Editing Hyouka:Volume 6 1 (section)

=== 1. ===



I'm not the kind of person who clearly remembers things that have already come and gone. Even if someone were to tell me that something or other had definitely happened, say in elementary or middle school, all too often I could only stare blankly back at them, offering an unsure "Did it now?" in response. And yet, though there were also experiences I shared with others, I was occasionally the only one able to retain lucid memories of them later on. I had no way of knowing what it was that separated that which I would eventually forget and that which I would always remember.

Tracing through my memories—through the seemingly limitless gray of uncertain places and events—there were occasional moments of vivid recollection. These mostly chronicled events like sports festivals, daytime excursions, and school field trips through the woods, while others covered pointless events I didn't deem important, but, through the gradual weathering of time, still found themselves somehow cemented in a special spot in my memory. I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of admiration at their tenacity. On the other hand, I realized there were also times when I found myself clearly remembering a single tiny fragment of a completely normal day, one wholly indistinguishable from any other at the time. Unlike the detailed, magazine article-like memories that recorded events, they were extremely fragmented, void of anything orienting them. Even then, they were difficult to forget, memories akin to an old photograph you couldn't bear to throw away. For example, tirelessly watching the whirlpools born from clashing channel waters in summer, the robust imagination sprung on by rows of imposing volumes from unreachable library bookshelves in winter, competing for the last book at a store on the way home with your friend, only for the both of you to give it up in autumn... What exactly was it that separated these memories from the countless forgotten?

Then there were moments when I was suddenly struck by a certain feeling: “I might never forget this.” Won't I always remember that June night as well, under which I walked the city streets enveloped by a lukewarm breeze? Though, I guess I won't be able to confirm that feeling of mine until ten, twenty years in the future.



It all began with a single phone call.