Chapter 1
This is story about breaking a curse from a family the main character was adopted in.
Years later, in a church with white walls and old wooden benches, a pastor stood under a simple cross. The windows were open for air. Fans clicked. A circle of men and women sat close with notebooks in their laps. Some were teens. One boy held a guitar he wasn't playing.
The pastor lifted his hands. "You see our first man was called Adam," he said. His voice filled the space without a mic. "God made him from the ground. Dust to living breath. He gave him a garden, a task, a law. He gave him a name. A man needs a name. A man needs breath from somewhere. A man needs… origin."
He paced a step, checked the faces, smiled like he'd done this every week for years. "Tell me," he said, pointing at a kid near the front, "what is a man without parents? What is a man made from nothing?" The kid looked panicked. The pastor didn't wait for an answer. He raised both hands again. "You see God is always interfering. He always has an answer—"
The far doors shook. A woman near them turned in her seat. Something heavy hit the steps outside. Another bang. The doors burst. What came through looked like a thing built by hands that didn't know when to stop. Clay stacked on clay. It had a hunched shape and wide shoulders. Its eyes were holes. Its mouth opened and shut with a wet grind.
"ROARRRR!!!!"
People screamed. The guitar dropped and clanged. The pastor stepped forward without thinking and then stopped, both hands out. "Everyone run!" he shouted. "Out the side doors. Go!" The monster lurched down the aisle. It left tracks of wet grit on the floor. Benches scraped. A woman tripped. Someone lifted her. The pastor grabbed two kids and shoved them toward the kitchen door. "Move. Move."
The thing swiped at a pew and split the wood. Dust rose. The pastor coughed, looked for the nearest door, and saw flame outside the broken entrance, like something was burning in the street. Heat pressed in. A boy in the back stood frozen, staring at the thing. The pastor barked, "Hey—eyes here," then waved him over and shoved him through the kitchen into daylight. The monster turned its head slow, like it was listening. It took another step forward. The floor shook. The pastor's throat went dry. He looked for something that could help. A fire extinguisher. A mop. Anything.
Meanwhile, at the high school on the far side of town, the halls were busy with first-day noise. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. Posters hung crooked. The year was 2011 printed blue on a banner over the main stair. A bell rang, and no one really hurried.
Hajime stood by the second-floor window and pressed a knuckle to the glass. Rain from the morning had left the pane wet. Outside, the track was dark with puddles. Inside, the hallway smelled like paper and damp clothes. He felt for the coin in his pocket and turned it with his thumb. The metal had a bend you could find without looking.
Sixteen and new to this building, he tried to look like he knew where he was going. He didn't. He carried a schedule folded into a square and a pen with teeth marks. He checked the map and didn't trust it. He checked his face in the glass and hated how it looked like every other face until you stared too long. He touched the window again and felt the water slide away from where his knuckle rested. When he pulled his hand back, the spot was dry.
He didn't mean to take anything. He never meant to.
A boy in a hurry cut around him, heel skidding. His shoe hit that dry circle and lost grip. He went out from under himself, arms windmilling, and took a smaller kid down with him. Both landed hard. A girl squealed. Books scattered.
"Hey!" the older boy snapped, red and angry even before he stood. "Who did—"
Hajime lifted both hands. "I'm sorry. I—"
"You did that?" The boy glared at the glass spot like it had insulted him. "Who dries one dot on a window?"
"I leaned," Hajime said. "I— it was wet and then it wasn't." Useless words. He reached to help the kid up. The kid took his hand, climbed to his feet, and shook him off with a look that said thanks and also don't talk to me.
A girl with a backpack full of charms cocked her head. "He touched it and it went dry?" she asked no one and everyone. "That's weird."
Someone snorted. Someone else said, "Curse." It came soft and lazy, like a habit. Hajime felt the word brush his skin and try to stick. He focused on his breath the way Lia had taught him in a clinic closet two summers from now, which he didn't know yet. Four in. Seven hold. Eight out. He let the air go slow.
Riku barged in from nowhere and threw an arm around his shoulder. He always did that. He was the kind of friend who treated hallways like a stage and everyone on them like an audience that owed him. "Hajime, you're too quiet! Steal some confidence from Kaito's ego, yeah?"
Kaito slouched behind him with a half grin and a skateboard in a bag he would pretend was not a skateboard in a bag. "My ego has a waiting list," he said. "Get in line."
"I'd rather steal his lunch. Less collateral damage," Hajime said, and it came out without effort. The people nearest laughed. The heat in his neck cooled a little.
"See? He can talk," Riku said, proud like he'd trained him. "Okay, new rule. We start high school with a joke every morning. No groaning."
"I groan for a living," Kaito said. "Don't take my job."
