We are, once more, in an elementary school. It makes sense, I suppose, that both Yukiya and Izumi's traumatizing experiences happened in elementary school. We as students are forced to spend huge amounts of time in school anyway, so it's not like we have much time to have traumatizing experiences somewhere else.

We are standing at the back of a classroom full of students. Everything about it screams discomfort, from the whitewashed walls, the broom cupboard that stands ajar in a corner, to the old and creaky ceiling fans that make spinning noises every time they get to a certain angle. The students sit quietly in front of their desks, two by two, and the teacher, a wrinkly, leopard-print-clad lady who looks to be in her late fifties, is seated in the front flipping through a stack of workbooks.

And then little Izumi walks in, followed by what is most likely her mom. Beside me, the Izumi of now shields her eyes.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about," I tell her. "I was far uglier at that age. You look cute."

She is indeed cute, in a way that only a demure third-grade girl could be. She has the same ridiculously long hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and braces. The school uniform clings to her skinny form, complete with polished black shoes and knee-high socks. Definitely cuter than my elementary school self—our uniform was eggplant purple, for heaven's sake. No one could look cute in eggplant purple. Not even Shun could pull that one off.

Izumi shakes her head, still refusing to take her hands off her eyes. "It's not that I was uncute. It's just... mom..." she trails off.

"Your mom was uncute?"

"I mean—"

She is cut off by her mother speaking. Except her mother isn't really speaking. Instead, she hands the teacher a note, and begins to make gestures with her hands. Sign language, I realize.

The teacher looks up, reads the note, looks up again, and bursts into laughter.

"Your daughter, is she deaf too?" She asks in an amused tone. "Ah, but wait, you can't hear my question! Silly me!"

"I'm not deaf," little Izumi ventures quietly from behind her mother.

"Ah. So you can hear. Must be tiring for you, huh? Having to translate for your mother at all times. I bet she's done something terrible in her past life, and that's why she can't hear now. Karma, my dear, it's always kar—"

"Don't talk about my mother like that," Izumi cuts in coldly, yet there is fire burning behind her eyes.

"But why not? She can't hear me anyway, can she?" The teacher laughs. "Anyhow, you're in my class now. You can take the seat at the far back. You don't have a seat partner, but it's better that way. Don't want other students to get your deafness too, huh?"

For some reason, I feel like I can predict what is going to happen next. It is as if I had seen the exact same plot unravel right in front of me.

"It's not contagious, and I'm not deaf," Izumi counters. Elementary school students back then rarely ever talked back to their teachers; they had the "seen-and-not-heard" thing down pat. Little Izumi seems like the obedient type as well, but the logical side of her just can't resist pointing out the faults in her teacher's comment.

"Hmm. New to the class, yet already talking back to the teacher!" The teacher, who by now has been dubbed by me as Evil Puppykicker, drawls. "Mrs. Shimokawa, did you hear that? Your daughter is a disobedient little—but wait, of course you didn't hear that. You're deaf! My bad—"

"Don't talk to my mom like that!" Izumi breaks in again, her voice louder than the emotionless monotone she had previously been using.

"And you, Shimokawa, are not supposed to talk to your teacher like that. What happened to good manners? But then, your mom can't speak, so she probably taught you nothing." Evil Puppykicker shakes her head. "Too bad! Class, look here: this new student is a prime example of what you should not be. Remember the storybook we read during the eight-o-clock period about the witch? Yes, yes, children, of course you remember. Witches are wicked, they have a sharp tongue, and they are not polite! Shimokawa here is exactly that—look, she has such long hair too, like the witch in our storybook. She's going to boil you in a pot..."

"Oh-em-gee! Boil in a pot!" some of the students squeal in fake panic, causing a ripple of laughter to spread across the classroom.

This isn't even remotely funny, I think, but I keep it to myself. What we see right now is a memory of days long gone; nothing I say or do can make any difference.

I link my arm with Izumi's. She still isn't looking. And she continues to not look as the classroom fades out and is replaced by the school playground.

It's weird how elementary school playgrounds always seem to have shrunk when you come back to visit them years after graduating. The playgrounds, of course, haven't shrunk. It's just that our worlds have grown.

I see students playing hopscotch and jump-rope, laughing and screaming, uniform skirts flying. Little Izumi stands to the side, trying to blend in with the bushes.

It doesn't work. A student takes notice of her and walks over. He grins, flashing a mouthful of crooked teeth. "It's you, the witch! Whatchu doing here? You planning to cook us?"

"I—"

"She's planning to cook us," the boy reports to his peers, who are crowding over.

"I didn't say—"

"Oh no, what do we do?" Some girl shrieks melodramatically.

