He recognized the building.

And yet, at the same time, didn't understand how.

It was an old and derelict establishment, a simple wooden house in the countryside. The roof had been overtaken by vines, as if it had been left there for a very long time. It stood in the middle of a valley, surrounded by a tree-covered mountains, with long, uncut grass around the house save for a small dirt path leading up to it. There was also a tree, slightly tilted to one side, as if the wind came one day and tried to uproot it, but only managed to shift it slightly. It looked frail, as if it had seen years and years of weathering.

He could see that the path led somewhere, towards a small tunnel that seemed to serve as an exit to the outside. The tunnel itself was fairly large, but all he could see coming from it was an indistinguishable bright light, so he decided it was worth investigating later.

He took a longer look at the house. It was a Japanese style cottage, with long wooden beams running in a rectangular pattern, over slightly weathered white (or what used to be white) walls. There was a window on either side, barely more than an opening with wooden bars reaching from top to bottom. The door seemed more than a little brittle, but stood firmly in place despite the overgrowth that occurred around it.

Looking up, he noticed the weather. There were many clouds, enough to block out the sky, and it seemed like it could rain at any moment. He felt that staying outside wouldn't yield any more information to him, so he decided to enter the house. Plus, he was also curious to see what the inside held.

He approached the door, knocking on it twice. "Hello? Is anyone inside?" He waited about half a minute, then, not receiving a response, entered.

He looked around as he entered the house, squinting a bit due to the low visibility. "Hello? Is there anyone there?" he called out. Again, no response. He turned on a small lamp in the middle of the foyer, taking his shoes off as he entered. As the light illuminated the room, he felt something somewhat familiar, but he couldn't quite place the feeling. It felt like something vaguely nostalgic.

He walked around the house, getting a feel for his surroundings. For some reason, he could tell where some of the rooms were located before seeing them, which seemed strange. To the left of the foyer, the kitchen, which held a small dining area. In the hallway to the right, a few rooms, and a bathroom at the end. Beyond the door in front of him, a common room.

To his surprise, his predictions were all correct. The house was laid out exactly as he'd thought. As he sat down at the small dining table, he questioned the peculiar situation he was in.

Then, out of nowhere, a bolt of pain.

It was a flash of incredible agony, and he felt his mind seemingly break apart. The pain was mind-numbing, and he immediately fell to the floor, clutching his head tightly, as if the pressure would somehow relieve the pain.

But, in that moment, something returned to him. A memory.

Blurry figures around him, muffled voices, and food on the table. It seemed as if he was having dinner in this vague recollection. He felt younger, similar to a child. There was a sense of security, a sense of… something. A feeling he lost many years ago, he felt. But with it came something else. Another feeling, not a happy one. Sorrow, grief. The whole thing made him want to laugh and shed tears at the same time. It was inharmoniously conflicting.

And then it vanished, as quickly as it came, and he was back on the ground, panting in a cold sweat, left with a splitting headache, and two words.

"Otonashi... Yuzuru?" It seemed to be a name. As he repeated it in his head, it became more familiar. Then he realized: It was his name.

It then occurred to him: he couldn't remember anything. That recent memory and a name the only things he remembered about his past.

Yuzuru sat up, enlightened by the shocking revelation. He really couldn't remember anything. No family, no friends, no places, nothing. He wasn't sure which he was more afraid of, the lack of memories or, if the last one served as any indication, the pain of them returning.

He felt tired, and went to one of the rooms he passed on his exploration of the house. For some reason he felt more and more fatigued as he passed through the house, not knowing why. He noticed some faded writing on the door, but was too tired to think about it. He saw a futon on the ground, and had to control himself from collapsing right then and there. Navigating himself above the futon, he let the heavy fog of sleep take over.