"Schedule?" Riku asked Hajime, finally practical.
Hajime showed him the folded paper. Riku made a face. "We don't have math together. That's rude. Okay, we have lunch. Good enough." He looked at Kaito. "Stage one goes today."
"What stage?" Hajime said.
Kaito brightened at once. "Prank war," he said. "Class 1-C think they own the second floor. They put glue on our homeroom door handle last year. We strike back."
"How?" Hajime asked, even though he knew he shouldn't.
Riku bounced on his heels. "Water balloon drop. Classic. Timed. Clean. No one gets hurt. Maybe wet pride." He held up a phone. "We tested the knot. It's good."
Hajime felt the coin's edge against his finger and wished he didn't want to belong this way. He looked out the window again. The sky had gone from gray to a pale blue. He could see the church steeple if he leaned. He didn't.
Aya's voice cut through the noise like a whistle. "GO TO CLASS NOW EVERYONE." She stood at the far end with a stack of forms and a pen that looked like it could sign a treaty. Her hair was up. Her blazer was buttoned. She pinned the freshmen with a look that said she knew their names even if she didn't. People moved.
Riku rolled his eyes. "Yes, Captain."
"Just go," Aya said when their eyes met. "You can play after school."
Kaito pointed at her. "You'll thank us when justice is served."
"I'll thank you when there isn't a wet ceiling," Aya said. She took a step closer. "Hajime, you have homeroom in B-206. You're late."
He didn't ask how she knew. "Right." He tucked the coin deeper, folded the schedule again, and went.
In B-206 the windows were long and old. A fan hummed. The teacher wrote names in the corner of the board while pretending not to listen to the whisper of the class. Hajime sat near the back. The girl who'd said "curse" sat two desks ahead. She turned and looked at him like he was a puzzle she could finish. He looked at his hands and flexed them once.
I don't have an origin, he thought, not in the way people mean it. I have a blanket, an undershirt, a bent coin, and a woman who stopped her car. I am a blank that people fill. If I stand still, they finish me in their heads. If I move, they try to keep up. If I run, it looks like I'm running from something even when I'm not. He felt stupid for thinking in long lines and then did it anyway. I want one thing that is only mine and not a mirror.
The teacher read names. He answered when called. His voice sounded like someone else's until the second word. A kid in front made a joke about summer homework. People laughed. The teacher smiled the tired smile teachers practice. The room settled into the shape of a school day.
By lunch the rumor had a few versions. He could dry rain by touching it. He'd wiped the slick from the window on purpose to mess with people. He had hands like a towel. That last one came from a boy who liked to cause trouble. Hajime let the words slide off. He ate rice balls with Riku and Kaito in the yard near the track.
"Okay, operation," Riku said with rice in his mouth. "The hallway outside 1-C. Kaito is the decoy. You, Hajime, you and me are the drop team."
Hajime wiped his fingers. "I'm not signing up," he said. "I'm just eating."
"You're in," Kaito said. "You said 'I'm not signing up,' which means you already care."
"That's not how words work," Hajime said, but he was smiling.
They set the trap during the last passing period. A bucket hid on a ledge over the door in the empty stretch before the bell. Kaito posted with a fake hall pass and the kind of glare that said I belong here, don't ask me. Riku pulled Hajime into the shallow nook where a fire hose once lived. They crouched behind the metal box and watched.
"Okay," Riku whispered. "When Nakamura slides the door, the cord pulls, the bucket tips, and—"
"Wet pride," Hajime said.
"Exactly."
Kaito did a casual whistle that was not casual. A group from 1-C swaggered into view. Nakamura, tall, hair too neat, reached for the door.
The cord tugged. The bucket tilted. The water balloon at the lip wobbled, fell, and then did not fall. It hung in the air in front of Nakamura's face, trembling like it couldn't decide. Every eye on the floor turned toward it. The hallway went still.
"Hajime," Riku whispered, shocked and thrilled. "What."
Hajime didn't breathe. He had reached out to steady the bucket without touching it, just a reflex, and the thing that lived under his skin had reached instead. He felt the pull in the pads of his fingers like a weight.
"Don't," he told himself, silent, then, because he was an idiot, moved his hand the smallest amount.
The balloon drifted left like it had a mind. Nakamura followed it with his nose up, confused and annoyed. It bobbed once, touched his cheek, and burst. He sputtered. The entire hallway shouted. Riku slapped a hand over his own mouth to hold in the laugh. Kaito doubled over.
And then chaos. The bucket tipped the rest of the way and splashed his friends. A scream. A second. A rush of feet. A chase. Gintama-style, if anyone had known what that meant in our town. Kaito took off like a shot with two wet boys after him. Riku grabbed Hajime's sleeve. "Run," he hissed, grinning like a maniac.
