It was the summer of my second year in university. I was walking toward the cafeteria under a brutal, glaring sun. It felt like the asphalt was sticking to the soles of my shoes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few groups of students hanging around the entrance, and I briefly came to a halt. The cicadas were deafening. It was so hot outside, and yet I wondered why they wouldn't go inside. I went up to the second floor where the cafeteria was, chose something cheap and self-service, and then glanced around until I spotted a familiar face. "It's hot today." I sat down across from a person who was eating curry. That person—a graduate student and my mentor in the occult—usually sat at this window seat. It wasn't a reserved seat, but strangely, even when it was somewhat crowded, this spot was often vacant. As if it were waiting for him to take it. "The air conditioning works here." He replied with a blunt, muttered answer. Then he went back to eating in silence. "Could you give me your mobile number?" "Why?" I had dropped my PHS in water. Since my address book was dead, the numbers written down in my paper memo pad were fine, but I had to ask for the ones that weren't. In the mentor's case, I had his home number written down, but his mobile number was only stored in the PHS. "A generation gap, I suppose." The mentor operated his phone, brought up his own number on the screen, and turned it toward me. "What is that supposed to mean?" "I mean it's a tragedy unique to the mobile phone generation. Old-school folks like me always write things down, and numbers we use often are committed to memory." With that, he rattled off several names and numbers from memory. Never mind all that, please don't shake the display. I'm trying to type it in right now. "It would be over instantly if you just gave me a missed call," he muttered, but I finished registering the number anyway and went back to my lunch. Just as I started on my seaweed salad, I suddenly remembered an incident involving mobile phones from the day before yesterday, and I found myself wanting to ask what the mentor thought about it. "It's kind of like a ghost story." The mentor, who had finished his curry and was looking out the window with a cup of iced barley tea in hand, twitched in reaction. "Let's hear it." That day had also been the peak of summer. After my morning lectures, I headed toward the faculty building on the north side of the campus. I walked down a dim hallway flanked by research labs on either side—gloomy even in broad daylight—and opened the door to my own lab, a place I didn't usually frequent much. Inside, three seniors from the third year were slumped around a table, looking exhausted. They were supposed to gather to plan the lab's upcoming drinking party scheduled for the next week, but the central figure among the third-year seniors couldn't make it, so they had just been lazing around instead. "Who cares, let's just pick something random." "Yeah. Let's do *Shiba*, let's just do *Shiba*." *Shiba* refers to a traditional style of drinking party at this university called a "Shiba-kon." It's a party where you just drink and eat on the endless lawns scattered all over the campus. With that seemingly decided, someone took a piece of chalk and wrote "Shiba-kon" on the blackboard, adding "At the usual spot" right next to it. My business there was finished, but I took a seat anyway, waving a hand-fan that had been left on the table across my face while spacing out blankly. "Hey, I've been wondering since a while ago. Yoshida, doesn't your face look bad?" One of the seniors said that, so I looked at Yoshida's face too. Come to think of it, he hadn't uttered a single word since earlier. Yoshida sat up straight, let out a sigh, and put on a stiff expression. "You know..." His words trailed off. Naturally, everyone's attention focused on him. "The other night, when I was home alone, I got a weird phone call." Weird as it might have sounded, it was apparently a call from a well-known friend from his junior high school days. "A guy named Yasumoto. I still hang out with him back in our hometown. Out of nowhere, he calls me up, and without any real reason, starts rambling on and on with some pointless, long story..." Yoshida, who at first just went along with it, gradually grew irritated and told him, "If you don't have anything to talk about, I'm hanging up." At that, the other person suddenly fell silent, and after a while, started muttering in a trembling voice. It was about a trivial game that had been popular back in their junior high days. *"You remember it, right?"