeah, yeah—when the old ladies in the third district don't see their trash collected by 8:01, they start screaming like lunatics."

"Oh well, that's just because of their age."

"I don't know anything about that, and I don't want to."

"Okay, bro. But wait—you haven't washed? You stink worse than yesterday."

"Nope."

"WHY?"

"I'm going to be working in garbage anyway, so it's not like washing changes anything."

"You're disgusting, you know that? It's a hygiene thing."

"Oh yeah? Well, first of all, you're still wearing yesterday's clothes too, and second of all, mind your own business."

"Yeah, yeah . . . let's get moving."

The truck starts, and so does our shift. We're the only two guys in the city who do this job. GARBAGE COLLECTORS!

At twenty-one, it was the only job we could find, mostly because our diplomas didn't carry enough weight to land anything better.

We're driving past a high school now, packed with kids.

"Bunch of brats," Kenji says, looking out the window.

"Hey! Don't be rude, they can hear you!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever—now get off and grab the bags."

BANG! I hop down and head toward the pile waiting to be collected. About six bags today—cardboard day.

One, two, three—up they go into the truck. I toss all six in while Kenji keeps muttering insults at the schoolkids through the window.

He wasn't always like this. I don't know exactly what changed, but ever since we started this job, something in him shifted.

While I'm lost in thought, a random envelope drops right in front of me, out of nowhere.

"Huh? What's this?" It was folded carefully, and it looked cleaner than anywhere else around it.

Curious, I open it. Inside is a drawing of a doll!

It's beautifully made—I have no idea what kid drew it, but it's gorgeous, full of color.

I decide to keep it.

Then I climb back into the truck.

"Why do you always pick up this useless junk?" Kenji asks, eyes on the road.

"It's not junk, look how beautiful it is!"

"I'm driving."

"We're going twenty kilometers an hour."

"Still driving."

". . ."

"If you ask me, toss that little puppet drawing."

"It's a doll!" I correct him firmly.

"Fine, a doll. But what are you even gonna do with it?"

"I don't know. I just like it."

"All right, suit yourself."

"I will, but you're really insensitive and gloomy, you know that?"

"Why? I don't think I am."

"You are!"

"I only speak the truth."

"Hmmm."

The rest of the day passes normally. On the way home, I keep glancing at the drawing.

"Kenji."

"Hm?"

"Why do you think people make art, then just throw it away? I mean, if they put real work into it, why toss it?"

"No real answer to that, could be a lot of reasons—feelings, work, family stuff, whatever. But listen, if someone throws away even something they worked hard on, it usually means one of two things: either they stopped caring, or they don't want to keep looking at it because it hurts too much."

"Hmm, I see. That was surprisingly deep, by the way. Are you secretly a poet?"

"Hiroshi! Don't mess with me, I just want to go home!"

"Hehe, okay, sorry."

AT HOME

I set the drawing on the nearby dresser and started thinking about dinner.

"Ahh, food?" I opened the cupboard—instant cup noodles, my dinner today, like every day! Sometimes I regret moving to the city; back home with my parents, at least the food was fresh.

After eating, I washed up—finally—and went to bed, since tomorrow's not a Sunday, so it's better to sleep early if I actually want to wake up on time.

Even though I already know I won't.

---------------------------

It was midnight, dead silent.

Then, at some point, a powerful light started glowing in the room—not from a lamp, but from the drawing I'd brought home!

The glow lasted only a second before vanishing. But it wasn't just the light that disappeared.

---------------------------

My bed felt too soft—almost unbelievably comfortable—like it wasn't even mine; and even though it was small, it somehow felt enormous, spacious!

Wait. This isn't my bed.

My eyes shot open, and I immediately felt like I shouldn't have looked.

There was no ground under my feet—literally! My house was gone too! Honestly, this place didn't even look real.

Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but white. The only spot of color was me.

And I was still in my work uniform! But why did even this place make me look like a garbage collector, when I hadn't even started my shift yet?

Setting all that aside, I realized I was floating—alone, in this unknown place, still trying to decide whether it was a dream or reality.

Kenji turned up too, to keep me company—I don't know how, but when I turned around, there he was, looking like a man who'd just witnessed something impossible.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"I want to ask you the same thing."

"What are we even doing here, and what is this place? Two minutes ago I was asleep in bed! And why am I in my uniform?!" he yelled.