They ran. They cut down a stair, ducked under a sign, slid into the old music room, and slammed the door. Riku bent at the waist and laughed into his hands. "Did you… did you air-bend a water balloon?"
"I did nothing," Hajime said. "I did— I didn't mean to." He felt the cost in his fingertips. They tingled and then burned. A dull ache ran up his forearms. He shook them out.
Riku pointed at his face. "You did a face plant without moving. That was art."
"It was stupid," Hajime said. "And it almost hit the wrong person," which was a lie; it had hit exactly the right person by accident.
Kaito burst in through the side door, hair dripping. "Success," he said, gasping. "Nakamura called me a name. I called him a bigger one. I regret nothing."
"You're wet," Riku said.
"That means it worked," Kaito said. "Art needs sacrifice."
The bell rang. Aya's head appeared in the door window at once like she had a map of their sins. She slid in, shut the door behind her, and folded her arms. "I said no wet ceiling."
"It was a dry ceiling," Riku said.
Aya pointed at the puddle under Kaito. "Then why is the floor like this?"
"Science," Kaito said.
Aya looked at Hajime and really saw him. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
Her eyes flicked to his hands. He tucked them into his sleeves. "Go to class," she said, softer. "Please. I don't want to write you up on day one."
They filed out past her like children who had never caused trouble in their lives. She shook her head but didn't look angry. Riku mouthed thank you. She ignored it.
Back in B-206, Hajime checked the window again. The clouds had pulled apart. The light was flat, then bright. He could see the town's main street. People moving like pieces on a simple board. He pressed his fingers to the glass and made himself keep them there without letting anything change. He counted to ten and let go. No dry spot. Good.
He opened his notebook and tried to listen. Words slid over him and didn't stick. The teacher pointed at a chart. The clock hands moved. A boy behind him drew on his arm with a pen and pretended not to get ink on the desk. The day started to feel like it would end.
Then he saw smoke. It was not from a grill or a car. It was a dark, thick pillar from the direction of the church. He stood up before he knew he was standing.
The girl with the charms followed his gaze. "Is something—?"
Hajime's mouth moved without asking him. "ill be back," he said to no one and everyone. He grabbed his bag, walked fast to the door, then broke into a run. Someone called his name. He ignored it. He hit the stairwell, took steps two at a time, shoved into the boys' bathroom, locked a stall, climbed onto the tank, shoved the window up, and pushed his shoulders through.
The drop to the hedge below looked higher than it was. He swung his legs out, hung by his hands, let go, and hit leaves and then dirt. He rolled, got up, and ran. He kept his arms close. He kept his eyes on the smoke. Students in the yard turned to watch. One shouted, "Dude!" He didn't slow.
The street was louder than school. Horns. Footsteps. A siren trying to start and failing. He cut an alley, slid around a dumpster, and reached the block with the church.
Flame crawled along the front steps and licked the doorway that had been broken. The air was hot in a way that did not feel like weather. People stood too close, pointing and not moving. A woman cried. A man held out a garden hose that did nothing.
"Back," Hajime said, voice steady because he had to make it steady. "Back up." He pushed through and reached the door.
The monster inside turned its head at the wind he made. Up close it was worse. Its skin shone like wet clay, but where the heat hit, it dried and cracked in sheets that fell and then stuck to the floor. Its arms left dents when they hit benches. It took a step and left part of its foot behind.
The pastor had a child under each arm, one wailing, one quiet, face pale. He saw Hajime and shook his head hard. "No," he said over the noise. "Get out."
Hajime stepped into the entry and felt the heat hit his face like an open oven. He put a hand on the metal doorframe. It was hot. He took the heat without thinking and felt it run up his arm like a line of fire. His teeth clicked. His breath came out wrong. He pressed his other hand to the stone floor and gave the heat back. The tile hissed. He counted one-two-three and let go before he cooked his palm.
The monster swung. The pew beside him splintered. A shard cut his cheek. He didn't feel it yet. The thing tried to step around him. He moved to block without touching it. He needed something to steal that would matter.
The church had been mopped that morning. He could smell cleaner and water beneath the smoke. The tile still had a film. He slapped his hand to it and took the slick. His hand burned. The tile went rough under his skin, gritty like sand. He ran two steps and slapped that burn onto the clay leg. His palm screamed. The clay there lost its slide. It grabbed the floor. The monster tried to step and stuck. It yanked and pulled a chunk of its own calf off. It roared. He didn't cover his ears. He didn't have hands to spare.
A bench half loose from its bolts leaned at a stupid angle. He shoved it. It fell against the monster's shin and held it longer than it should have. The pastor used the gap to shove the kids toward the kitchen. "Go," he said again. They ran.
