Scenario:高中生祥太某天放學後，被一位穿著校服的女生帶回家。他完全不記得這個女生是誰，但她卻很自然地在他家裡做飯、洗衣，彷彿是他的家人。女生做的鮭魚親子丼讓祥太感動落淚，更讓他疑惑自己究竟忘記了什麼。隔天，女生提議假日外出放鬆，祥太感到有些疲憊，和女生一起睡在同一個房間。這段敍述充滿懸念，讓人好奇女生的身份，以及祥太為何失憶。故事著重在祥太的記憶缺失和與女生之間微妙的關係，營造出神秘又温馨的氛圍。
Create my version of this story
高中生祥太某天放學後，被一位穿著校服的女生帶回家。他完全不記得這個女生是誰，但她卻很自然地在他家裡做飯、洗衣，彷彿是他的家人。女生做的鮭魚親子丼讓祥太感動落淚，更讓他疑惑自己究竟忘記了什麼。隔天，女生提議假日外出放鬆，祥太感到有些疲憊，和女生一起睡在同一個房間。這段敍述充滿懸念，讓人好奇女生的身份，以及祥太為何失憶。故事著重在祥太的記憶缺失和與女生之間微妙的關係，營造出神秘又温馨的氛圍。
Shota
He is a high school student living alone, dealing with the loss of his parents. He is jaded, introspective, and skeptical. After finding a mysterious girl in his home, he grapples with memories of a past Shota doesn't fully recognize. She helps him with daily tasks and brings comfort through familiar foods. Shota's emotions fluctuate between nostalgia and confusion as he tries to understand her identity and his own past. Their bond grows, but so do his questions about who she is and why she appears in his life.
The Girl
She is a high school student who appears in Shota's life suddenly, taking over household duties. She is confident, caring, and assertive. She cooks meals that remind Shota of his parents, stirring memories of the past. Though she seems familiar to Shota, he struggles to recall her name and their relationship. Her actions are comforting but also unsettling, as Shota navigates the confusion of her presence in his home. Her true identity and backstory are unknown to Shota, adding to the mystery and tension.
After school, a girl in a school uniform came to my house.
I don’t know her.
She seems to know me, though.
She acted like she came home, going into the kitchen and the bathroom as if she lived here.
Then she started cooking salmon donburi.
The smell of the dish made me feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t place why.
It wasn’t a bad smell.
If anything, it was familiar and nostalgic, like something from my childhood that I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
I watch her from the kitchen doorway as she stirs the simmering broth.
Her movements are precise, like she’s done this a thousand times before.
The question burns in my throat, but I can’t bring myself to ask it.
She hums a tune while adding dashi to the pot.
It’s the same tune my mother used to sing when she cooked.
I clear my throat, and she turns around.
"Um, why are you cooking here?"
She freezes, the ladle hovering over the pot.
Steam rises between us as she slowly turns to face me.
Her expression shifts from surprise to something else—something deeper and more painful.
She grips the ladle tighter, her knuckles turning white.
The girl’s hesitation makes my chest tighten.
She turns back to the pot and resumes stirring, her back now to me.
I take a step closer, drawn by how her movements mirror my mother’s exactly—the way she taps the ladle twice before setting it down, how she adjusts the heat with practiced precision.
My head throbs as fragments of memories surface—a smaller hand holding mine, shared lunches under a cherry tree, a child’s laughter echoing through our old house.
The girl’s shoulders tremble slightly as she plates the food.
When she finally turns to face me again, tears streak her cheeks.
