She labours to understand, to remember what had come before this moment, to regain what she had lost. To recall what he had done to her. Before she can remember, the train comes to a halt, and the doors open. She steps out into a busy street. Tokyo, surely? Were the Trials to be withstood here? Was he here as well?
She steps off the train, and immediately feels pain, as if her very soul is being pushed and pulled, at war within her. She sways, almost swoons; the pain lessens, then returns as she steadies herself. She walks forward, and realises that, in some indefinable way, the pain seems directional, always clawing at her from the left. Determined, she turns, and walks into the path of this gale, headlong into what must surely be the First Trial.
Pain. Pain beyond anything imaginable to her, pain that seems to be all around her, and that seems to somehow double in strength as she moves determinedly on. Pain that, small mercy, recalls some memories of that time before. Of his hands. Of his words. And the pain, oh the pain of his betrayal, that seems, even now, sharper than the pain that surrounds her. She no longer remembers what he did, but the agony needs no attached memory to remain pure.
And then, with one final heartrending jerk, the pain disappears. And she finds herself standing before a great gate, a torii. Here, she finds another sheet. A mere slip of paper, slightly yellowed, the words plain. It is his handwriting, of that she is sure. No words of remorse for what he'd done to her. No, of course not. The spider weaves, to watch the flies dance. She steps through the gate, towards what will surely be the next Trial.