Chapter 1:January 18, 2038
Preface
January 19, 2038, 3:14 AM.
At the very moment when the world’s clocks simultaneously came to an “end,” a man in the mountains of Nagano was cast beyond time—back to 1999.
Carrying memories of the future, he awakens in the body of his fourth-grade self, walking once more alongside another version of himself—for thirty more years.
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4th century BC — Aristotle systematizes the theory of a spherical universe. Ancient records note that “for one day, the distinction between night and day disappeared.”
October 4, 1582 — With the adoption of the Gregorian calendar, the following day became October 15. On the same day, certain observatories in Italy reported an anomaly: “the noon shadow wavered.”
February 17, 1600 — Giordano Bruno is burned at the stake. His ideas of an infinite universe and multiple worlds are condemned as heresy, silenced for centuries.
April 10, 1815 — The eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia. The following year is remembered as “the year without summer,” with abnormal weather across the Northern Hemisphere.
July 16, 1945 — The first atomic bomb test in New Mexico, USA. At locations hundreds of kilometers away, the noon time signal was recorded as one second early.
July 20, 1969 — Apollo 11 achieves the first human moon landing. At the moment of landing, ground-based gravimeters recorded fluctuations between 0.98G and 1.02G.
January 17, 1995 — The Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake. Twelve hours after the quake, ionospheric reflectivity suddenly spiked.
March 11, 2011 — The Great East Japan Earthquake. Three minutes before the quake, geomagnetic observatories detected changes ten times greater than normal. Afterward, the Japanese archipelago shifted 2.4 meters eastward.
January 31, 2018 — A total lunar eclipse, supermoon, and blue moon occurred simultaneously. In parts of Nagano Prefecture, magnetic sensors recorded abnormal readings.
January 19, 2038 — 03:14:07
In parts of the world, clocks simultaneously came to an “end,” and multiple instruments fell silent.
When they resumed, what they showed was—a time that should not have been.
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“See? When you line it up like this, it’s pretty interesting, right?”
She leaned on the low table, pointing at the tablet screen.
On it, the latest episode of Occult Mu Channel was playing.
On-screen, the editor-in-chief of Weekly Occal-Mu was calmly explaining “historic events and the causal distortions in space-time that occurred at the same time.”
Dates and events scrolled across the screen in captions.
“…So, let’s go over this timeline again. For example, on November 1st, 1755, when a massive earthquake struck Lisbon, the capital of Portugal… just before it happened, records show sudden compass deviations all across Europe…”
The show was all about heated debates on the occult and UFO footage, but what made it easy to watch was that all the guests were always chatting with drinks in hand—serious, but never too serious.
In front of her, two tall cans of Honshibori already sat empty. She was halfway through her third.
“See? Most of them are tied to astronomical events, big explosions, or earthquakes. And then, every once in a while, something else sneaks in… Oh, and the Kennedy assassination too! Supposedly the time signal at an observatory rewound by three seconds then.”
“Huh.”
I only half-listened, sipping from my usual zero-carb beer.
“…It’s not on this list, but in 1999, on August 11th, during the total solar eclipse, even in parts of Japan—”
That’s when she tore her gaze from the screen and looked at me.
“By the way, are you going home for New Year’s?”
“Yeah. Not sure yet, but probably. I’ll drop by for at least a day or two.”
“Then tell me the exact day as soon as you know.”
“Sure. …Actually, why don’t we go to Nagano together?”
My hometown was Iizuna, a small mountain town in Nagano, surrounded by nature.
Going back usually just meant seeing my parents and drinking with old classmates. It wasn’t the kind of place tourists would seek out.
“Nah, I’ll be working. Everyone’s off during New Year’s, so that’s when I need to take shifts.”
She shut me down without hesitation. I set my can down and thought.
I hadn’t told my parents or friends anything yet.
“…Alright, then let’s just work through New Year’s. Once things settle down, I’ll take some vacation days. We can go to Nagano for sightseeing then.”
“You mean you’re not going to your parents’ place?”
“I didn’t promise anything. I’ll find some time off in February and go then.”
“I see… In that case, there’s somewhere I want to go!”
“Oh? Where?”
“Mt. Minakami. There’s this old legend—‘It only lets through those it deems worthy.’”
She said it with a laugh, but for some reason, her voice lingered strangely in my ears.
＊
January 1, 2038.
As always, I welcomed the new year with her. Breakfast on New Year’s Day meant ozōni.
A soy-based broth simmered with daikon, carrots, komatsuna greens, shiitake mushrooms, and chicken. The mochi was never grilled, just slipped straight into the soup.
Once served in bowls, a slice of naruto fish cake topped it off—our unchanging New Year’s recipe. For the first three days, this routine continued; mornings were nothing but miso soup with mochi or ozōni.
Evenings, too, often meant ozōni. Yet somehow, it never grew tiresome. On freezing nights, paired with hot sake, there was nothing like slurping the steaming broth and chewy mochi.
After the third day, hotpot dinners became more frequent. Winter Chinese cabbage with chicken, plus the lab-grown cod that supermarkets now carried everywhere. Despite being frozen, the flesh was remarkably plump, steaming together with the broth.
Cabbage was still a winter vegetable, though in recent years it had begun appearing in early autumn thanks to global warming. Still, the flavor of true midwinter cabbage was unmatched.