Smoke rolled. Hajime coughed and bent to keep his head low like he'd seen in a drill video. He needed air. He needed eyes. He crawled two steps, found the fallen chunk of clay, and picked it up. It was heavy. He almost dropped it. He pressed it to his forehead and took the cool from inside it. It tasted like mud in his sinuses. His skin chilled. Dots danced in his vision. He gave the cool to his own chest and the sting in his lungs eased half a notch. He could see again.
The monster tore free. It swung a wide arm at the doorway and blocked the exit with broken wood and its own bulk. People outside pulled at the pile and shouted for someone to bring a chain, a truck, anything. No one had anything.
"Hey!" Kaito yelled from the street because of course he was there. He tossed Hajime something. It arced slow, like it had to cross a river of air. A water balloon. Another one. Riku was beside him, both hands full. Aya was there too, mouth tight, phone at her ear, barking the address.
Hajime caught the first balloon with a hand that hurt too much and almost dropped it. He slapped his other hand on the cool tile near the door, took the last of the slick, and fed it into the balloon without thinking, like he could make it slippery from the inside. He threw. It burst against the monster's face. Water ran into the cracks and turned the dry back to wet. The clay sagged and then sagged too much. The head slumped sideways. The arm followed it. The thing lost shape and hit the floor. For a second it was still. Then the wet parts tried to pull themselves up again.
Hajime grabbed another balloon, palmed the rough tile again, dragged more dry into himself until his throat felt like he'd swallowed sand, and slammed the dry into the floor in front of the thing. The wet clay slapped the rough tile and stuck. It heaved, but the surface held it. He didn't have long. Nothing he took lasted longer than a minute unless fear stretched it. Fear did.
He moved fast. He took heat from the door and gave it to the clay until it dried too fast to hold. He took slick from the tile and gave it to the clay's shoulders so his hands could slide along while he shoved a bench down on top like a lid. He felt his palms split. He didn't look. He pushed. The bench pinned the softened mass and sank into it.
"Out!" the pastor shouted from the kitchen door. "Now."
Hajime stepped back, grabbed a hand on the nearest person, shoved her through the side door, shoved another, and then ran for the kitchen himself. He didn't make it. The monster heaved once more and threw the bench aside like it wasn't heavy at all. It came at him in a lunge, mouth open. He had nothing left to take that mattered.
He reached for the only thing left that was moving. A hanging fan that was somehow still turning over the aisle. He jumped, grabbed a blade, and took the spin. The fan died. The motion flowed into his arms and shoulders and chest like a roll. He hit the floor, went to his knees, and used the spin to twist under the lunge and out past the ruined pew. He stumbled, hit the doorframe, and fell through into the kitchen.
Strong hands hauled him up. The pastor. "Go," the man said, no thank you, no speeches, just that word. Hajime ran with him and half a dozen others into the light of the alley. He bent over a drain and threw up, once, hard. Someone shoved a bottle of water into his hand. He rinsed his mouth and spat. His hands shook. He let them.
Aya was there. She said his name and then stopped herself from touching him when she saw his palms. "Your hands," she said.
"I'll live," he said. His voice sounded wrong in his own ears.
Riku slapped his shoulder too hard. "You jumped out a window," he said, half proud, half terrified.
Kaito stared at the church doors. "It's still moving," he said, thick.
The fire truck turned the corner late because it had been at the edge of town when the call went out. Sirens rose. Aiko's ambulance slid in behind it. She jumped out before it stopped moving and took in the scene with one quick look. Her eyes found Hajime. She went still for a cut of a second that belonged only to them. Then she moved, fast and precise, bag open, gloves on.
"Hands," she said, voice clipped. He held them out. She didn't say anything like what were you thinking. She cleaned the cuts with something that stung, wrapped his palms, checked his pulse herself like she didn't trust any watch in the world right now. "Breathe," she said, low, and he did. He tried to smile at her and failed. She saw it and didn't push.
"Back up," a fireman shouted. "Everyone."
The pastor stood near the door with soot on his face. He watched the monster sag and finally stop trying to be a shape. His shoulders dropped. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and left a clean line there. He looked at Hajime and nodded once. Nothing more.
Riku's laugh came out all wrong. "So," he said too loud, "welcome to high school."
"Shut up," Aya said, but she was shaking, and when she reached for Hajime's sleeve, she held on for a second longer than she meant to. He let her.
Kaito put his skateboard bag down without thinking and sat on it like a stool. "We're all getting detention," he said. "I can feel it."
"I was never here," Riku said.
Aya snorted. "You were the loudest person."
"Loudness is a rumor," Riku said. "Prove it."
Aiko taped the last strip around Hajime's left hand and looked at his face again. "You're lucky," she said.
