Bzzt.
It sounded like a glitch.
As if someone had pressed pause on the world, then forgotten to unpause properly.
Everything was white. No textures. No shadows. Just a pure, blinding void that stretched forever. I didn't feel the ground beneath my feet—just floating.
I looked down at my hands.
Only… they weren't mine.
Smaller. Softer. Almost… delicate. They curled into tiny fists, then opened again, slow and uncertain, like someone waking up in a body that didn't belong to them.
Then I saw her.
A little girl stood a few feet ahead. She wasn't moving—just standing there, still as a statue. Her hair was tied back neatly with a cute headband, and the edges of her skirt gently fluttered in an unseen breeze. She had no eyes. Just a single, glowing white line across her face where her eyes should've been. But she smiled.
Not a creepy smile.
A warm one.
So warm, it felt like it could melt this frozen world of light.
Then, without warning, two boys appeared beside her.
They didn't speak. They didn't blink. Their expressions were calm—too calm. All three of them turned to look at something behind me. I followed their gaze.
An old playground.
Rusting swings swayed gently on creaky hinges, even though there was no wind. The chains squeaked in the silence, a strangely nostalgic sound that tugged at something in my chest.
And then, they ran.
The three of them, toward a glowing gate at the edge of this dream-like space.
"Wait for me!" I shouted. My legs moved on instinct, chasing after them.
But the world began to fall apart.
The white surface beneath me cracked like shattered glass. The sky distorted into static. Blocks of light broke apart like pixels, losing data. I tried to run faster, but my feet wouldn't obey.
The entire world was breaking.
Glitching.
And then—
"VANSH!!"
A voice tore through everything like thunder.
I blinked, eyes snapping open. My vision was blurred and sticky with sleep.
The light was real now—sunlight, pouring in from the windows of a classroom. My cheek was stuck to a slightly damp textbook. My mouth tasted like dried ink and sleep.
I blinked again.
Where…?
The curtains swayed softly in the wind. Outside, I saw a tree branch shaking gently. One leaf broke away and began to fall, spinning like a paper boat caught in a breeze.
The classroom was warm, bright, but oddly quiet.
Too quiet.
"VANSH!"
The sharp call struck again, and I sat up like I'd been electrocuted.
At the front of the classroom, the teacher stood with her arms crossed, a piece of chalk in her hand. She was young—maybe mid-20s—and known for being the type of teacher who didn't yell often… because she didn't need to. Her glare did all the work.
Before I could process anything—
Thwack!
A chalk piece flew through the air like a guided missile and nailed me in the middle of my forehead.
"OW—!"
The whole classroom giggled in unison. The laughter was muffled, but it carried that painful echo of "everyone saw that."
"How many times have I told you not to sleep in my class?" the teacher snapped, her voice sharp but not raised. "Do I need to install a pillow on your desk?"
I wanted to reply with something clever. Something sarcastic. But my mouth wouldn't cooperate.
And then came the whispers.
"His hair's a mess," a girl snickered behind her palm.
"Does he even wash it?" her friend added. "Looks like he came straight from a nightmare."
I heard every word. I always did. But I didn't turn. I didn't react. I just stared forward, trying not to let my expression crack. I knew if I let even a fraction of my thoughts show… they'd never stop talking.
"Vansh," the teacher called again, voice flat now, more tired than angry. "Are you with us?"
I nodded, forcing my body to move. "Y-Yeah. Just… a weird dream."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, ma'am," I muttered quickly.
"Good. Then you can read the rest of the paragraph. Page thirty-two."
I glanced down at my book. The text blurred for a second. My eyes caught the page number—twenty-four. We were supposed to be on thirty-two.
My heart skipped.
I wasn't just on the wrong page—I hadn't even turned a single one since the class began.
My fingers scrambled to turn the pages, but my brain hadn't caught up yet. I felt like I was still halfway in that glitching white void, not in a classroom full of people waiting to see me mess up.
Just as I opened my mouth to say something—anything—
BRRRRRRRING!
The bell rang.
A collective breath escaped the room.
The teacher exhaled, then gave me a half-smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "Lucky guy…"
She grabbed her attendance register and headed for the door—but just before leaving, she threw one last order over her shoulder.
"Vansh. My cabin. Don't make me repeat it."
My entire body stiffened. And just like that, the short-lived peace was shattered again.