I hate the cold, but food and drink are the pleasures of winter.
I, Shinichi Sakurai, forty-nine years old. Sitting beside me is Azumi Kida, fifty-five. This is how we spend New Year’s—just the two of us.
When we first started dating, marriage crossed our minds.
But family circumstances on both sides held us back, and the years slipped away. Over the past two decades, the very word “marriage” had grown thinner in society. Separate surnames, common-law partnerships—none of it unusual anymore. Even spousal tax benefits applied to common-law couples. We were simply swept along with that tide.
Our home is in Tokorozawa, Saitama. A single-story house built fifty-five years ago, tucked away in a quiet corner fifteen minutes’ walk from the station, where the two of us live together.
We had first lived in Higashi-Nagasaki on the Seibu Ikebukuro Line. But fifteen years ago, we moved to Tokorozawa. At first it was a one-room apartment just five minutes from the station, but the thin walls left us plagued by neighbors’ noise. That’s when we chose this little house. We couldn’t dream of affording Tokyo rents, so we settled for this aging place.
From the outside, its faded walls look left behind by time. But inside, the renovations make it surprisingly comfortable. I used to laugh at the saying “home is where you make it,” yet somehow more than ten years have passed here.
We take time off at year’s end and start work again on the fourth. She follows the same schedule.
I work as a taxi driver. By now, most cars drive themselves, but in nightlife districts and tourist spots, there are still customers who want a human driver. That’s where I make my living.
＊
By mid-January, while we were eating dinner and going over our travel plans, she suddenly mentioned Zenkoji Temple.
“Since we’re going all the way, let’s stop by Zenkoji too.”
“Good idea. Then we can do our first shrine visit there…”
The moment I said it, a past conversation resurfaced in my mind.
“Come to think of it, wasn’t there somewhere you wanted to go? Where was it again?”
She paused, chopsticks in midair, tilting her head slightly.
“…Ah, Minakamiyama.”
Her voice lacked the energy it had back then, carrying a colder tone. Perhaps the alcohol had something to do with it.
“What kind of place is it?”
“It’s higher up than you’d think… might be a bit of a hassle to get there.”
That gave me pause for a moment. But when I searched on my phone, I quickly found the official site for Minakamiyama Shrine. The photos looked proper enough, and the history seemed respectable.
“We could just take a taxi there and do the New Year’s visit. Zenkoji will be packed with people.”
“True… alright, let’s add it to the plan.”
And so, with that casual exchange, Minakamiyama slipped into the corner of our itinerary.
＊
On the morning of January 18, soft light filtered through the shoji screens, accompanied by the chirping of sparrows—an unassuming herald of our journey’s beginning.
The old one-story house, built more than fifty years ago, usually froze you to the bone in winter. Yet the renovated window frames shut out the drafts surprisingly well, keeping a quiet warmth in the room.
Still half-drowsing under the futon, a sharp migraine struck the back of my head. Unlike the usual dull ache, this one pulsed like a blade, each throb in sync with my heartbeat, as though time itself were keeping rhythm.
“This kind of pain… I never get it.”
Unable to bear it, I pulled out the painkillers I had packed the night before and swallowed them with a sip of lukewarm water.
At the entrance, I lined up our bags and picked up my phone.
She glanced at the luggage with a faint smile.
“You didn’t forget anything, right?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I gave a small nod, brushing off the throb in my skull. Holding my phone up to the sensor, the smart lock clicked open with a light sound.
The moment I pushed the door, winter’s chill sliced in, stinging my cheeks.
At Tokorozawa Station, a line stretched in front of the face-recognition gates. I thought I’d avoided the rush, but even past nine o’clock the concourse swelled with commuters. The platform was crowded, dotted with office workers staring into their AR glasses.
When the full-screen doors—installed just a few years ago—slid shut, the train glided away in silence.
At 9:30 we got off at Nerima Station and hurried into the FamilyMart by the entrance to buy breakfast.
I grabbed a hot coffee, water, a sandwich, and some bread. She chose hot brown rice tea. The total came to 2,640 yen, paid in an instant.
After leaving the store, we walked five minutes.
The Nerima Ekimae bus stop along Mejiro Street was already packed, its transparent waiting booth overflowing with people.
We stood outside, unable to squeeze in.
The electronic signboard read, “Arrival 9:45,” yet my phone already showed 9:47. The bus, as always, was running late.
“I’m starving. I just want to get on and eat already.”
She peeked into the bag and sighed.
All I could do was shrug. Things like this never really changed.
About fifteen minutes late, the highway bus bound for Nagano finally came into view.
“There it is, at last.”
The bus stopped, and the driver stepped down.
“Thank you for waiting. We’ll now begin boarding.”
Passengers filed past the terminal at the front, facing it for facial recognition. The app alone was enough, but most opted for the quick face scan.
The driver offered brief greetings to each person. For those with bulky luggage, the automatic trunk door lifted, and he gave a light hand to assist. The process wasn’t all that different from the old days—except now, machines handled the checks and loading with uncanny efficiency.
When I sank into my seat, a wave of relief washed over me, the cold winter air left outside.
The bus shuddered, and the streets of Nerima began to drift slowly past the window.
It was supposed to be nothing more than a trip—just a trip.
But I had no idea it would become my last ordinary day.