* Feeling creeped out by the raspy voice asking him that, Yoshida said, "Well, so what?" and hung up the phone. Three days after that incident, he received word from a mutual friend that this friend named Yasumoto had died. "Apparently, he'd been missing since a few days before. He crashed his motorcycle, and was found after going over a guardrail in the mountains and falling into a ravine. I went to the funeral, and when I asked his family for details, it turned out the day Yasumoto called me was the day *after* the accident happened." A chill ran down my spine. The other two seniors, who had been listening with smug grins, now wore creeped-out expressions. "I thought maybe he'd fallen into a ravine and couldn't move, and made that kind of call from his mobile, which grossed me out, but when I looked into it, apparently Yasumoto died instantly." The hand holding his cigarette was shaking violently. Reacting to the unpleasant atmosphere, as if the room temperature had dropped, the other seniors let out joking jeers. "Oh, come on." "That's such a cliché." Yoshida looked annoyed and raised his voice, saying, "I'm serious. Would I use a dead buddy as a joke?" "Calm down. They say if you talk about rumors like that, it'll really show up." After an exchange of misaligned words between the two seniors trying to brush it off as a joke and Yoshida, a somewhat deflated atmosphere began to drift through the room. "Bathroom," Yoshida said as he stood up from his seat. I followed suit and left the lab. We walked down the long corridor, passed by the men's room with its "Under Repair" sign left permanently hanging, and went down two flights of stairs to enter the restroom on that floor. As we stood side-by-side doing our business, Yoshida spoke out of nowhere. "You know that story about the Purple Mirror, right?" I was surprised by the sudden change of topic, but if I recall correctly, it was a curse where if you remembered it until you turned twenty, you died or something. Of course, I'd never heard of anyone actually dying from it. "Yasumoto asked me, *'You remember it, right?'*—he was talking about that Purple Mirror thing. It was insanely popular back in junior high, and if you remembered it by your twenty-first birthday, you'd die... Well, it's basically a variation of the Purple Mirror rumor." "Uh, you're not twenty-one yet, right, Senior?" "Pretty nasty, huh? Going out of his way to make me remember. It's not like I believe it, but it still puts me in a bad mood." The voices echoed off the dim, unlit walls of the restroom. The floor housing the research labs in the faculty building was always deserted, giving it an eerie atmosphere even in the daytime. "When is... Yasumoto's birthday, anyway?" I asked hesitantly. After washing his hands, Yoshida tightly closed the faucet and spoke in a low voice. "More than two months ago." I turned those words over in my mouth, pondering the meaning behind them. "I wonder why..." he muttered as he stepped out of the restroom, and I followed after him. Even after thinking about it, I didn't understand. When we returned to the lab, the two seniors were slumped over the table in sloppy postures. "So, what are we doing about the time for the Shiba-kon?" One of the seniors asked, keeping his head down. "Seven o'clock or something should be fine," the other replied. Right at that moment, a muffled electronic chime echoed through the room. "Ah, a mobile phone. Whose is it?" I instinctively searched my own pockets, when Yoshida said, "Sounds like mine," and opened the backpack he had left by the wall. The ringing grew louder. He looked like he was about to answer right away, but then Yoshida froze, staring at the screen of his phone. "Eh?" After a speechless pause, he muttered in a flat voice, "It's Yasumoto..." before holding the phone to his ear. After responding normally with a "Hello?", there was a slight pause, and then, "Who is this?" Yoshida spoke in a harsh tone. Then he waited for a reaction, but nobody seemed to be saying anything on the other end. "Don't just stay quiet, say something. Is someone pulling a prank? Hey." Yoshida's voice was near tears as he repeated those words. Only that voice echoed off the walls and ceiling of the lab. I could only stand by my side and watch with bated breath. "Where are you calling from?" After saying that, Yoshida put his index finger to his lips to signal "shh" and glanced over at me. Naturally, everyone stopped moving to avoid making a sound. With the phone pressed against his ear, his eyes cast downward, he moved slowly. "...Are you under the tree?" After saying that in a trembling voice, Yoshida repeated "Hello? Hello?" into the phone. It seemed to have hung up. It suddenly fell silent. The other seniors spoke to Yoshida, who stood there dumbfounded, as if handling fragile glass. "Who was it?" "...I don't know. They didn't say a word." After saying that with a drained, bloodless face, Yoshida shouldowed his backpack, muttered, "I'm going home," and left the lab. As we watched his back go, one of the seniors muttered under his breath, "Is he gonna be alright?" The mentor, who had been listening intently to my story, signaled with his eyes: *And?