Human brains (or probably any kind of brains) are pretty amazing things. Sometimes you're so convinced that you've forgotten all about something that has happened once upon a time, and then suddenly you smell a certain kind of smell and everything comes flooding back like the Niagara Falls. Or are they the Nicaragua Falls? Please don't blame me—they sound so similar in Japanese!

Anyhow, the instant the combined smell of some thirty lunchboxes being opened at the same time in the same classroom hit me, I remember. I remember what it was like being a third-grader, having lunch in my seat while at the same time trying to stop the boy who sat next to me from stealing my erasers (I had a collection of colorful erasers, shaped like watermelons, little giraffes and ice cream. They did a terrible job at erasing but hey they were cute). The classroom would be buzzing, as it always did during lunchtime—we didn't have a cafeteria, and so everyone ate in their seats. After fifth grade or something cliques naturally formed and people started dragging desks together to eat with their friends, but we mostly stayed put in third grade.

Sometimes, when we ate, we would watch TV. Not all of the classrooms had TVs, but ours did because it used to be for special needs students until they moved to another building and it was converted to a regular classroom. We didn't have much choice as to what we could watch, since we could only use the TV during lunch and cartoons weren't usually on at noon. Most of the time the teacher would make us watch the news, a safer choice than exposing a bunch of nine-year-olds to the movie channel—wouldn't want to have us watching Fast and Furious for example; the teachers wouldn't be able to cope if all their third-graders ended up wanting to drive cars off skyscrapers.

The news wasn't always the best bet though. There was one time when the teacher had to shut off the TV because the reporter was giving an animated recounting of how a young female student was raped by her homeroom teacher. She turned off the TV a moment too late though, because everyone had already seen the important parts and since we were at that age when everyone was curious about sex no one could stop talking about it. The teacher had to bribe us with pudding so that we would shut up. I remember that incident well; pudding was my favorite.

In fact, from what I can see in this classroom-in-Shun's-memory, it appears to be pudding day because some of my classmates still have their puddings (complete with those cute little plastic spoons) on the corners of their desks. I don't; I had probably already eaten mine as soon as I got it. Maybe I even ate some that others gave me (it would only be fair, because I always gave my strawberry milk to other kids).

"I see you! You were so cute," Izumi whispers and nudges me, bringing me back to reality. If standing in a windy box cuddling a giant cat while navigating another person's past memories that kind of also concern yourself can be considered reality.

I cringe at my ugly sneakers and really unfortunate barrette choice but I was indeed an okay-looking third-grader. I watch with odd fascination as little-me and the bespectacled little boy who shared a desk with me throw pens at each other.

Third-graders, you see, are very easily entertained.

I wonder where that boy is right now. I think his name is Hideaki or something and I think I copied from his test once—shh please do not tell. It was only one question, I swear.

My thoughts about Hideaki, random little boy who has nothing to do with the plot, are interrupted by Mr. Umemoto, our music teacher. Apparently Shun's memory of me is set in the first period right after lunch, which on that day happened to be Music. The smell of lunchboxes still lingers in the room.

I didn't like Mr. Umemoto. For one thing, he knew nothing about music. Back in our elementary school days teachers just kind of taught any subject they were asked to, which was why our science teacher and our calligraphy teacher was the same person. Our math teacher also taught PE. It was quite ridiculous because she wore heels to PE and did nothing except stand under the shade fanning herself.

Anyway, Mr. Umemoto knew nothing about music. I ought to know; I grew up in an instrument store for god's sake. I had to correct him twice about how the trumpet and the trombone weren't exactly the same thing and also he held a recorder with the right hand on the top which was just awkward, but I digress.

Watching him in Shun's memory further confirms my dislike of him. He begins the class by asking everyone to perform something for him, and starts calling names by seat number. The first kid to go up is a girl with the last name Aiba. I know I'd be at the very end because seat numbers are assigned according to last names, and Watanabes like me pretty much always come last.

So this girl named Aiba goes to the front of the classroom and sings a song, since she doesn't know how to play an instrument. Mr. Umemoto mercilessly mocks her for going off tune. The next student, her name is Iida I think, does know how to play an instrument—the problem is she doesn't have the instrument (a violin) because she had no idea she would need it. Mr. Umemoto gives her a lecture about needing to be always prepared and I roll my eyes. Current-me, I mean, it wouldn't have been very polite for cute third-grade me to do that in front of the mean teacher.

The world seems to hold its breath when my turn comes. It was common knowledge in my class that I was the kid that lived in an instrument store, so everyone would expect something good. And I don't disappoint. I watch third-grade me happily walk to the front of the classroom and whip out my elega.