"I know," he said. He meant being found. He meant being kept. He meant today.
She read it and nodded, once, like Keiko. "Go home after school," she said. "No detours."
"Okay."
She touched his shoulder as if to anchor him and then moved to a woman who was coughing and crying at the same time. Keiko would be waiting at the house. He could picture the dish with the coin in it. He reached into his pocket and found it still there, warm from his skin, heavier than it was.
He looked at the church door. The firemen hosed the last of the heat until steam rolled out. The clay thing lay cracked and flat like it had never moved. People gathered in small knots and spoke in low voices. Some glanced at him and then away fast.
He wanted to explain that he had not made anything. He had only borrowed what was there and returned it. He didn't say it. It never came out right when he did.
Riku bumped his arm, gentle now. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You lied," Kaito said. "You said you were boring."
"I never said that," Hajime said.
"You said something like it with your face," Kaito said. "Your face is a liar."
Aya's phone buzzed. She checked it. "School is closing early," she said. "We're to go home in groups. No one walks alone." She started counting them out of habit. "You, with me. You too. Kaito, put that away."
Kaito lifted his hands. "It's a bag."
"It's a skateboard."
"It's a bag that contains a skateboard," he said.
"Put it away," she said again.
They started down the street together. Riku talked because silence made him itch. Kaito argued because talking was his way of staying calm. Aya answered them because answering kept her from replaying the scene in the church. Hajime walked with his hands wrapped and his face stinging and the coin pressing into his thigh.
I need a rule, he thought. Something that isn't borrowed. Something I can keep. He pictured the card in his locker from a girl who lived by lists. RETURN WHAT YOU TOOK AND SAY YOU'RE SORRY. He didn't have the card yet. He could feel it anyway, like a line waiting for ink.
At the corner, he looked back. Smoke thinned. The church's cross sat crooked and would need to be straightened. The pastor stood with the fire chief and talked with his hands. The side door shut. The street looked like a street again, except for the grit on the steps and the line of water running to the drain.
"Hey," Riku said, softer than usual. "You coming to the arcade after this clears?"
"No," Aya said for him.
Hajime shook his head. "Home."
"Tomorrow?" Kaito asked.
"Maybe."
"Maybe yes," Riku said. "We need to plan stage two."
"No," Aya said again.
Hajime almost laughed. "We'll see."
They turned toward the hill where the houses began. The river kept moving at its same pace, like none of this was worth comment. Hajime slipped the coin between his fingers and rolled it once. It clicked against his knuckle. He let it drop back into his pocket and kept walking. He didn't look for his reflection in the shop windows. He didn't think about the words in the hallway. He tried to be one person on one street with three noisy friends, a burned face, and bandaged hands.
Behind them, sirens wound down. Voices softened. The town put itself back the way it always did. He touched the bandage with the edge of his wrist and winced. Then he smiled, small and real, because he was still here to feel a sting and that felt like a start.
Minutes later, he sat on the low wall by the arcade, chewing bubblegum that tasted like pink sugar and old air. The street had that after-storm shine. People kept looking toward the church and then catching themselves, like staring would bring trouble back. Hajime watched his breath steady. His hands ached under the tape. He tried to blow a bubble and popped it on his nose. He wiped it with the back of his wrist and stared at the gum string like it had betrayed him.
"Hey," a voice said.
He looked up. A small group crossed the street toward him. Three girls, then four, then somehow five because a friend of a friend had joined. They came in a loose row, like the start of a parade that hadn't decided if it should be loud yet.
Rinka Maeda reached him first. Paint still dotted her knuckles. She had a smudge of blue under one eye from a wall she had no permit to touch. "You okay?" she asked, eyes quick, taking in the tape, the scrape on his cheek, the way he held his shoulders.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You smell like smoke," she said. "Not in a cool way."
"Thanks."
Mei Yoneda hovered one step back, holding a notebook and three pens like the world might run out of pens at any moment. She had a short, blunt bob and a habit of squinting when she thought. "How many seconds did you stay inside?" she asked. "Rough guess."
"I don't know," he said.
"Did it feel like a minute or longer than a minute?"
"Longer."
"That tracks," she said, half to herself. "Okay."
Lia Santero came last because she had been helping a woman sit down on the curb and only crossed when the woman stopped shaking. Lia was older than the others by a few years, a med student who volunteered at the clinic and kept weird hours. She moved in a way that calmed rooms. She looked at his hands with a set mouth. "Those need new wraps tonight," she said.
"I just got them."
"They'll swell," she said. "Change them before bed."
A girl from Class 1-C stood near the edge of the group like she wasn't sure if she was allowed. She had the kind of beauty that drew attention she didn't trust. She tucked hair behind her ear, looked at him, looked away. "I told my cousin what you did," she said. "He said you were stupid and brave." She made a face. "He said it like those are the same."