The class monitor stood up and delivered the farewell with robotic accuracy. Everyone else parroted after her, bored and mechanical.
And then? Chaos.
The classroom exploded back into casual conversation, laughter, chair scrapes, and rustling bags. And more whispers.
"He's so weird."
"Always in his head. I bet he writes depressing poetry."
"Did you see his face when the chalk hit? Like a zombie waking up."
None of them bothered whispering. They wanted me to hear. I knew the pattern. I'd lived it every day. I stood up slowly, brushing imaginary dust off my pants. My heart thudded in my chest, but my face remained blank.
I didn't look at anyone. Didn't speak. I just stood up, saw my seat, and walked.
The sounds behind me blurred into static. People laughed, whispered, and moved on. For them, it was already over. But I could still feel it—their stares. Not all of them. Just a few. The kind that linger. The kind that made your back itch.
The classroom door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the hallway.
The air outside felt… colder. Calmer.
But somewhere, deep in my chest, that dream still pulsed—like a warning I couldn't decode.
As I stepped out into the hallway, the world felt louder than before.
Some students were already bolting out of their classrooms, backpacks swinging, voices overlapping in chaotic joy. A pair of boys laughed with arms draped over each other's shoulders, exaggerating some story none of them would remember by next week. Their laughter echoed against the polished tile floor, carefree and infectious.
Girls gathered in small circles near the walls, one hand delicately covering their mouths as they chuckled—elegant, composed, like they were aware of being watched. But not every girl was the same. Some had a completely different presence. Confident, yes—but quiet. The kind that could silence a room with just a look. It made me realize… There was no one version of what youth should look like.
Yet, despite all the energy around me, I didn't feel part of it.
Youth—what a strange word. People say it's the time of life when you're meant to feel alive, reckless, emotional, and radiant. But honestly? It just looked noisy. Mismatched. Sometimes even exhausting.
I passed by a few students from our grade—different section, maybe. Some leaned against the wall, already sunk into their mobile screens, necks bent like wilted sunflowers. Their eyes flicked left and right, absorbing short videos, mindless reels, and snippets of trending jokes. They weren't talking to each other. Just… connected digitally. Alone together.
Trying to act older than they were.
Trying to be mature before time demanded it.
I don't know what it was, but it looked sad. Like they were quietly letting their youth slip away, believing adulthood was a destination worth rushing toward as if having opinions online made them grown-ups. These phones weren't just changing how we acted—they were slowly rewiring how we felt, how we spoke, how we even looked at each other.
And no, this isn't some cliché sci-fi dystopia where machines rule the earth.
It's just real.
Soft. Silent. Gradual.
This generation isn't being devoured by robots. It's dissolving into the illusion of connection.
As I kept walking, I noticed a small crowd gathered in front of a classroom up ahead. Loud voices. Whispers. Someone had arrived, clearly drawing attention. A new student, maybe? Yeah… makes sense. This was the season for mid-term transfers.
New faces. New names. Some students would fade out of memory. Others might etch themselves into someone's story.
Before I realized it, my steps had slowed. The hallway turned warmer. I could smell something drifting in the air.
Ah… Lunch break.
Of course. No wonder the corridor felt more alive.
Students had already started darting toward the canteen, racing each other in pairs and threes. Some carried a lunchbox, others their wallets. The sheer volume of energy hit like a wave. You could almost feel the hunger in the way they sprinted past, screaming something about discounts on noodles, egg fried rice, and rolls.
"I forgot it was lunchtime already," I murmured, glancing down.
I kept walking, steady and unhurried. My footsteps were quiet, almost unnoticed. No one called out to me. No one stopped to talk. If I had a special skill, it was this—passing through a crowd without making a ripple. My presence barely registered. Like I was air. A shadow.
"Let's finish the teacher's session and go for lunch soon," Vansh muttered under his breath.
His steps echoed lightly in the quieter hallway as he approached the staff cabins. With his hands tucked deep in his pockets, his figure moved like a ghost—a low presence, low sound. If you didn't know he was there, you'd walk right past him without ever noticing.
He stopped in front of the door. The brass knob felt cool beneath his fingers as he finally pulled his hands free. A simple turn. One clean motion.
But the moment the door creaked open, he stopped.
Standing directly in front of him was a girl.