"Man, I don't know either."

"So what do we do?"

"Wait?"

". . . okay, but why?"

"You got a better idea?"

"No."

"So?"

"Fine, we wait."

A few minutes pass. Nothing happens. Then—

"What the heck is going on?!" Kenji shouts again.

"We'll find out soon! Maybe . . ."

The white space disappeared, but not before flashing so brightly we had to shut our eyes.

When we opened them again, we were standing in the middle of a crowd. The white void from before had turned into a concert hall, packed with people.

And gravity was back—we weren't floating anymore.

"Where the heck are we now?!" Kenji again.

"At a concert?"

"What concert? I don't want to be at any concert! And why am I stuck with you?!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Look, there are people here, let's ask them," I suggested.

"Good idea."

He walks up to a nearby guy and asks, "Excuse me, where are we?"

The guy doesn't answer. In fact, he just turns away.

"Hey, jerk! Answer me!"

He steps closer and grabs the guy's shoulder. The man turns around, but when he speaks, there's no reaction to Kenji at all—nothing.

"What the heck?! You want a fight or something?"

"No, Kenji, it's something else."

"What do you mean? Explain," he asks, quieter now.

"Look—when you talk, he doesn't react. But when you touch him, he does. That means only our sense of touch works here. For everything else, we're like ghosts."

"So we're basically ghosts?"

"Yeah."

Kenji puts his hand on his head and groans, "Nooo! I don't want to be a ghost at this age, I still need to get married!"

Right then, the stage lights up and the crowd starts screaming. A woman steps out from behind the curtain.

The crowd screams even louder—some people are even crying, out of pure joy.

And then . . .

"AHHHH AHHH AHHHHHH AHHH!!!" Kenji starts screaming too, like a madman.

"What's wrong with you now?!"

"Look! It's Misuzu Sora!"

"Who?" I ask flatly.

"Seriously? You don't know who Misuzu Sora is?"

"No."

"Have you been living under a rock?"

"Look, if I'm not into music, that's not my fault."

"Okay, okay. So, Misuzu Sora—you could say she's one of the biggest— actually, no, THE biggest country singer of the last five years!"

"Okay, okay, I get that she's famous, but why are you this excited? I've never seen you like this!"

"Do you have any idea how much a single ticket to her concert costs?"

"No."

He leans in and whispers in my ear . . .

"WHAT? Are you messing with me?"

"No, I'm dead serious."

"For a few minutes of a song, that's insane."

Honestly, though, the song was beautiful, and so was the singer—she looked about our age, maybe younger.

But the biggest question still remained: why were we even here?

There was no answer, because the moment the song ended, I opened my eyes again, back in my own room, like nothing had happened.

To make sure it had all been real, I called Kenji.

"Hey, Kenji—did you see it too?"

". . . Yeah."

". . ." I hung up and started replaying everything that had happened, trying to figure out why.

I spent the whole night thinking, full of questions, but got zero answers.

NEXT DAY

We're out on the truck again.

"So I did a little research, and apparently what we experienced is something called a 'shared dream'—it happens when two people go through the exact same routine all day long."

". . . and we do this same garbage job every single day!" Kenji says, driving.

"But why did it happen to just the two of us?"

"No idea."

"Don't you think it's strange?"

"It is. But who cares? It was just a dream. Get ready to hop off, we're at the next stop."

I wasn't convinced. Not even a little. It was way too strange, too bizarre to just brush off.

---------------------------

The rest of the day went normally. Once I got home, I did my usual routine and went to bed.

But before I could close my eyes, last night's dream crept back into my mind. Not sure how else to react, I figured I'd trust Kenji's research and just closed my eyes.

---------------------------

That floating feeling again.

I open my eyes fast.

To my surprise, I'm somewhere completely different—you know those rooms where performers get their makeup done before going on stage? That's exactly where I am.

I figure Kenji will show up soon, just like last time.

But he doesn't.

A good amount of time passes and he never arrives—and in the meantime, I realize I forgot to mention that right in front of me is yesterday's singer, surrounded by makeup artists.

About an hour goes by, and they're still not done.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I decide to step closer to see what they've actually been doing this whole time.

. . . and the makeup artists who were there a second ago vanish completely, like a popped soap bubble.

"What the heck?"

