7:03 AM.
My alarm went off, and I hated it more than usual.
I hit snooze without looking. Ten more minutes wouldn’t fix anything, but it felt like a promise.
The room was still dark. My curtain was half open, not that it mattered—Minatsuki light didn’t try very hard.
I sat up and let the air hit my back. Cold, damp. I’d forgotten to shut the window again.
There was a crack in the wall near the ceiling. It looked like a question mark if you tilted your head.
I told myself I’d fix it. Like I told myself I’d eat breakfast.
I didn’t do either.
I got dressed. Hoodie. Uniform pants. The socks didn’t match.
Didn’t care.
Still breathing. Good enough.
The fridge was empty, the light above the sink flickered once and gave up.
The apartment was quiet. Mom had already left for her shift. Dad wasn’t here anymore—hadn’t been for a while.
I moved like I was underwater.
Toothbrush. Water.
Avoid the mirror—
Nope. Too late.
7:28 AM.
I stared at the bathroom mirror.
Not in the dramatic, self-loathing kind of way. Just… stared.
Toothbrush dangling. Water still running.
My reflection looked tired in that vaguely haunted, too-old-for-his-age way. Hoodie half-zipped, eyes dull. Nothing special. No glowing marks. No cursed runes. Just me.
The kind of kid you pass on the street and never think about again.
But that was the problem.
Things no one else did. Things I wish I didn’t.
I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my bag, and left without locking the door twice this time.
I was working on that.
7:42 AM.
Minatsuki city always smelled like rain that overstayed its welcome.
Not the clean kind, either. More like wet pavement and rusted vending machines.
The roads were quiet. Too quiet, if you grew up here.
When a place like this went still, it didn’t mean peace.
It meant something was holding its breath.
The buildings all looked like they needed a nap. Or a cigarette. Or both.
I pulled my hood up, stepped around a puddle that wasn’t there yesterday, and kept walking like the background didn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it always did.
The usual path. Overpass. Right side. Earphones in.
No music playing.
Volume low enough to hear my own thoughts.
Which was maybe the problem.
Ahead of me, a guy wheeled a metal cart across the street—
Old, half-bent frame.
Loaded with gas cylinders. The kind you’re not supposed to transport like that.
One of them jostled loose. Just a little.
Wobbling at the edge.
I watched it roll an inch. Then stop.
That’s not safe, I thought.
If the cart hits that curb too hard—
I pulled the hood tighter over my head and kept walking.
That was the trick, right?
Ignore it.
Pretend I didn’t see it.
Pretend I wasn’t always scanning the world for the next disaster.
---
Then she appeared.
A girl on a bike.
I didn’t know her name.
Didn’t know anything, really.
She sat near the back of class, near the window. That was it.
She rode like she was always late.
Skirt a little too short. Shoelaces undone.
Ponytail bouncing like she hadn’t figured out gravity yet.
I looked at the bike.
Front wheel: slight wobble.
Handlebar: one grip torn.
Pothole ahead: camouflaged by wet leaves.
And suddenly the thought came.
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What if her front wheel hits that pothole?
What if she slips at the exact moment she passes the gas cart?
What if that cylinder breaks loose, bounces, and—
I clenched my jaw.
She passed the cart. Nothing happened.
No scream.
No crash.
No blood.
Just the soft hum of wheels on concrete.
I forced a breath out.
Tried to laugh at myself.
Didn’t succeed.
8:06 AM.
Homeroom.
I sat by the window. Same desk. Same scratch on the wood from someone’s compass, probably carved years ago.
People were talking. Laughing. Trading rumors about gym class getting canceled again.
I wasn’t listening.
The door to the hallway stayed open for a while.
I kept watching it.
Waiting for her to walk past like she always did.
She didn’t.
The teacher came in. Took attendance. Mispronounced three names.
Sighed like it was already going to be a long day.
Still no sign of her.
Then—
“Sera Fujimoto?”
Silence.
The teacher looked up. Waited a beat. Moved on.
That was the first time I’d heard her name.
I didn’t know that before.