"They are if you say them fast," Rinka said.
Hajime's brain lagged half a beat. He took in faces, voices, the fact that they were all looking at him like he mattered. His cheeks went hot. His thoughts wrote a useless sentence he scolded himself for at once: they have knockers. He coughed on his gum and wanted to be hit by a small car.
Aya cut through them like a blade through a knot. "Such a fucking performative!" she snapped as if they were on stage and had broken a cue.
Everyone turned. Aya Sudo did not do soft entries. She had a planner under her arm, a bandage roll in one hand, and the look of a person who had opinions she wasn't going to pad with sugar.
Rinka raised both hands. "Good afternoon to you too."
Aya ignored her and pointed at Hajime. "Bathroom window? Really?"
He stood. "I said I'd be back."
"That's not a hall pass," she said. "That's a line in a movie."
"It worked," Mei said.
"It worked this time," Aya said. "The town notices when things work that shouldn't. We don't want that notice."
Lia checked Aya's hands. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Aya said, though she was still shaking a little. She saw Hajime seeing it, rolled her eyes at herself, and shoved the bandage roll at him. "Hold this."
He took it. "You want your gum back?" he asked without thinking.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said.
Rinka snorted. Mei hid a smile behind her notebook. Lia's mouth tilted.
Aya stepped closer. "We're not doing this in the street," she said. "Come to my house. Now. All of you who touched the mess today. We're going to talk and then we're going to make a plan. If we don't, the next plan will make itself, and I hate those."
"Bossy," Rinka said.
"Correct," Aya said.
Lia looked at Hajime. "Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Good," she said. "We're going."
They moved as a loose pack up the hill. Riku and Kaito trailed, arguing about who ran faster and both lying. Kaito tried to do a kickflip with a board he insisted wasn't in the bag. Aya glared him into stopping. The town watched them go like the start of trouble and maybe the end of it.
The Sudo house was tidy without being precious. Shoes lined up, not in a strict row but all facing the same way. The air smelled like lemon cleaner and tea. A whiteboard on the kitchen wall held a grid with colored squares. Names and dates sat in the boxes. Misaki Sudo, Aya's mother, looked up from a stack of folders. She had an even face that could hold hard news without breaking. Kenji Sudo, Aya's father, was at the table with a small screwdriver and a radio opened like a patient.
"You brought the neighborhood," Kenji said, mild, like this happened every week.
"Brief meeting," Aya said.
"Snack?" Misaki asked, already taking out plates.
"Water," Aya said. "We'll be short."
Misaki set out glasses and stepped aside. She watched them the way you watch a stove when something is on low. Present, but not hovering.
They gathered in the living room. Aya stood in front of the low bookcase like it was a podium. Hajime sank into the end of the couch to keep his hands away from elbows and mugs. Riku flopped on the floor on purpose. Kaito sat cross-legged with his bag under his knees like a perch. Rinka leaned on the wall. Mei took a chair and a pen. Lia found a spot on the arm of the couch by Hajime and stayed there without touching him.
Aya opened her planner. "Ground rules. We don't talk about this outside this room. We don't post. We don't tell versions for laughs. If anyone asks, we say we left school when they told us to and checked on people. That's all."
"Yes, Mom," Riku said.
"I will remove your tongue," Aya said without looking up.
Riku mimed zipping his mouth. Kaito clapped once, deadpan. Rinka grinned.
Aya faced Hajime. "Now you," she said. "What did you do in there?"
He rubbed the edge of the bandage with his thumb. "I touched things," he said. "The door. The floor."
"What changed?"
"The heat moved. The floor grabbed. The balloon—"
Mei perked up. "The balloon changed course. It paused, then drifted."
"I didn't mean to do that," he said.
"You didn't mean to do any of it," Aya said. "But you did it. You keep doing it when you are scared or when you are trying to stop something worse. That means it will keep happening. So we need to stop pretending it won't."
Lia slid the bandage roll back out of his hand and set it on the table. "When did you first notice?" she asked gently.
He stared at his knees. "A long time ago. Doorframe went cold when I leaned on it. A rail stopped spinning at the rink. Little things. I thought I was imagining it. I wasn't." He swallowed. "It hurts if I take too much."
"What hurts?" Mei asked.
"Hands. Arms. Head sometimes. Chest, if I mess with the bounce of things."
"Cost," Mei said, pen tapping. "Okay."
Aya cut in. "You're not a hero, Hajime. Stop acting like one before the town notices."
He met her eyes. "I'm not acting. I'm just… here. What's your excuse?"