The atmosphere turns cold. Dead silence.

"Um . . . what do I do now?"

"Ms. Misuzu? Can you hear me? Or see me?" I wave my hands too.

". . . guess not."

The strange part was that Misuzu hadn't moved this whole time—not even slightly. She stood there like a wall, staring at the mirror.

Her face was completely dead, literally! No emotion at all.

"Ms. Misuzu? Is something wrong? . . . Right, she can't hear me."

"How much longer do I have to be here?" With no answer coming, I sat down in one of the chairs and just waited for the dream to end.

An hour passes, then two, then three. Nothing changes. The dream still hasn't ended, and Misuzu is still there, frozen like a statue, staring straight ahead.

"Sigh . . . how much longer?"

A couple more hours pass. Still nothing.

"The sun's probably already up by now. I HAVE TO GO TO WORK!" I yell, pointlessly.

"Hmm, what do I even do now?" My eyes drift back to Misuzu. "Ma'am? Can you say something? Can you tell me when this dream is going to end?"

The second I finish that sentence, tears start pouring from both her eyes.

"WAIT! MA'AM?! WHAT HAPPENED? IS SOMETHING WRONG? DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG?"

I try to comfort her somehow, but nothing works—she just keeps crying, nonstop.

And right in the middle of all that, the dream ends, and I wake up.

My whole bed is soaked in sweat. I rush to check the clock—it's only 1 AM.

"What the heck just happened?" One question, zero answers.

The next day, I told Kenji everything.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"It's all true—the singer was frozen like a statue, then suddenly started crying her eyes out."

"Nah, man, on stage she looks like the happiest person on earth."

"I don't care about that, I'm telling you what I saw."

"Well, that's weird, man."

"Did you see anything yesterday?" I ask, almost desperate.

He thinks for a moment.

". . . Yeah, I saw a little girl playing with a doll."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Wasn't there anything strange about it? Anything unusual?"

"Hmm, don't think so . . . although, now that I think about it, the doll's face looked just like that drawing you found the other day."

"WHAT?!" I practically jumped out of my seat. "Are you serious?"

"Why would I lie about that?"

"I GET IT! I GET IT NOW!" I keep shouting.

"Get what? Explain it to me too."

"Okay, okay, listen—I think that drawing I picked up isn't just a drawing. I think it's some kind of magic portal that takes us into different dimensions!"

". . . You feeling okay?"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE SPOUTING THIS NONSENSE! WE'RE IN THE REAL WORLD, AND THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS FANTASY HERE!"

"Then how do you explain us seeing the exact same dream? And you just said yourself that little girl's doll looked exactly like the drawing—that's not a coincidence, there's something deeper going on here."

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?! HUH?!"

"YOU'LL FIND OUT SOON! TONIGHT YOU'RE SLEEPING AT MY PLACE!"

"WHAT? . . . What do you mean?"

"I don't know, but I figure if we're in the same place, maybe we'll see the same dream."

"Then how did we end up together the first time, even though we slept in our own separate houses, huh?"

"MAN, I DON'T KNOW! I don't understand this whole thing either, but I at least want to try it once."

"No, I'm not coming, and I'm definitely not sleeping in your room! Not in a million years!"

"Who said you're sleeping in my room? You'll sleep in the living room."

"No, no, no, I'm not sleeping in that closet! My feet are gonna hurt."

"Nothing's gonna happen to you, and besides, it's not that small. Even if something does happen, I'll cover it myself, all right? Just stay at my place tonight."

". . . If you're going to insist this much, fine."

AT NIGHT

"Good night," I say.

"What are you even doing?"

"Nothing."

"Then just go to sleep normally."

. . .

That floating feeling starts again. I snap my eyes open fast.

We're in an playground full of kids playing. Kenji's right next to me.

"See, told you," I say, proud of myself.

"Yeah, but how is this even possible?"

"Forget that for now, let's focus on why we're here."

"Which is?"

"Tell me where the little girl you saw before is."

"Hmm, let me see . . . hmm, THERE SHE IS! Over there!"

She looked about eight years old, playing with her doll alongside some other little girls.

"What do we do now?" Kenji asks.

"We wait for your dream to end and mine to start, then we can figure something out."

"Okay."

Nothing else happens. A few hours pass, and the dream ends as the world in front of us fades to black.