She hadn't expected anyone either. Her eyes widened slightly, but not in fear. More like... surprise laced with hesitation. Beside her, another girl glanced up, noticing Vansh first. Her gaze moved quickly from his face to her friend's. She nudged her slightly, but didn't speak.
The first girl finally turned toward Vansh.
Her expression was... strange. Not disgust. Not awe. Just—an unreadable stillness, as if she had seen something vaguely familiar but couldn't place it. Before either of them could say a word, Vansh shifted his weight to the side.
Silently, he stepped back, giving them space to leave without confrontation.
His eyes didn't meet theirs. Just a small slide to the right—his gaze tracing the wall, the floor, anything but their faces. A quiet retreat.
The two girls stepped forward, the air between them still dense with unsaid words.
And then, nature chose its moment.
A sudden gust of wind burst through the hallway from an open window nearby. Sharp. Sudden. Inevitable.
All three of their hair caught the breeze.
The girl's black strands lifted into the air in smooth, elegant waves. They curled and danced across her shoulder, framing her face like a fleeting portrait. Her school ID rustled faintly at her collar.
Her eyes—almond-shaped, rich brown, quietly observant—narrowed just a little.
She turned back toward Vansh.
He hadn't moved. His body was still angled away, but the wind had pushed back his fringe just enough to reveal the faint outline of something beneath.
A scar.
Barely visible—curved, thin, and oddly shaped like a half-drawn leaf across the side of his forehead. It wasn't deep. But it was there.
The girl's eyes widened—not in alarm, but in recognition. Like the final piece of a thought falling into place.
"…Those were…" she whispered to herself, but didn't finish the sentence.
The brown-haired girl beside her tilted her head. "Hm? What was that?"
But the first girl just shook her head, brushing her wind-blown hair behind her ear as they began to walk again. She didn't say another word.
Their footsteps faded behind them.
Vansh waited until the sound of the corridor quieted once more. Then, as if none of it had happened, he turned toward the door.
He raised his hand and gave a short knock, more out of habit than need.
"Permission to enter?" he asked.
"Come in," came a muffled voice from inside. Without another word, Vansh stepped into the cabin, closing the door gently behind him. But out in the hallway, the faint scent of that sudden breeze still lingered. And so did a strange feeling neither of the girls could quite shake.
Vansh stepped into the staff cabin quietly, letting the door click shut behind him. The room carried a faint scent of paper, ink, and stale coffee, the kind that lingers no matter how many windows you keep open. A pedestal fan rotated lazily in the corner, its blades creaking with every spin, doing little more than shifting the warm air from one side of the room to the other. Stacks of paper cluttered the desk before him—assignments, reports, test sheets—piled into a miniature fortress around the woman seated at the center.
Ms. Anki didn't bother looking up. Her eyes remained glued to the mess of paperwork in front of her as she flipped through each page with a red pen gripped tightly between her fingers.
"Did you submit your assignment?" she asked, her tone calm but flat, like she was reciting the same question for the hundredth time today.
"Yeah," Vansh replied, keeping his voice low, uncertain whether she even wanted an answer.
There was no scolding. No warning. Not even a sigh. Just silence, broken only by the faint rustle of paper and the occasional scribble of her pen. He stood awkwardly in place, waiting to be dismissed or yelled at—whichever came first.
Without looking at him, she suddenly reached across her desk and extended a stapler in his direction.
He blinked. "…What?"
"Take it," she said flatly.
Hesitantly, Vansh reached out and accepted the stapler. The next second, she began handing him paper sets one by one, already expecting him to fall into rhythm. He did, more out of confusion than obedience. Staple. Pass. Staple. Pass. It continued like that for a minute or so, her hands sliding paper toward him without a single word, as if he were some silent assistant hired on the spot.
As he stapled the fourth set, the absurdity of it finally started to settle in.
"What's happening here?" he muttered under his breath. "I came here to listen to some lecture about falling asleep in class, and now I'm stapling papers like some part-time intern. She's not even saying anything."
The lack of reaction from Ms. Anki didn't help. She moved with mechanical precision, eyes focused, face unreadable.
"She's really serious about this…" he continued in his head. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if she asked me to reorganize her desktop icons or balance the budget for the science department."
The quiet stapling went on a while longer, until her voice suddenly broke through the silence again.
"Why do you sleep in my class?"
The question came without warning or shift in her tone, but it hit him like a jab to the chest. His hand paused mid-motion.