Mr. Umemoto frowns. An elega is still considered a new instrument now, and it was even more so back then. Mr. Umemoto, shit music teacher extraordinaire, doesn't know what it is.

And then I play, and Izumi grabs me and I almost have to cover my face to stop the pride from brimming over because damn I was good.

The tune itself is simple; something my grandfather used to sing to me when we went for walks. I never learned the name—perhaps my grandfather made it up himself. He's always been good at writing melodies, though he absolutely sucks at lyrics. This particular tune I'm playing now, I remember, probably has something to do with naming all types of meat my grandfather loves to eat and different ways to cook them.

My classmates don't know about the meat part, of course. All they hear is a simple, sweet and slightly nostalgic tune. I'm using sounds of the acoustic guitar (my favorite) and only a tiny bit of synths in the background so it doesn't get too complicated. Very simple and straightforward, actually. It doesn't look half as crazy as what I can do now.

But apparently it still offends Mr. Umemoto because it's something he's very unfamiliar with, and people like him are afraid of what they're unfamiliar with.

"I'll have to take this, Watanabe," he tells little me after she finishes.

"Uh, what?" Izumi whispers beside me. I shrug and mouth "he's like that".

Little me cocks her head to one side and looks confused.

"This," Mr. Umemoto states with calm solemnity, "is witchcraft."

"What?" Izumi whispers to me again, sounding incredulous. Her grip on me tightens and I feel all warm and fuzzy because I know my best friend wants to protect me.

"Well, I don't really remember this part," I admit to her. "And don't worry, this can't end badly because Ikoma-san said it ended just fine."

I still hold Izumi close anyway because I know witchcraft isn't exactly her favorite subject to be getting into.

"You see the way your classmates looked when you play?" Mr. Umemoto booms. "It's in their eyes. You've bewitched them. They can't tell—but I can."

Little me still looks confused.

"What are you doing looking at me in that stupid way? Is witchcraft something that doesn't exist in your vocabulary? Small wonder, third-graders have such tiny pea brains." Mr. Umemoto sighs tragically. "But it's better this way, perhaps. The less people know about witches the better. We don't want more people becoming witches! It's why they were all drowned, you know. The witches were drowned so that they wouldn't bewitch more people."

Little me looks incredibly confused, and Mr. Umemoto laughs, though it sounds more like a belch. "Ha ha, of course I'm not going to drown you! Just gonna take your instrument, whatever that thing is, so you don't bewitch more people with it."

"Ith my grandfatherth," little me points out. "If I go home without it he'll be mad."

Apparently I spoke with a tiny lisp in third-grade. Aww so adorable! But back to the current subject.

"Ah, then perhaps I should call him and tell him that his granddaughter is a witch?" Mr. Umemoto suggests with a shrewd smile. He knows that students hate it when teachers call their parents and likes to threaten them this way. He doesn't factor in the fact that my grandfather is like one of my best friends, poor man.

"Sure, you can call him," little me tells him cheerfully. "But you'll have to talk very loudly because hith hearing aids don't work well."

I stifle a laugh. One point for cute little me, zero points for Mr. Umemoto.

Mr. Umemoto doesn't look too happy at the lack of reaction. "Fine. But I'm still taking this instrument. Hand it over."

I watch little me process this command. She seems to decide that Mr. Umemoto is indeed going to call her grandfather and he'll definitely give the elega back after that, so she agreeably hands the instrument over.

Mr. Umemoto looks very disappointed. He is probably expecting more of a resistance so he has more grounds to scold little me for her disobedience.

"Great." He takes the elega and places it beside him on the desk. "Now, students, do understand that what just happened was witchcraft and if you feel any side effects report to a teacher. Watanabe is quite a cunning little witch here—"

Mr. Umemoto's passionate speech is disrupted right on cue by a loud snore from the back of the classroom. One of my classmates has fallen asleep. Laughter ripples through the whole class and the serious mood is ruined. Mr. Umemoto begins to reprimand the sleeping student instead. I think the kid was called Jo or something. Thanks, little Jojo!

"Well, so far this indeed isn't too traumatizing," I mutter to Izumi. "No wonder I don't really remember the details."

"But something must have happened for Shun to remember this so clearly," Izumi mutters back to me. "I don't know what... I hope your classmates didn't cut your hair during break like they did mine."

"I would have remembered if that happened, I think," I surmise. "Besides, I remember my classmates as being nice people."

"I'm jealous," Izumi says, but I know she isn't actually jealous; jealousy isn't something that exists in Izumi's dictionary. "I guess we'll have to watch on to see what happens next."

And so we do.