"Man, this part always gives me chills, like getting swallowed up in the blink of an eye," Kenji says.

"Aren't you supposed to be the tough guy?"

"Tough guy doesn't mean fearless."

"Fair enough. So how long are we stuck here this time?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

A few minutes pass, and color starts bleeding into the void around us, then a flash of light—and we're inside my dream.

In front of us is Misuzu again, standing somewhere inside her mansion. Outside, the sun is setting, and she's pressed up against the window, staring out.

"What's she doing?" Kenji asks.

"Can't you tell?"

"I mean—why like that? It's like watching someone who's already dead, just waiting for it to be official."

"I don't know. Last time it was the same."

"Should we do something?"

"Do what? She can't even sense us."

"Yeah, but touch works."

". . . where's this idea even coming from, and what exactly are you planning to do?"

"I don't know, but maybe we could take her somewhere nice—like that playground, the one full of happiness."

"You know the way to that playground?"

"Yeah, you know, back in school, whenever I skipped class I'd always go hang out there. It was far, but it was my perfect spot."

"Where exactly are you talking about?"

"Oh, the one across from that ice cream place—Best Cream!"

"Which ice cream place?"

"MAN! THE ONE IN THE CENTER OF TOWN! WE'VE BEEN THERE TONS OF TIMES!"

"YEAH, BUT THERE'S NO PLAYGROUND THERE ANYMORE, THERE'S A CONVENIENCE STORE NOW!"

"THERE USED TO BE ONE!"

"Used to be? How long ago?"

"I JUST TOLD YOU, BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL!"

"Five years ago . . . five years ago." Something inside me started turning over, I didn't know exactly what.

"Kenji! Can you tell me when Misuzu made her debut?"

"Five years ago, why?"

"And how old is she?"

"Same as us, twenty-one, why?"

"Are you telling me—"

"NO! NO! NO! TELL ME WHY! I'M LOSING MY MIND HERE! JUST TELL ME WHY!" Kenji shouts furiously.

"BECAUSE WE'RE INSIDE ONE PERSON'S LIFE—YOU'RE SEEING THE PAST, AND I'M SEEING THE PRESENT!"

"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!"

"YOU SAID THAT PLAYGROUND GOT TORN DOWN FIVE YEARS AGO, AND THE SINGER MADE HER DEBUT THE SAME YEAR. I'M SEEING HER NOW, AS SHE IS TODAY—SHE'S DIFFERENT! SHE'S NOT WHO SHE WANTED TO BECOME!"

"WHO CARES?! SHE CAN DO WHATEVER SHE WANTS! THIS IS ALL BECAUSE OF THAT STUPID DRAWING! I'M BURNING IT THE SECOND WE WAKE UP!"

"NO, WE'RE NOT DOING THAT! WE HAVE TO HELP HER!"

"HOW, IF SHE CAN'T EVEN SEE OR HEAR YOU?!"

"WE HAVEN'T EVEN TRIED TOUCH YET!"

"WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING TO DO WITH THAT?!"

"I WANT TO BRING HER TO WHERE EVERYTHING SPLITS APART!"

"HOW?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Kenji storms toward me and grabs me by the collar.

"HIROSHI! YOU NEED TO TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON IN YOUR HEAD, BECAUSE I CAN'T MAKE SENSE OF ANY OF THIS! EVERY MORNING I HAVE TO DO THAT GARBAGE JOB, ELBOW-DEEP IN PEOPLE'S TRASH, AND NOW ON TOP OF THAT YOU'RE DRIVING ME CRAZY! SO PLEASE, JUST EXPLAIN IT TO ME!"

"I don't know, Kenji. I don't know either. Ever since I picked up that drawing, I can't think straight anymore."

"Then the second we wake up, we're throwing it out. Otherwise we're both going to end up in a padded room, and honestly, who cares if some stranger's life works out or not—we've already got a hard enough life of our own, you get that, right?"

I don't know what to say. Nothing comes to mind. I can't move forward, I don't know what to do.

His words feel like a tangled mess I can't untangle.

"Hiroshi! Answer me!"

. . .

"HIROSHI! ANSWER ME! TELL ME WE'RE THROWING OUT THAT STUPID DRAWING!"

"Kenji, I've got nothing. I don't know what to say."