He stared down at the papers in his hand, unsure if he had heard her right. "I… just felt sleepy."
Still calm, she replied, "What am I, a lullaby?"
That caught him completely off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. The way she said it—so matter-of-factly—it was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic or serious.
He glanced sideways at her, trying to gauge her expression. She gave him nothing. Just passed the next set of papers as if nothing unusual had been said.
This teacher was unapproachable. Completely unshaken.
Then she changed gears again.
"How many days has it been since you joined this school?"
He frowned. "Why?"
"Answer."
"Some weeks, I guess," he mumbled.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, folding her arms. Her eyes finally met his.
"And students are still joining. So let's say someone new looks up to you. What would you do?"
Vansh raised an eyebrow, confused. "They won't."
She raised hers right back at him. "You say that like it's a fact."
"It is. No one's going to 'look up' to a guy who sleeps in the back row and avoids everyone."
"Maybe. But what if they did?" she countered. "Let's say a transfer student arrives. Out of nowhere. They get paired with you, sit next to you, and eat lunch with you. What would you do? Just ignore them? Tell them they made a mistake?"
He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah. Probably."
Ms. Anki gave a small sigh, then turned serious again. "You're not invisible, Vansh. You act like it, but you're not. I'm your homeroom teacher, and I hear more than you think. Teachers are getting tired of seeing you sleep in class. They're starting to ask if something's wrong with you. And yes, the 'overrated comics' don't help your case."
The moment she said those two words—"overrated comics"—something shifted in his brain. A short, sharp flicker of static passed through his thoughts, like a screen skipping a frame. He felt it in his ears, like white noise fading in for just a second. It didn't hurt… but it left a sensation he couldn't quite place.
"Overrated… comic?" he echoed.
The words didn't make sense. Not the way they should have. It wasn't that he was offended. It was something else. As if the phrase had hit a button in his mind he didn't know was there.
A glitch.
His thoughts stuttered. Tried to reassemble. Failed.
"You still don't remember anything, do you?" Ms. Anki said, her gaze steady.
"…Huh?"
She leaned forward slightly, as if testing his reaction. "Still didn't ring. Name's Ms. Anki. Hope that works."
He blinked. "You've already told me that. You're my teacher."
She smirked faintly. "Sometimes it takes repetition to wake someone up."
Before he could even start unpacking that strange remark, a presence behind him made him freeze. A soft shuffle of shoes. A breath of cooler air.
Vansh turned instinctively.
Standing just a few feet away was the same girl from earlier—the one with black hair that had swayed in the hallway wind, with almond brown eyes that had watched him like she recognized something.
She held a small key in her hand, and without saying anything to him, she stepped forward and gently placed it on the desk.
"Sorry, ma'am," she said softly, her voice low but clear. "I forgot to return it after the locker check."
Ms. Anki nodded. "Thanks, Rina."
Rina.
The name echoed in Vansh's head.
Another jolt—like something in his thoughts jammed again. He brought a hand slowly to his forehead, rubbing just above his brow, where the scar rested beneath his fringe. It didn't hurt… but for some reason, it felt like it should've.
The girl turned and walked out without looking back.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Vansh remained where he stood, staring blankly at the empty doorway, while a storm of fragmented thoughts stirred just beneath the surface of his mind.
Something was off.
He just didn't know what yet.
Rina left the cabin without saying another word. But just before stepping out, she glanced at Vansh once more—keenly, quietly. Her eyes lingered on him for only a second. He didn't notice, or at least, it seemed that way. Yet, somewhere deep inside, a strange tension pulled at the edge of his awareness, like a shadow brushing past his shoulder. Whether it was coincidence or some faint realization, Vansh couldn't tell. Then she was gone.
Ms. Anki observed the moment in silence. She tapped her pen on the edge of the table, as if to puncture the static air left behind. "Better you start looking up at things now and then," she said abruptly. Her voice returned to that neutral, almost bored tone. "You can go. Another teacher hasn't come today, so I have to check on her classroom. I'll take my lunch first."
With that, she slid her sling bag onto the table and stood up. She didn't need to repeat herself. Vansh understood. He gave a faint nod, still not fully grounded. The earlier static glitch in his mind hadn't worn off. He couldn't find the words to respond—not because he didn't want to, but because his thoughts were still buffering somewhere between reality and whatever strange loop he'd stumbled into.
