That night, Shinji was running down a hallway he'd never seen before. There were smooth white walls, harsh fluorescent lights, and an insistent humming noise that drilled into his skull. At the hallway's end stood an open door, spilling bright, blinding light. A voice drifted from within-his father's voice, yet not Father Jiro's.
"Shinji, stay outside," the voice rasped, exhausted and broken. "Everything will be fine."
But Shinji knew it wouldn't be. He knew that voice from the fragments of memories he desperately wanted to forget. He pushed the door wide, eyes wincing at the painful glare. Slowly, shapes took form: a low table cluttered with scattered slips of paper, each covered in scribbled, unfamiliar numbers. In the middle of the room stood a man on a chair-shoulders trembling, face hidden. Above him, a rope swung ominously from a ceiling beam.
Shinji tried to shout, tried to rush forward, but his legs were frozen in place. The man turned, eyes rimmed red, glistening with tears.
"I'm sorry, son," he whispered, voice thick with pain. "My life… it's too much-I can't…"
Before Shinji could scream, the rope twisted, the chair tipped, and the brilliant light sliced into his eyes, sharp and blinding.
He jolted awake, choking on a scream. His blanket was tangled tight around his legs, his shirt soaked in cold sweat. The small room spun violently, shadows dancing between comforting darkness and the harsh nightmare glare. His chest tightened painfully as sobs ripped through him, one after another.
'It's not real, it's not real, it's not...'
He pressed both hands over his mouth, desperately trying to stop, but the tears came faster, and he couldn't stop them.
Hurried footsteps echoed through the hall. The door slid open sharply, and his mother rushed in, father Jiro close behind. Hana stumbled after them, half-awake, her braid slipping loose from its tie.
"Shinji!" Mother knelt quickly beside his mat, panic shaking her voice. "What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"
He couldn't form words, gasping desperately for air, body shuddering uncontrollably. His eyes fixed fearfully on the ceiling, searching for something that wasn't there.
Father Jiro dropped to his knees, wrapping strong, comforting arms around Shinji's trembling form. "Breathe slowly, son. You're safe. You're with us now."
Shinji clung tightly to his father's sleeve, heart hammering painfully in his chest, ears ringing with lingering panic. His mother's cool, gentle fingers brushed soothingly against his forehead, while Hana watched quietly nearby, eyes wide and anxious.
"Just a nightmare again," Mother murmured softly, though worry still clung to her voice. "You're safe, Shinji. We're all here."
Father Jiro held him closer, gently rocking back and forth, whispering quiet reassurances. Gradually, the terror eased, replaced by the comforting presence of his family. But even then, in the back of his mind, the image lingered, vivid and haunting.
He had been getting these nightmares often over the past couple months. Nightmares-maybe that wasn't even the right word, because they felt far too real, too tangible. It was more like reliving moments from a life he couldn't remember living, yet still carried with him.
In these dreams, he wasn't just Shinji, the farmer's son. He was someone else entirely, a boy named Shinji Sasaka, a child from a distant world filled with strange lights, towering buildings, and noises he didn't understand. He had parents whose faces he almost recognized, a mother whose laugh he vaguely remembered, and a father whose tired eyes haunted him. There was even a sister, warm and familiar in ways he couldn't explain, who loved to play with him, braid flowers into his hair, and let him tell her stories under blankets when storms shook their small home.
But then, suddenly, everything would fracture. His sister's face would vanish, leaving behind an aching void he couldn't fill, as though someone had torn away a vital piece of his heart. When she disappeared from the dreams, a cold shadow would creep into his memories, erasing every trace of warmth. His parents' gentle smiles turned bitter, their comforting voices twisted into harsh words, accusations, and blame he couldn't understand.
Every dream thereafter became a dark echo of grief, loneliness, and helpless anger. Scenes played out with terrible clarity—shouts ringing off sterile walls, the hollow silence of empty rooms, and the sharp sting of something thrown toward him just before he'd wake gasping for breath. Each time, he'd bolt upright, eyes wide, pulse racing, instinctively flinching from blows that never reached him.
He'd tried dismissing them as simple nightmares, just cruel tricks his mind played on him while asleep. But deep down, he knew better. They weren't mere dreams; they were memories, each vivid and mercilessly detailed, burning themselves deeper into his soul every night. Tonight was different, though—it was sharper, deeper, like the blade had finally broken through something essential.
Shinji pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart beneath his ribs. He drew slow breaths, one after another, but the stubborn pulse refused to settle. Even with Father Jiro's steady embrace and Mother's gentle reassurance still echoing softly in his ears, a part of him couldn't be soothed.
Because tonight, more than ever, the line between dream and memory had blurred into something terrifyingly real, and he feared what it might mean.
He'd been getting these nightmares frequently over the past couple months. Each night since, the dreams have grown more vivid, more intrusive, seeping even into daylight. Even balancing leaves during chakra practice was now difficult, his concentration frayed by haunting echoes of another life.
He had once confided hesitantly in a merchant passing through Kinsen—someone safe precisely because he would soon vanish from the village, carrying the secret away forever. But the merchant's eyes had widened with alarm, whispering warnings about restless spirits haunting the hearts of children, pressing a protective talisman into his trembling palm and urgently advising him to seek an exorcist.
After that unsettling encounter, Shinji had clamped his silence shut. He couldn't bear the thought of burdening his parents further. They had already tried calming teas, prayers whispered softly beneath candlelight, and worried conversations behind closed doors. If they learned that these nightmares weren't ordinary dreams, how much deeper would their fear grow?