He stares straight into my eyes, with an expression I'd never seen on him before—eyes so heavy they seemed to reflect my own face, the lines on my forehead.

"Fine. You don't have to say anything yet."

We spend the rest of the time in silence, just like Misuzu, who's still standing there, staring out the window.

When I wake up, drenched in sweat, I hear loud footsteps approaching fast. In a blink, the door bursts open and Kenji storms in.

"Kenji!"

"KENJI, WAIT! LISTEN TO ME FIRST!"

"No, Hiroshi! Tell me where the drawing is!"

He shoves me, knocking me back onto the bed, then charges toward the closet and shelves like a raging bull.

"Kenji, wait!"

"NO!"

I grab his collar from behind, hard enough that I can almost hear the buttons creak, but he doesn't stop for a second.

Until he finds the drawing in the drawer next to the closet.

"Found it."

"No, Kenji, don't!"

"Hiroshi, this thing is driving you insane, and I can't just watch my friend fall apart like this."

"The drawing didn't do anything. I'm the one who wants to see this through."

"Why? Why do you even want to do this, why can't you just mind your own business?"

"Because it matters, that's why! If we got this chance, even in some weird, unexplainable way, I want to try and see it through. And come on, Kenji, didn't you used to want the exact same thing?"

"Yeah, but that was the past."

"I think life gave us a shot to finish that dream. If you don't want to do it, fine, but at least try."

"Not like this, though."

"There's no other way to do it."

". . ."

"Kenji, I just want to see our old promise actually come true, just once. I don't want to live with regret—I want to at least try to finish it." I start choking up a little.

". . . What do you want to do now?" he asks quietly, without turning around.

"Since all of this is connected to Misuzu Sora, I want to dig into everything about her—how she got started, her rise to fame, her relationships, all of it. I want to get to the bottom of this."

"We're not going to find much. We're not journalists, we're just garbage collectors."

"We'll do whatever we can."

". . . Fine." With that, he walks out of the room and heads to bed. I don't know what he's thinking, but I think he's going to help me with this.

THE FOLLOWING DAY

We'd both taken a leave from work, making up some excuse.

With that sorted, I went and gathered every newspaper and ad featuring Misuzu Sora I could find, from the very beginning up to now (trying to grab as many as humanly possible), while Kenji dug up every interview she'd ever given.

"Should we start?" he asks.

"Let's start!"

Page after page, video after video, our hands and eyes never stopped, not even for a second.

Every single piece of information, even the useless ones, could turn out to matter for what we were trying to do.

A whole day goes by and night falls, and we still hadn't stopped.

"Find anything?" I ask.

"No. You?"

"Nothing."

"How far are we even supposed to take this? In every interview she's ever given, she's never said a word about her private life. What are we supposed to do if we don't actually know anything about her?"

"Weren't you supposed to be her biggest fan?"

"Honestly, I'm starting to regret that right about now."

"Then you're not a real fan."

"Maybe not, but there's better things to do with a life."

"You're right. Remember how happy we were as kids? We thought life was just roses and sunshine."

"That's the beauty of being a kid—when you're little you want to grow up fast, and once you're grown up, you just want to be little again."

"Yeah, exactly. Good old days—school, then home, then playing nonstop till late at night."

"Everything was good back then."

"Kenji."

"Yeah?"

"Why were we happy back then, and not now?"

"Because we had everything."

"So you think Misuzu had something that made her happy too?"

"Yeah, in the dreams she was always really happy playing with that doll."

"What do you think happened to it?"

"Honestly, most likely it just got thrown out, like basically everyone's does."

"Is it possible to get it back?"

"Pretty much impossible. Once a doll ends up at the dump, it never comes back."

"Then what if we try to catch the exact moment it gets destroyed?"

"We don't control time in these dreams."

"Statistically, what are the odds we actually catch that exact scene?"

"No idea, I was never good at math, and I still am not."

"But it'll come, right?"

"Yeah, for sure. It has to."

From that day on, for the next seven years, every single day we tried to catch that one scene.

Every blessed night!

Our bodies turned into skeletons, day after day.

But the drive to actually finish this was so strong it never let us stop.

Kenji grew quieter and quieter. The shadows under his eyes turned almost black. He started wearing sunglasses all the time just to hide them.