* I had also emptied all the plates on my tray and was sipping thoughtfully on the lukewarm tea. "And that's the end of it. I haven't seen Yoshida since then." After shaking his head left and right two or three times, the mentor wore a strange smile. "So, what do you think?" What do you mean... I don't know." Was the person who called Yoshida really his dead friend Yasumoto? The call before he learned of the accidental death, and the call that rang in the lab. Both of them, or perhaps one of them. Either way, it sounded like a ghost story, and if you heard it at night, it might have added to the atmosphere. I was never actually told the curse that you die if you don't forget it by age twenty-one. The very fact that it wasn't shared feels like it vividly illustrates the dread Yoshida was harboring. After all, I was still only twenty at the time. "If I were you, I'd call all my junior high friends and tell them, *'Don't answer calls from Yasumoto.'*" The mentor said that with a laugh. Then, shifting gears, he put on a serious expression and lowered his voice. "Want to know what really happened?" I leaned forward and replied. "You figured it out?" "The one in the lab?" The mentor began to speak, saying it was like this. "The hint is the fact that the phone call came right after you went to the restroom and came back." "So what?" "You, the narrator, and that Yoshida senior in question were both away from the lab. And since the restroom on that floor was out of order and unusable as it had been for a while, you had to go down two floors. That means there was more than enough time to pull off some kind of prank on the mobile phone left behind in Yoshida's backpack." A prank? What does that mean? "I figure that Yoshida senior probably keeps his mobile phone in his backpack all the time. The other two seniors, knowing this, took the phone out as soon as the two of you left the lab. They did it to rig things so it would look like a call from a dead friend named Yasumoto." "How?" "Like this." The mentor snatched my PHS, started tampering with it on his own, and then placed it on the desk before picking up his own phone. My PHS rang. The display showed the text "Yasumoto So-and-So." I was stunned. "Well, it's easy once you know how." The mentor put away his phone looking apologetic. "First, you check Yasumoto's full name from the addresses on Yoshida senior's phone. Then, you change one of the names in that address book to Yasumoto's. All that's left is to put it back in the backpack. Ideally, that person should be a friend who wouldn't find it strange to call Yoshida senior at any time. It's a 'delayed-action call from the dead.' However, considering the timing—right after the restroom trip—and the fact that it was a silent call, it's reasonable to assume they called the person renamed 'Yasumoto So-and-So' and got them to help with the prank. Which means the culprit is likely a mutual friend from the same lab." The mentor continued, sounding bored. "In the end, he fell for the prank because he checked the caller only by the name shown on the display. Normally, I'd think the phone number would be displayed right alongside it, but failing to notice it was a different number from usual is something an old-school guy like me just can't understand." He was still going on about that. Yet, somehow, that seemed to explain everything. I had completely sobered up, and the incident that had felt so eerie up until then began to replay in my mind as something intensely comical. Even the episode where Yoshida had supposedly spoken on the phone with Yasumoto—who should have already been dead at the time— started to feel like it could be brushed off as a mix-up of dates or something. Just as I was vaguely staring at the total calorie count displayed on my receipt, thinking I'd cool off a bit longer in the air-conditioned cafeteria, the mentor, who had been gazing out the window, slammed his teacup onto the table with a harsh thud. His expression grew grim by the second. "No way..." He muttered, his eyeballs moving slowly as if mulling something over. Having no clue what had happened, I just stared intently at his reaction. "This is strange." "What is?" "The story from earlier." My heart skipped a beat. Was there still more? It should have been over already. "I might have misunderstood something." Frowning, the mentor tapped the table with the nail of his index finger—tap, tap. "That Yoshida senior, when he questioned where the silent call from 'Mr. Yasumoto' while in the lab was coming from, what did he say?" "Huh? ...Well, he said, *'Are you under the tree?'