The morning streets of Kawagoe were already alive—shopkeepers clattering shutters open, voices mingling with the sweet scent of rice crackers drifting from Candy Alley.
Shima's footsteps pounded against the old stone pavement, her school bag slapping against her side as she darted between a delivery truck and a row of startled tourists.
"Crap, crap, crap—!" she muttered, glancing at her phone.
08:24. The numbers glared back, merciless.
She skidded around a corner, almost toppling a cardboard cutout for limited-edition mochi. Then—salvation. The tall gates of Kuroshima High came into view. She was close. She could make it. She—
"Excuse me, miss… could you help me for just a moment?"
Shima didn't slow down. Didn't even look. Pace quickened. Eyes locked on the finish line. Nope. Not today. Thirty seconds before—
"Ah, young people these days…"
That tone—half sigh, half curse—stabbed her with guilt. Against her better judgment, she turned. Their eyes met. The old woman, wrapped in a faded indigo kimono, stood beside an overloaded wooden cart stacked with crates of oranges.
The mistake was eye contact. The universal law: once you've looked, you're caught.
"…Ugh, fine."
Minutes later, Shima was trudging uphill, lugging a crate that felt like it was cast from solid lead. The old woman shuffled beside her, voice warm but edged like a blade.
By the time they reached the tea shop and parked the cart, Shima was sweating, lungs burning. She bowed quickly and bolted.
The school gates came into view—
—and closed.
A single, echoing CLANG.
Principal Hoshino stood there, tracksuit gleaming blue in the morning sun, bamboo kendo stick in hand. His head was shaved except for a perfectly straight fringe. His posture radiated discipline.
Shima's sneakers crunched to a stop on the gravel. They stared at each other as the PA system chimed the start-of-day melody.
Hoshino tilted his head. Well?
She considered explaining—about the old lady, the guilt trip—but the words felt heavy. Instead, she sighed and held out her hand.
A nod from Hoshino. No lecture. No scolding. Just the kendo stick rising—
SMACK!
Pain shot across her palm. She winced but didn't pull away.
Hoshino lowered the stick and stepped aside. She passed without looking back.
---
Shima slouched in her chair, massaging her hand. Nonomi leaned over from the next desk, scrolling through Snapchat filters—dog ears, glitter crowns, anime eyes.
"You know," Nonomi whispered without looking up, "you could've just said you were helping an old lady cross the street. Solid excuse."
Shima gave her a flat look. "Wouldn't have worked."
Nonomi shrugged. "True… but at least it shows effort."
Shima just turned to her notebook. "Whatever."
The dull sting in her palm pulled her focus away. She rubbed at the faint pink mark, but it only itched more.
Nonomi's gaze flicked to her hand. "Still hurts?"
Shima stood. "Gonna get some cold water on it."
The hallway was cooler, her footsteps echoing off the tiles. She passed the lockers, heading for the sink near the back exit.
The tap sputtered, then a stream of icy water poured out. She let it run over her palm until the sting faded to a manageable tingle. She flexed her fingers—better.
Then—something strange. A low, overlapping murmur, like voices speaking just beneath hearing. She leaned toward it, frowning, but it faded as quickly as it came.
"Huh…" Maybe she was imagining things.
She turned from the sink—and froze. Three boys stood near the lockers. Two laughed, blocking a smaller boy who kept reaching for something one held high.
"C'mon, give it back!" His voice cracked as he jumped for it.
The taller boy smirked, jerking it out of reach. A pale, glassy-winged butterfly fluttered free from the container's lid.
"No—!" the smaller boy gasped, eyes locked on it.
One of the bullies shoved the container toward him. "Go on, bug freak. Catch it."
Normally, Shima wouldn't get involved. But the desperation in the boy's eyes hooked her.
She stepped forward. "Move."
"What?"
Before they could react, she slid between them and took the container. The butterfly drifted toward a window, wings catching the sunlight. One smooth motion—container up, lid shut.
She turned back. "Not here to lecture you. 'Don't do this, don't do that'—blah, blah. You're in high school. Figure it out."
The boys blinked.
She lifted her phone, recording icon still on-screen. "But I did get it all on camera." Then she held up her marked palm. "And the principal's been working out."
They exchanged a quick, panicked glance and slunk away.
Shima let out a slow breath—not triumph, just relief—and handed the container back without meeting the boy's eyes.
"Here," she said.
The boy took it, fingers brushing hers, then bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Shima."
Her hand froze mid-wave. "…Wait—you know my name?"
She really looked at him. The uneven bangs, the faint crease by his left eye—it hit her like cold water.
"Keru…" The name slipped out before she could stop it.
He smiled faintly. "It's actually Tankeru. But… yeah. I didn't think anyone remembered."
Another deep bow.
Shima's chest tightened. The hallway noise seemed to fade, walls leaning in.
The bell rang—sharp and mechanical—snapping the moment.
"Thanks again," he said, and walked toward the stairs.
She stayed rooted, staring after him, heartbeat uneven.
When he vanished into the classroom, she leaned against the door, breathing slow, trying to steady herself.
It surely can't be him… can it?