Didn’t even try to.
She sat near the back of class, near the window.
That was it.
Maybe she was sick. Or took the day off.
She wasn’t wearing her uniform this morning, now that I think about it.
That meant something, right?
Maybe she just… wasn’t coming in today.
Yeah.
That had to be it.
Maybe it was just anxiety again.
That’s what everyone always said.
anxiety.
thoughts.
But I kept thinking about the wheel. The pothole. The truck.
The moment I thought —and then watched her ride through it like I’d never thought it at all.
It didn’t happen.
But it
3:33 PM.
The hallway buzzed like it always did.
Laughter. Footsteps. Lockers slamming too hard.
People moving fast like nothing bad ever happens between classes.
I moved through it like a ghost.
Headphones in.
No music playing.
The stairs near the east wing had just been waxed.
Not well.
A little too smooth. A little too shiny.
Someone would fall.
I saw it the moment I stepped down.
A younger kid—first-year, maybe—backpack open, earbuds in, rushing too fast.
And then it came.
Not a vision. Not a spiral.
Just a single thought.
I looked away.
Kept walking.
Tried to be normal.
Tried to—
A sharp cry. A flurry of gasps behind me.
I turned around.
The kid was on the landing, curled up, holding his wrist.
His backpack had spilled open like a cut.
A teacher shouted for the nurse. Someone knelt beside him.
Someone else muttered, “Did anyone see what happened?”
I didn’t move.
My fingers were ice.
It had happened.
Exactly how I pictured it.
Exactly.
I kept walking.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe until I reached the end of the hall.
4:02 PM.
The ramen shop was nearly empty.
Just the old man behind the counter, and a salaryman in the corner slurping like he was trying to drown out the world.
I slid into my usual seat.
Third stool from the window.
The owner looked up. Gave a nod. Didn’t say anything.
He never did.
He poured a glass of water and slid it over.
Then reached under the counter, pulled out a cigarette, and placed it next to a fresh bowl of ramen.
The usual.
Steam curled up from the bowl. The smell was sharp—soy, salt, something bitter underneath.
It should’ve made me feel something.
Normally, I’d mutter, “”
And he’d grunt, “”
A ritual. A joke. Our only real words.
But this time, I didn’t say it.
Didn’t touch the cigarette.
Didn’t touch the ramen.
Just sat there. Fingers tight around the water glass.
The old man looked at me for a second longer than usual.
No questions. No concern. No judgment.
Just… noticed.
And maybe that’s why I kept coming here.
Because he never asked.
And somehow, that made it the only place that didn’t make me feel worse.
4:28 PM.
Behind the shop, past the rusted railing and the crooked signpost, the path curved into the trees.
Most people forgot it was there.
A narrow trail, half-eaten by moss and broken roots.
The kind of place that used to matter, but didn’t anymore.
At the end stood the old shrine. Or what was left of it.
Stone steps like jagged teeth.
A single arch, half-swallowed by ivy.
Everything else had fallen years ago.
Beyond it: the cliff.
Minatsuki Bay stretched out below in a dull, silver sprawl.
The sky and sea bled together like a smudged watercolor.
No wind. No sound. Just that heavy kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something.
I sat on the flat stone near the edge.
The one shaped like an open hand.
Lit the cigarette.
Inhaled. Exhaled.
The smoke didn’t sting this time.
It just sat in my lungs like a second kind of air.
Let it dull my senses.
Somewhere behind my eyelids, a memory surfaced.
A hospital hallway.
A coat by the door that morning.
My father’s voice saying, “”
And a thought I’d never told anyone.
I’d had it. I knew I had.
A full-body chill.
I felt it echoing through my teeth for weeks before.
The same weight I felt with the girl. With the stairs.
But it had just been a thought. A worry. Right?
I opened my eyes.
The cigarette had burned halfway down.
The bay hadn’t moved. The sky hadn’t changed.
But something felt different. Or maybe I just did.
I told myself.
Still…
I didn’t want to think about the next one.
And somehow, not knowing felt worse.
