In the second half of April, everything in my life was still swirling around the same question:
“Have I lost my mind?”
It all began at the end of the previous year, when simply looking at the next year’s calendar made my stomach Gyu — that sudden tightening I later realized was an inner signal.
Even after the new year started, the Gyu kept happening.
By early April, “Gyu Walks” had begun, and so had my conversations with Gyu (Archangel Michael).
But constantly receiving strange messages like
“You are the Moon Goddess”
only made the “Am I crazy?” question louder.
Then the next day, one of my guardians—Saeki the Elder—gave me a strange message about loaches…
and for a moment it made me think:
“…Maybe this isn’t delusion?”
Every day my mind spun between doubt and possibility.
Honestly, just thinking “Am I crazy?” over and over was enough to make me feel like I would go crazy.
So once again, I went on a Gyu Walk — this time by train.
The Place Gyu Guided Me To
Gyu led me to the city library.
A huge, famous one in the heart of Manhattan.
It was my first time entering.
And for some reason, even before stepping inside, my heart was pounding.
My palms were sweating.
Goosebumps everywhere.
Something was definitely happening — but I had no idea what.
The moment I walked through the main entrance, I froze.
It looked like a palace.
A castle.
Not a “library.”
The grandeur instantly snapped me out of my nerves, and a bit of tourist excitement kicked in.
I explored the first floor, then the second and third, checking every room.
Oddly, I couldn’t find a single room filled with books.
Then I opened the next door.
The Moment I Entered “That Room”
I found myself in a large reading room filled with long tables and people quietly reading or typing.
Portraits lined the walls all around.
And suddenly:
Heart pounding.
Goosebumps.
Sweat.
And a massive Gyu in my stomach.
This is the room.
I didn’t know why — I just knew.
I began examining the portraits one by one, trying to look like a normal visitor.
“Hmm, interesting,” I pretended, slowly moving from one painting to the next.
And then—
I saw that portrait.
A violent surge hit my stomach.
Gyu Gyu Gyu—!!
So strong it hurt my ribs.
The pressure coming from the painting felt unbelievable.
It was as if the person could step out of the frame at any moment.
I stood right in front of it.
A man from an older era, painted formally.
The Gyu was the strongest I had ever felt.
The buzzing in my body wouldn’t stop.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
In my mind I asked:
“If you have something to say, then say it.”
But he said nothing.
Nothing except the overwhelming presence —
and a strange, unmistakable feeling of urgency.
It felt like he was sad.
And for some reason, I felt a desperate need not to make him sad.
After a long moment, I took a photo of the nameplate beside the portrait —
let’s call him “Taro.”
The Moment I Left His Room
As I stepped out of that room and the sensations vanished,
I felt only one thing:
Taro was not “just a portrait.”
There was something unmistakably alive in that presence—
something that had recognized me first.
I didn’t know what he wanted,
or why my body reacted so violently to him.
But I knew this:
Our connection wasn’t over.
This was only the beginning of something I couldn’t yet understand.
So instead of trying to solve it right there in the library,
I simply held the feeling close
and let the moment settle.
Whatever this was,
Taro would return to me again—
in his own timing.
.
.