And me—I didn't know who I was anymore, or more precisely, who I used to be. I started wondering if my own brain was refusing to accept that I was the same person, or someone else entirely.

Until one night!

"What night is this, anyway?" Kenji asks.

"Stopped counting a long time ago."

"We do a garbage job in the morning, and now we're doing this garbage at night too."

The scene in front of us starts taking shape—we're outside Misuzu's house, now a teenager. Today must be her first day of high school.

We knew that because every day we got to see a slice of one of her days—we'd basically become part of her family, The only thing was, she couldn't really sense almost anything of it.

"First day of high school, huh," Kenji says, smiling.

"Yeah."

"The start of our own three-year stretch of madness. Remember?"

"Heh, yeah, how could I forget."

While we're talking, suddenly—the front door swings open, and Misuzu and her mother step outside.

"She's not happy today."

"Guess the moment's finally here."

"Yeah, it's here."

---------------------------

"NO, SORA! THAT'S ENOUGH, YOU'RE NOT A LITTLE GIRL ANYMORE!" her mother shouts, her face twisted with anger, nearly blind with fury.

"But Mom! I don't want to throw her away! Can't we at least keep her in the house?" Little Misuzu, tears streaming down her cheeks like a waterfall.

"No, you said the same thing last time! Not this time!"

"Mom, please, I'm begging you!"

"No!"

"I'm telling Dad!"

"Go ahead and tell him, but by the time he gets home, the doll will already be gone."

Her mother stood there holding the doll, waiting for our seniors to come.

"Mom, I'm not going to school!"

"You want to skip your very first day? You know that's going to cost you for the next three years."

"Mom, please, just this once."

"No, no, no!"

In the distance, the garbage truck rolls up with its little siren.

"Here they come."

"MOM! NOOOO!"

Then the truck pulls in, and the mother hands the doll over, even with her daughter standing right there, emotionally falling apart—but not this time! Not going to happen.

The dream isn't over yet.

A few hours later

DING DING DING!

The school bell rings, and hundreds of small, medium, and tall footsteps start making their way toward the exit.

Within three minutes, 95% of the school had already emptied out. The remaining five percent trickled out slowly, some very slowly—including little Misuzu.

A terrible day, that had started off even worse. It would've been better if she just hadn't woken up at all today.

She got through every class without doing a thing—no talking, no greetings, nothing.

It all felt pointless. What was even the point.

And honestly, she wasn't entirely wrong.

She almost didn't even want to go home. She'd rather stay hungry and wait at the train station until evening, just to walk home with her dad later.

But it's not like waiting would've changed anything.

What had to happen had already happened.

Small footsteps finally made their way up to the front door, where a surprise was waiting.

". . ." Head still down, she didn't want to look at anyone.

". . ." She slowly starts to lift her head.

". . . !!! LILY!" Her empty eyes had finally found water. A lost man had found his way home. A cold sky had finally found its sun.

And the little girl had found her Lily.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! LILY! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?! MOM... MOM?!"

The girl throws the door open and sprints straight to her mother in the kitchen.

"MOM! MOM! LILY'S HOME?! BUT HOW...?"

Her mother's face was a mix of every expression imaginable, but mostly guilt, worry, and joy, all at once.

In a quiet voice, she says, "Sweetheart, I realized you just can't be without your Lily, so I went back and brought her home. I'm so sorry, and I promise I'll never do that again."

The girl bounces up and down with joy, then runs and wraps her short little arms around her mother in a huge hug. "THANK YOU, MOM! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!"

"I love you too. Now go wash your hands, lunch is ready."

"Okay!"

She was about to leave the room when her mother calls her back.

"Sora!"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Here."

"What's this?"

"It's a letter. . . Lily wrote for you."

"LILY WROTE THIS?! REALLY? HOW? DID YOU SEE HER WRITE IT? REALLY?! CAN SHE WRITE NOW? RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU? MOM, TELL ME QUICK!"

"I don't know about that part . . . but yes, Lily wrote it, and she wants you to read it."

"Okay, I'll read it right now!"

"Not here, in your room . . . she wants it to be private, okay?"

"OKAY!" The girl, glowing with happiness, dashes off to her room, runs inside, and shuts the door right behind her.

With hands trembling from sheer joy, she opens the letter and starts reading.

