June 6th, 2020

Deep inside a junkyard in the mountains, there is an old, beat-up panel van with rusted suspension and missing wheels. How it got there, who its prior owners were, this was all one of the many unspoken, unsolved mysteries of the junkyard. It was one of the things Rena loved about the old junkyard the most: who in Hinamizawa had ever had a panel van, and why had they thrown it away? Cars were expensive, and this one wasn't that old. Why was it here, with glass windows intact and paint barely chipped?

She didn't know. She would likely never know: if the owners hadn't gossiped, the village didn't know, and if the village didn't know, no one would ever find out. Maybe it had been the property of one of the dam workers, but in that case, why was it left here, and why weren't there any dents in it?

Regardless of any speculations or questioning on her part, this van was somehow here, a dead-end thread from the tangle of someone else's life, and it was Rena's now. She was getting old enough to think about driving, but she wasn't going to fix it up, no. That would take the magic right out of it.

This van was her clubhouse, her secret place, her sanctuary. It was so deep inside the trash heap no one else could find it without her help, at least not on purpose, and no one could hear the loudest yells.

Not that she ever yelled.

Rena spent her time here curled up like a bear in its den, hibernating, basking the days away as a scrawny pre-adolescent and now a teenager, snug and comfortable and safe. It was an impulse of children to make a treasure-cave, a fortress, a safe place of their own –that was why they built forts in the snow and castles out of packing boxes– and Rena had had the luck to find someplace truly special. This van was her sanctum, her place that was only her place, as safe as a locked box and as whimsical as a child's book, both mundane and magical all at once, full of potential and possibility.

The interior was all ripped out, right down to the floor, and Rena softened this with blankets and old futons and kept a gutted office filing cabinet on its side against one wall, serving as a makeshift bookshelf and table all in one. She filled the three sections with binders of magazines and photos and interesting things she'd found, and a thermos of water and a box along with. An electric lamp was set on the top, for the times she got caught here in the rain or the dark and wanted to stay out. A pink umbrella with some of the ribs broken and two black boots with a tear in the upper seam sat on the opposite side of the truck, sandwiched between a woven shopping bag and an old seamer trunk with the buckles broken off. She kept more of her treasures in this old box, and a handkerchief doll on top: there was yet another box on the other side of the bag and her rain gear, an old shipping crate filled with more adorable things, and a pink bookshelf with a dented green jewelry box and a box of tissues on the very top shelf.

The trash loomed up around this little sanctuary, rising up ominously in heaps and mountains outside the rattling glass windows, blocking out the rear door and pinning the side doors in place. The old van rode one of these piles like a wave, so that the only way one could reliably climb in and out was through the open windshield, which was divided and could be slid from one side to another to offer something of a proper exit, and kept all of Rena's treasures dry and safe when it was closed.

This was her place, her safe place, and many plots and thoughts were spun out of Rena's brain in this old panel van, times of daydreaming with scrawls swirling dreamily over pages as she thought of friends and crushes, quiet meditative thoughts as she curled up with the warm yellow glow of her lantern beside her and heard rain patter onto the roof and just was for a little while, excited thoughts as she arranged her treasures and polished or cleaned them from their grimy time in the trash heap, and skittering, static thoughts as her neck itched and itched and wet, bloody handprints crept along the walls and blanketed floor.

A web of Rena's spirit was strung over this place, this particular nook of reality that was barely six feet square, Rika had often thought. If people could be condensed to kakera, this panel van and this part of the trash heap would be an integral part of Rena's soul, a whole entire facet of her gleaming crystal –and not a small one either.

And that is alright, because it is Rena's place and no one else's.

7.30 AM, USA Central Time