The room made a small sound, like a laugh that didn't want to get caught. Aya's mouth twitched, then smoothed. "My excuse is I like you alive," she said. "And I like not burying anyone else. If you keep… borrowing, then we build you a schedule so you don't do it by accident."
"Schedule?" he said.
"Practice," she said. "Simple. Repeats. You do the same small thing in safe ways until your hands and your head know it. If you break my table, you buy me a new one."
Kenji called from the kitchen without turning. "Break the old one. I hate the wobble."
Misaki set down a plate of rice crackers and fruit with the quiet speed of someone who knows when to enter and when to exit. "Water in the big pitcher," she said, and left. The house knew how to hold a busy room.
Aya pointed at the low coffee table. "Test one," she said. "We see if you can take the grip from a surface on purpose."
"Grip?" Hajime asked.
"Friction," Mei supplied, then glanced at Aya. "Sorry. Big word. Grip. She's right."
Aya stacked three heavy books on the table. "If you take the grip from this part—" she tapped the wood near the edge "—the books should slide. If you can't, we stop, and I admit I am wrong, and you get to enjoy that only once."
He looked at his hands. The tape itched. He picked at the edge and stopped. "What if I mess it up?"
"Then we clean up and try smaller," Aya said. "We won't die if the books fall."
Riku leaned in. "If they hit Kaito, we win a prize."
"Why me," Kaito said, but he sat straighter.
Hajime moved to the table. He sat on the floor because standing made his head light. He put his palm on the wood. It felt smooth, a little worn. He waited. Nothing changed. He breathed in for four, held, out for eight. He thought of the church floor under heat. He thought of the wall at the rink. He thought of the window with the dry circle.
He let his hand rest and asked the change to come. It wasn't words. It was a focus, like trying to hear a sound behind other sounds. His palm tingled. The wood went slick under his skin, as if oil had spread there. He took his hand away. A round patch the size of his palm shone.
"Okay," Aya said, voice flat to keep the room calm. "Push the books."
He put two fingers on the top book and nudged. The stack slid fast into the slick circle, then picked up speed and went all the way off the table. Riku shouted. Mei tried to catch them and missed. The pile hit Kaito's ankle. He yelped and said a word that earned him a look from Misaki through the doorway.
"Science," Kaito said at once.
"Pick them up," Aya said.
They did, laughing and cursing in the low way you do when you're trying not to be rude in someone's house. Lia pressed her knuckle to Hajime's shoulder to get his attention. "Your hands," she said.
"They're fine," he said. He flexed. The burn was there, but dull.
Aya nodded once, mostly to herself. "Again," she said. "Smaller patch."
"Why smaller?" Riku asked.
"So he can fit it into normal life without making a mess," Aya said. "If he can make a grip spot on a floor to stop a fall, that's one thing. If he makes a skating rink in the kitchen, that's another."
"Rude," Misaki called, amused, from the sink.
Hajime tried again. He made a circle the size of a coin near the edge. Mei measured with her eyes. "Two inches," she said softly.
"Push," Aya said.
He pushed. The top book slid slow, then faster, then stopped when it hit wood that still had grip. It nudged to a stop instead of flying off. Everyone exhaled in one sound they didn't mean to make.
Aya nodded again. "Good."
"Again," Mei said, eager now. "Can you move the grip? Like take it back and put it somewhere else?"
"Return it," Lia said.
Hajime set his palm on the slick spot. He felt the slick rise in his skin like heat or cold. He lifted his hand and pressed it to the other side of the table. The wood there went slick. The old spot dulled and looked like itself.
Riku whistled low. "Okay, party trick."
Aya did not smile. "Do it ten times," she said. "Same size. Spread around the edge." She moved the fruit plate out of the danger path without comment.
He did it nine, then ten. By six his hand shook. By eight he had to stop and breathe out until his jaw unclenched. By ten his eyes watered. He sat back.
"Water," Lia said, already pouring. He drank.
Aya made two columns of short lines in her planner. She did not explain the codes. She looked at him over the top of the page. "How long does the change stick without you touching it?"
"A minute," he said. "Less, if I'm calm. More, if I'm scared."
"Don't use scared as a tool," she said. "We find another way."
"I'm not trying to," he said.
"I know." She closed the planner, then opened it again. "Next part. Heat and cold. That doorframe trick. We do it in a safe way. We get your body used to the switch without the church burning down."
"Please," Kenji said from the kitchen.
They used a metal spoon and two bowls, one with warm water, one with ice water. Lia set a towel under them. "Slow," she said, hands ready. "If you feel dizzy, stop."