[Hi Sora! How are you? I wanted to tell you that you're my best friend! And I want you to always be happy. This morning I felt really sad watching you cry, so I decided to write you this letter! BUT DON'T TELL ANYONE! It's just between you and me—well, your mom knows too, but she won't tell anyone either. And promise me, no matter what happens from now on, you'll keep doing what makes you happy! And don't let yourself get dragged into trouble because of other people, okay?

Love, your Lily]

The girl hugged her doll tight again, the crumpled letter still clutched in her hands.

---------------------------

"She's happy again," Kenji says.

"Yeah. Did we fix it?"

"Let's hope . . ."

". . . Let's hope."

"But I'm telling you, you didn't do me any favors turning me into the bad guy in all this."

"Come on, you didn't do anything!"

"Oh, threatening an old lady with a doll floating in midair, that's not bad, huh? That woman's probably going to have nightmares for who knows how long!"

"Nah . . . didn't you see how happy she was watching her daughter? And besides, you didn't actually do anything—I wrote everything to communicate with her."

"Yeah, sure, writing on paper is nothing, since you're not the one who stood in front of an old lady with a floating doll. And what happens if she tells someone?!"

"Who's going to believe she saw a doll flying around and writing letters, huh? Everyone will just say it's old age catching up to her."

"Let's hope so! So, what now, jump back to the future? Back to our present?"

"Yeah—HEY, LOOK THERE!" Heck, the little girl was waving at us from the window! And there was nobody behind us!

"WHAT THE—SHE CAN SEE US—"

The dream ends and we wake up.

But we never actually saw the present—I don't know why, this whole mechanism is bizarre.

Still, setting all that aside—

The weight on our chests had lifted, but we'd also lost seven years of our liv—

"AHHHHHHH! AHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!" Kenji's screaming.

I jump up fast to go see what's wrong.

I run out of my room and find Kenji standing there, hands pressed against his forehead.

"WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING THIS EARLY?!" I yell, fair enough.

"You moron, look at the cal...endar! Look at TODAY'S DATE!!!"

"YOU'RE SCREAMING OVER THIS NONSE— AHHH AHHHHH AAAHHHH!!!"

The date was the very next morning after the day I'd picked up the drawing.

"OUR SEVEN YEARS! THEY WERE NEVER WASTED!" Kenji shouts.

"BUT HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!"

"THAT'S WHAT I'M ASKING TOO, HOW IS IT POSSI— WAIT! Didn't I sleep at your place that night?"

"WHO CARES ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW! JUST BE HAPPY, WE GOT OUR SEVEN YEARS BACK!"

"Yeah, but how? And what about the drawing?" His question hit the mark. I ran to check, opened the drawer, and where the drawing used to be, there was nothing now but a blank page.

"How is that even possible?" Kenji, right behind me.

"I don't know, and maybe we never will. Probably best if we just forget about it and call it a fever dream."

He doesn't say anything, and I take his silence as agreement.

Then, in silence, praying to God that everything turns out fine, we head out to work.

A few hours pass and everything seems normal, until we stop in front of an electronics store window, where a TV is playing some kind of announcement.

"This is Misuzu Sora. I'm announcing a temporary break from my work for personal reasons, and I hope to be back as soon as possible. Thank you all for listening, and I hope everyone's doing well." She was smiling—she was actually smiling!

The girl who'd looked half-dead was alive again, and right beside her was her Lily, ON TV! Grinning just as wide as her friend.

Meanwhile, the two of us garbage collectors just stood there, jaws hanging open, practically drooling—but who cared, because there were more important things going on in life right now.

"And before I wrap up, I want to make a donation of ******** yen to the local sanitation company, and especially to the people who keep our streets clean."

"Why this decision, ma'am, and why so suddenly?" the reporter asks.

"Because I want to thank them, and honestly, I hope to meet two very dear people in person at least once in my life, hehe." Another smile—and right at that moment, those two very people nearly died, since they weren't even holding the wheel anymore.

---------------------------

Evening comes, and the whole drive back is silence.

No glances exchanged, no talking, not even any insults thrown at the schoolkids.

Just pure focus on the job. One hundred percent.

We stop for the last pickup of the day. I hop down, start tossing the bags, and while I'm at it, I find an envelope. I open it . . . and there's a drawing inside.

I turn to show Kenji.

"This time, I'm bringing a gun with me."