*" "What does that mean?" "Who knows? Right after that, he just went home." The mentor closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. "That Yoshida senior said the other person didn't say a word, right? That means he figured it out from some kind of information other than words." He opened his eyes and lowered his gaze slightly. "Yasumoto's cause of death was a motorcycle accident. He went over a guardrail and fell into a ravine, right? Would you associate that with a soul being under a tree, for instance? No, that doesn't really fit. Which means he must have obtained some kind of information during that phone call. If not words, then sound." Sound? I tilted my head, not understanding why the mentor was fixating on such a thing. "Right. Sound. Background noise. For instance, the backing-up warning beep of a dump truck, the noise of a pachinko parlor, clear stereo sound... You can usually tell to some extent where someone is calling from." "Well, yeah, I suppose you can." "Then what do you think the sound of being under a tree is?" Prompted by that, I tried to imagine it. The sound of being under a tree? What could it be? The sound of tree leaves rustling in the wind? Would you even recognize that just by hearing it? The mentor smiled, put a finger to his lips, and closed his eyes. It seemed to be an implicit instruction to be quiet and strain my ears. Keeping my eyes open, I concentrated my nerves on the surrounding sounds. The bustling noise inside the cafeteria grew louder. Even so, as I listened intently, those sounds gradually faded into the distance, and in contrast, my ears began to pick up faint, distant sounds. *...Zhi-zhi-zhi-zhi-zhi-zhi-zhi-zhi...* I was struck by the illusion that the mentor sitting across the table was growing smaller and further away. "Cicadas." The mentor opened his eyes and nodded. "That sound alone is instantly recognizable. Even on the second floor of a building with the windows closed like this, you can hear it, but if you actually go under a tree, the volume is incredible. Not just under a tree, near a tree is fine too—that's just a matter of word choice. Anyway, Yoshida senior deduced where the other person was right now from the sound of those cicadas. But here's the thing." The mentor suddenly stood up. "Wait here for a second." "Eh?" With a gesture of his palm facing down telling me to sit, the mentor turned on his heel and walked toward the cafeteria exit. Left behind, I couldn't move as I watched his back. What's going on? He just told me to wait, but since I had no idea what was happening, it felt unsettling. Would it be bad if I went to get some tea? Thinking that, as I repeatedly looked back toward the entrance, my own PHS suddenly rang. Bad for the heart. It was from the mentor. To hide my embarrassment from slightly jumping out of my seat, I clicked my tongue and pressed the call button with a nonchalant attitude. "Hello?" *“……”* The person on the other end was silent. Huh? It's the mentor, right? I didn't check the number though. An unpleasant coldness ran down my spine. "Hello?" *“...Yeah. Can you hear me?”* "What is this? Stop trying to scare me." *“You can hear my voice, right?”* He was speaking in an unusually low voice. "Yeah. I can hear you." *“Do you know where I am right now?”* "Who knows? Somewhere near the cafeteria, probably." Judging by the time he got up from his seat, he couldn't have gone that far. *“Then, move over to my seat and look out the window.”* As told, I stood up and moved to his seat. Then, with the PHS pressed to my ear, I looked out the window through the glass. I understood immediately. The mentor was standing under an avenue of trees a short distance away from the building, waving. I instinctively waved back. *“I'll ask you again. Where am I right now?”* What's this about? It felt strangely pointed. "I mean, right under the tree over there, obviously." As I answered, for reasons unknown, a creeping sense of premonition began to rear its head. The mentor's waving hand lowered, changing into a posture as if asking a question. *“Until you saw it with your own eyes—”*
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