"Witches have long hair, it says so in the book," another little girl says. "If we cut her hair, then maybe she won't eat us, right?"

"I'll get scissors!" Yet another little girl exclaims. Elementary school students usually have scissors lying around from all the paper art they're made to do. Kind of unsafe, if you ask me.

"I—wait—"

Izumi's complaints fall to deaf ears as several eager children come running out of the classroom, armed with scissors and boxcutters and various other sharp objects that they really have no business owning.

"Can we stop here?" Izumi, the real one, the older one, asks, tugging at my shirt.

"Can we?" I echo, in hopes that Ikoma Four would have a solution as to how to get us out of this rut that is Izumi's memory. Apparently he does, because the next thing I know we're back in the breezy, disorienting data box. Izumi is breathing hard, like she is close to having an asthma attack.

"Hug the cat, it will make you feel better," I suggest, and throw myself onto the cat as well, because I sure need to feel better too. I have no idea why I'm so nauseated. It's Izumi's memory, not mine, and I should be wrapping myself around her, whispering soothing words and smoothing her hair gently and being a good friend, instead of feeling on the verge of puking myself.

It's weird. Watching this scene unfold has somehow awakened a lot of unwanted feelings in my chest, and I find myself kneeling on the floor, almost ready to throw up but not quite.

But I can't be weak now. I can't be. I have to be strong for my best friend.

I pretty much crawl my way over to Izumi, who is now crouched on the ground, shaking in hiccupping sobs.

"You're perfect," I tell her. "We love you and I'm right here and your teacher sucks and your classmates were all shitty but I swear if I were your classmate I would learn sign language just to piss off the teacher. Actually I can still learn sign language anyway, you can teach me later when we get out of this. Or maybe you can teach me right now. How'd you sign 'friend'?"

Izumi crosses her two pointer fingers and then recrosses them in the opposite direction. I do my best to imitate the gesture but for all I know I could have signed something like boogie-boarding ostrich and would have no way of knowing.

"See," I say, feeling lame, "friends. We're friends and you don't need anyone else. Your classmates and teacher are shitty, but they don't matter. You have me. I'm rambling right now and I know that but I suck at comforting people and you know that. You're not a witch, you're my friend and we're going home to get shaved ice and you're going to visit me at Fukuoka and we can take the train to Kurokawa Springs and then—"

Izumi holds up a hand to stop me, which is a bit disappointing because I was just about to get to the good part. The part when we enjoy hot springs and book a great hotel and eat volcano-ash ice cream at Mt. Aso, and then arrive home in time for karaoke.

"I'm fine, I'm just a bit... yeah." She takes a shaky breath. "I'm okay now. You don't want to see what they did to my hair. It's... not pretty. Took months for it to grow back." She grimaces.

"That sucks." No wonder she always keeps her hair at a ridiculous length; she probably doesn't like cutting it.

"It does. But I'm okay now; will continue to be okay as long as you're my friend." Izumi does not look in my direction as she says it. She's not usually the affectionate type, and I brim over with happiness from the fact that she has called me her friend.

Like, I have known all along that we're friends but it's still really nice to hear her say it. Most of the time it's only me saying it, since Izumi doesn't like talking feelings while I never shut up about them.

"So, I'm fine... and I'm ready. To face whatever's coming next. But are you all right?"

I stare at the sudden change of topic. "Me? Of course I'm all right. Why would I not be?"

"I don't know, you looked a bit... out of it. You were dry heaving one minute ago."

"Wait, I was?"

I think about it. It was probably true; I was so disoriented when we left Izumi's memories that I was on the floor doing god knows what for a solid three minutes at least.

"It because you have similar memory, little sausage dog," Ikoma Four's voice comes booming and I throw myself against the cat for fear of getting blown away. "Witch thing happen to you too. You uncomfortable."

I frown. "I don't remember anything like that happening."

"It because it not traumatizing to you," Ikoma Four explains. "You young. It not end badly like hers, so it not important, you not remember."

That makes sense, I suppose—it didn't end badly, it wasn't traumatizing, so it didn't register in my long-term memory. Unlike how in Izumi's case it has affected her so much that hair and witches are some of the main features in her personal nightmare world.

"But I don't see how something like this could end not-badly, if you know what I mean," I muse. "And wait, how would you know about something even I don't remember? It's not like you have access to any of my memories. I'm the weird one out, right? You can't see my memories. No one can."

"Not yours," Ikoma Four says simply.

Oh.

I realize that someone in this school shares a huge chunk of my childhood memories. Shun.

I hope I'm not too ugly in those memories, but I probably am.

"Tell me all about it."