The morning light exposes the truth with cruel precision.
Misato stood before the bathroom mirror, staring intensely at her face illuminated by powerful LED lights. What stared back was the remnant of a beauty once hailed as the “Flower of the City.”
“…They’re getting deeper.”
She gently tugged at the skin at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. When she let go, fine lines like thin crepe silk settled back into place like receding waves. The shadows of her nasolabial folds seemed slightly longer than yesterday, reaching toward the corners of her mouth.
Forty-eight years old. To the general public, she might be categorized as “youthful-looking.” But to Misato, that number carried a slow-burning terror, like a prisoner awaiting a death sentence. She took a bottle of high-end French serum—costing tens of thousands of yen—from the shelf and massaged it into her skin as if reciting a prayer.
“Please, work. Go back. Take me back to those days.”
However, the elasticity she felt beneath her fingertips was distinctly different from her prime. The skin that was once succulent fruit had transformed into the coreless softness of a drying fruit. Her intellect understood with cold clarity that expensive creams and the latest aesthetic machines were no longer “repairs”; they were merely “life-prolonging measures” temporarily holding together a crumbling sandcastle.
===
That afternoon, Misato was in her usual spot at “Retro,” an old cafe on the edge of town. It was a place where amber lighting and worn velvet chairs kindly hid the unsightly realities of aging women.
“Oh, Misato-san. You’re beautiful as always. Your skin has such a glow.”
One of her friends, Setsuko, spoke up. Her own neck was etched with rings of wrinkles that no amount of care could hide.
“Not at all. Maybe the new supplements I started are working,” Misato replied with a textbook-perfect humble smile. Inside, a violent sense of rejection swirled: *Don’t group me with you.* To be categorized with women who accepted aging as a matter of course was an unbearable humiliation for Misato, who despaired every time she saw a mirror.
“But there’s a limit to effort, isn’t there? We’re already people of ‘the other side,'” another friend remarked, gesturing toward the high school girls walking past the window.
Their lush, taut legs extending from short skirts. Their skin, devoid of any dullness, reflecting the sunlight. Those girls hadn’t the slightest clue about the invincible fortune they possessed called “youth.” They didn’t know how cruel, or how expensive, it truly was.
Setsuko lowered her voice, mindful of her surroundings. “…Hey. I’ve heard a rumor lately. About a ‘high school girl who rents out youth.'”
Misato’s teacup clinked against its saucer. “Rents out… youth?”
“Yes. It sounds like an urban legend, but they say a girl named Rina carves out a portion of her own time for those who desire it. Of course, it requires a fitting ‘price.’ Someone I know heard of a woman who looked twenty years younger overnight.”
“Ridiculous. A magical story like that…”
Even as she dismissed it, Misato’s heart pounded violently. If—if it were true. If youth could be bought with money. To Misato, it felt like the “final salvation,” something to be obtained even if it meant throwing away her entire fortune.
===
That night, Misato couldn’t sleep. Tracing her arm in the darkness, she felt the texture of dry skin. The laughter of young people outside grated on her nerves.
“…Rina.”
When she whispered that name, the gears of fate began to turn in a direction from which there was no return.
Misato spent the following days frantically gathering information on this “Rina.” In the corners of internet message boards, rumors from the underworld, and relying on old connections.
“The secret to youth? It’s just maintenance,” she would smile to her friends, while her mind was saturated with the desire to “plunder” youth.
Three days later, a strange email arrived on her smartphone. The sender was blank. The body contained only map coordinates and a time. The location was an abandoned botanical garden on the outskirts of town. With trembling fingers, Misato typed a simple “Understood” in reply.
Two o’clock in the morning.
The garden was a ruin, surrounded by a dense forest where even moonlight couldn’t reach. Passing through the rusted iron gates, the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation hit her nose. The glass dome that was once a greenhouse was more than half shattered, with strangely shaped plants crawling out like writhing tentacles in the dark. Misato pushed deeper, heedless of the mud. Her expectation outweighed her fear. Or rather, she had to overwrite her fear to make it this far.
In the deepest part of the greenhouse, beneath a massive banyan tree, the girl stood.
A sailor-style school uniform. A crisp white collar and a navy pleated skirt. Her presence was so healthy, so vivid, that she seemed entirely out of place in this ruin.
“…Rina-san?”
The girl turned slowly. The moment Misato saw her face, she gasped. She was beautiful, but it was the beauty of an exquisitely crafted doll or a cold marble statue rather than a living human. Her large eyes held no light—only a void that seemed to see through everything.
“I’ve been waiting, Misato-san. …You have the face of someone who despairs at their ‘remaining time.'”
Rina’s voice had a bell-like clarity, yet it was devoid of any emotional warmth. “I assume you’ve heard the terms? What I offer is a ‘youth rental.’ …More precisely, a bypass of time and cells.”
“…Yes. I want to reclaim my youth. I’ll do anything.” Misato replied, almost kneeling before her. A forty-eight-year-old woman felt an abnormal sense of submission toward a teenage girl.
“The condition is simple. We will temporarily exchange our ‘ages.’ You take my teenage body; I take your forty-something body. The term is one month. When the deadline arrives, we meet here to return. Naturally, this isn’t charity. As a service fee, one million yen upfront. And every week, there will be a maintenance fee. …Does that sound expensive?”
“No. …It sounds cheap.” Misato answered instantly. To have those radiant days back for a million yen?
“Wise. However, a warning: the ritual is structured so that I can forcibly revert the bodies at any time. Evasion or failure to pay is impossible. …Understood?”
Rina took Misato’s hand and made a shallow cut on their fingertips with a small silver knife. Their blood mingled, and Rina chanted a spell in an incomprehensible language. Immediately after, Misato’s consciousness exploded. Every cell in her body seemed to boil, followed by a shock like being thrown into ice water. The air she drew deep into her lungs felt incredibly light and cold. Her vision sharpened, and the chirping of insects sounded like a grand orchestra.
“…Ah. …Aah…!”
Misato looked at her hands. The protruding veins and dull spots she had moments ago were gone. White, succulent, perfect teenage hands filled with energy to the tips. She frantically touched her chest, her legs, her face. Taut muscles, lush elasticity—her body stood tall, defying gravity.
“A success. …Congratulations, Misato-san. Or should I say, Misato-chan?”
Looking up, she saw a girl wearing her—Misato’s—flesh. Her forty-eight-year-old self in a sailor uniform. The wrinkled face, the slightly sagging stomach. Objectively, it was a grotesque sight. But Misato trembled with joy.
“Incredible… It really worked. …I’m young. I’m really young!”
“Enjoy yourself. …But don’t forget: it is a loan. And anything borrowed must be returned. …With interest.”
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