She gestured with a hand toward the door, and Vansh slowly turned, walking toward it. As he opened the door to leave, Ms. Anki silently watched his back. In that moment, she didn't see a high school guy in the hallway; she saw a small kid carrying a comic book. Vansh stepped out, and the door closed behind him with a soft thud.
The corridor outside was alive with lunchtime chatter. Vansh looked to his right and found himself facing the view of another institution just beyond the school's boundary wall—Kyan International. It was everything their school wasn't. Sleek architecture, polished windows, students in crisp uniforms walking in perfect groups. That place was known for its top scores, strict discipline, and elitist reputation. For a moment, Vansh's gaze lingered on it, almost as if peering into another timeline where he didn't belong.
As his eyes wandered downward, he noticed a figure below, someone standing in the courtyard, looking directly up at him. The presence was oddly timed, like it had been waiting. Vansh squinted at the figure, but just then, a voice called out to him from the side.
"Vansh?"
He turned his head slightly. A classmate approached—one of the few who didn't mind talking to him now and then.
"Oh. Yeah?" Vansh answered.
"Have you had lunch?"
Vansh shook his head. "Not yet. I was just about to—"
"Wanna tag alo—?"
Before the guy could finish, someone behind him yelled, "Hey!"
He looked back, distracted. And in that tiny window of delay, Vansh quietly took a step back, then another. Before his classmate turned around again, Vansh had already vanished down the hallway like smoke in the wind.
He returned to the classroom briefly, collected his bag—though he hadn't used it all day—and then headed straight for the rooftop staircase. A restricted area for most students, but that hadn't stopped him before. His legs moved on their own. He wasn't even thinking anymore.
As he climbed the last few steps, voices echoed faintly from the floor below.
"Did you hear about the ghost in the west wing?"
"Yeah? What about it?"
"They say it's been missing for the past few days. The room's still locked, but some students claim it shows up at night now."
"What a load of crap. Just another one of those attention-seeking urban legends."
"But seniors were the ones who said it first."
"Doesn't make it true."
Vansh listened as he reached the door. The school roof was technically off-limits, but no one guarded it anymore. It was one of the few places where silence existed.
He turned the knob and stepped outside.
But the moment he did, he stopped.
Someone was already there.
A girl stood at the edge of the rooftop, her back to him. She wasn't wearing his school's uniform. It was different—simple, modest, but not unfamiliar. Her dark hair touched just past her neck, swaying slightly with the wind, and her posture was unusually relaxed, as if she belonged there more than he did.
She turned around slowly when she heard the door creak.
Her face lit up with a warm smile, the kind that wasn't forced. There was something naturally elegant about her, like a quiet confidence that didn't need attention. She was short, younger-looking, her shoulders slightly raised in a posture that made her seem like a middle-schooler at first glance. But then came the eyes.
Those eyes.
Vansh's brain jolted again.
They were unusual—deep brown with a kind of subtle glow—and as his gaze locked with hers, something twisted inside him. Her face… her mouth… that smile… Why did it feel like he had seen her before?
Before he could say anything, she beat him to it.
"Hello? Sorry… I'm a bit lost," she said, raising a hand apologetically. "I was looking for Ms. Anki, but I think I ended up on the roof by mistake."
Vansh blinked. How do you end up on the roof by mistake? That thought came instantly, but he didn't say it aloud.
She walked a little closer, still holding that same innocent tone. "I was heading toward the right wing, but I thought I heard something and ended up here. Could you… Maybe take me to her?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but another voice interrupted from behind.
"There you are."
It was Ms. Anki.
She walked up behind the girl, glancing first at her, then at Vansh.
"Some students were wondering where you'd gone," she said, then shifted her eyes to him. "And what are you doing up here?"
Vansh raised the lunch bag in his hand, offering the only explanation he had.
"Hmph," the teacher muttered, brushing it off. "Come on. Let's go."
The girl followed her, but just before she turned completely, her gaze found Vansh one more time. She gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable nod, like a polite farewell. Before she could bow her head properly, Ms. Anki had already started walking again, and the girl followed without delay.
Vansh stood alone, staring at the rooftop door even after they'd gone.
The wind rustled his hair.
His fingers slowly reached up to touch the scar hidden beneath his bangs.
And the only word that escaped his lips was,
"…Aanya?"