He touched the spoon. Took the cold from it. Sent it into the warm bowl. Took the heat back. Sent it into the spoon. Back and forth until the metal felt normal and both bowls were in the middle. He got cocky once and tried to speed it up. His hand cramped. He swore. Aya said, "Language," and then swore herself when he kept going. He stopped and drank more water. Lia pressed a cool pack against his wrist and counted under her breath with him until his breath evened. Mei wrote notes without looking away. Riku and Kaito tried to balance crackers on their noses and failed.
"What about bounce?" Mei asked. "You said your chest gets tight."
"I'm not doing bounce in my mother's living room," Aya said. "He can practice that at the yard with a ball and someone with an inhaler."
"I have one," Lia said.
"Of course you do," Aya said.
They took a break. Misaki brought tea and small cakes. The room shifted from test to talk. Riku lay on his back and juggled two oranges until one smacked him in the eye. Kaito told a story about a cat that lived behind the arcade and stole only coins. Rinka drew a quick sketch of the church steps on the back of a flyer and shaded smoke with the side of the pencil. Mei watched Hajime's hands like she could see the pain and assign it a number. Lia checked his pulse again without making a big thing of it.
Aya sat, finally, and looked at him like a problem she could care about. "I need a promise," she said.
He sighed. "Here it comes."
"I need you to tell me before you do something like today. If you can."
"What if I can't?"
"Then we make it easier for you to tell me," she said. "We set times. We set small goals. We get your body used to saying no when your head can't. We build a reflex that is not panic."
"You make it sound simple," he said.
"It won't be," she said. "But tomorrow will come whether we plan it or not. I pick planning."
He looked at the marks in her planner. "What do you call this?"
"A rehearsal," she said. "We used to rehearse the wrong thing in this town. We'll rehearse the right thing. You will know how to put your hands and when to stop. You will have words to say when people try to make you into their story."
He sat with that. The room felt steady for a moment, like the weight of it all was held by good corners. "Okay," he said. "But if we're rehearsing, I want rules."
Aya's eyebrows rose. "From you?"
"Yes," he said. He counted on his fingers. "No surprises. Tell the truth even if it makes us look stupid. If I start copying you, tell me to stop. If I get scared, you don't use that to win."
"I don't play games with fear," she said.
"Good," he said. "Then we're even."
Riku clapped once. "This is hot," he said, then flinched when Misaki cleared her throat from the doorway.
Kaito leaned forward. "When do we prank 1-C again?"
"Never," Aya said.
"Tomorrow," Riku said.
"Never," Aya said again, slower.
Lia checked the time. "I have to go back to the clinic," she said. She stood, stretched her back, and looked at Hajime. "Wraps off after dinner. Wash with cool water. New wraps before sleep. Message me if you feel tight in your chest."
"I will," he said.
She touched the back of his head for half a second, like checking for fever, then left. Rinka stuck her drawing in the planner without asking and winked. Mei handed Hajime a small card. "Call me if you want to try the ball thing," she said. "I have a spare inhaler and an ugly ball we can ruin."
"Thanks," he said.
Riku and Kaito stood. "We'll walk you home," Kaito said. "Aya will say no. Ignore her."
Aya didn't argue. "Go in pairs," she said. "Text when you get in."
They filtered out with the slow clatter of teens who didn't want to admit they were tired. The house got quiet. Aya put the books back, wiped the table, and checked the slick spots had all gone back to normal. They had.
Misaki leaned in the doorway. "How was your meeting," she asked, tone light but eyes sharp.
"Fine," Aya said. "Messy."
"Messy isn't always bad," Misaki said.
"I know," Aya said.
Kenji held up the small radio. "It works again," he said. "The screw was loose."
Aya looked at Hajime's bandaged hands in her head and wanted to say something like, it's never that simple. She didn't. She put her planner in her bag and sat on the floor where Hajime had sat. The wood felt normal under her palm. She pressed her hand there anyway, like she could store calm.
Later, after dishes, after her parents went to their room, Aya took a small card from her desk and wrote on it in clean block letters:
RETURN WHAT YOU TOOK AND SAY YOU'RE SORRY.
She stared at the line until it stopped looking like a slogan and started looking like a thing you could hold. She slid the card into an envelope, wrote H on the front, and set it on top of her bag so she wouldn't forget it in the morning.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Hajime: home.
She wrote back: good.
She added: practice tomorrow. after school.
He replied: okay. no balloons.
She smiled, small, and let it fade. She looked at the ceiling and spoke into the quiet like she was checking the shape of the words. "We're going to keep him," she said. "We're going to stop the stupid way of doing things."
No one answered. The house hummed. She set an alarm, turned off the light, and lay awake longer than she wanted, counting her breath in fours and sevens and eights like a metronome that kept slipping and then catching. Outside, the street went dark the way it always did. Inside, she set the plan again in her head and let it hold her until sleep finally did its job.