Shimada Daiki... No, from now on, I should probably call this little boy Nakamura.
My soul separated from Nakamura's body. I watched the little boy clutching a newspaper, his face filled with reminiscence and shock. Those weren't expressions that should have appeared on a child's face.
Shimada Daiki's mother stared at her son expressionlessly. Slowly, she stood and took him by the hand.
Only then did Nakamura come to his senses. At a loss, he instinctively followed the woman who was now his mother.
This granddaughter-in-law of the Shimada family was wreathed in the yin energy of a female ghost. Holding Nakamura's hand, she led him out of the house.
This seemed to be some kind of building on a hill.
The mother and son walked outside. On the way, they met Mrs. Shimada's daughter-in-law. The three generations didn't speak, but continued along together in tacit understanding.
Members of the film crew gradually joined their group.
Nakamura still clutched the newspaper. He hadn't yet recovered from the shock of retrieving memories of his past life.
His thoughts were in disarray, with many memories interweaving.
I saw Miss Sayuri, then some unfamiliar people. The scenes clearly didn't belong to this era. The buildings, furniture, roads, towns, and people's clothes were all different from those in modern society.
Some of them were people Nakamura knew, and some were places he had lived—his hometown, his native land... There were also the things that had happened after Nakamura killed someone.
The memory of killing someone was etched into Nakamura's bones.
It had been an impulsive act, and Sayuri had been there when he killed the man.
With tears in her eyes, Sayuri had urged him to run, warning him that the dead man was a military officer who was not to be trifled with.