The morning routine was a sacred liturgy. The precise knot of the ribbon, the weight of the textbook-filled bag on her shoulder, the specific creak of the third step from the top—each element was a verse in the poem of a normal day. Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and fragrant. Her grandfather was already at the table, the local Mizube newspaper open before him. A headline about a debate on increasing the town's recycling efforts was the most pressing news of the day.
"Good morning, Obaa-chan," Himari said, slipping into her seat.
"Himari-chan, you're bright and early! The rice is perfect today." Her grandmother placed a steaming bowl before her. The small radio on the counter was tuned to a national station, the volume low.
"…and in national headlines, the investigation continues into the activities of the group known colloquially as 'The Purists.' Authorities remain tight-lipped, but sources suggest their network is more extensive than previously believed, with ties to several unresolved cases of harassment and intimidation across multiple prefectures…"
Her grandmother reached over and twisted the dial, switching the radio to a station playing cheerful, old-fashioned kayōkyoku music. "So much gloomy talk in the morning," she clucked. "It's bad for the digestion."
Himari smiled, nodding in agreement. It *was_ just gloomy talk. It had nothing to do with the taste of the miso soup, the sweetness of the pickled plum, or the solid, comfortable presence of her grandparents.
The walk to school was a balm. The air was clean, and the town was slowly coming to life. On Dōgūza, Mr. Fujimura was giving his display of shoes a critical eye.
"Himari-chan. Those city boys were back earlier, sniffing around the bakery before they even opened," he grumbled. "Looking at everything like they were thinking of buying the whole street. Tourists." He said the word with the same tone he'd use for 'mud.'
A tiny, almost imperceptible chill touched the back of Himari's neck. "They were probably just lost," she offered.
"Hmph. They didn't look lost. They looked… assessing."
The bakery was its usual warm haven. The smell of fresh bread was a wall of comfort. Uncle Kenji was at the counter, but his usual booming greeting was slightly subdued. He was serving the two boys from the previous day.
They were dressed differently today—more practical, in hiking pants and jackets, but the clothes were still of a quality that marked them as outsiders. The taller one, the one with the carefuly casual hair, was asking questions in a friendly, conversational tone.
"…so the town really thrives on tourism, then? The skiing in the winter, I imagine?"
"We get our share," Uncle Kenji said, his voice neutral. He was polishing a spot on the glass display case with a cloth, not making eye contact. "But it's the locals who keep the lights on. What brings you boys back to Mizube? The hiking trails are better on the north side of the valley."
The shorter one, whose eyes seemed to miss nothing, answered smoothly. "Just finishing up some field research for a school project. Comparative community structures. Mizube is a fascinating case study of a self-sustaining town." His gaze swept the bakery, lingering for a half-second on the family photos behind the counter—including one of a much younger Himari with her grandparents—before moving on. It was a quick, professional scan, not a casual glance.
"A school project," Kenji repeated, his tone flat. "Well, I hope we're providing good data." He handed them their order—two black coffees and two plain rolls. A simple, observer's breakfast.
As they turned to leave, the taller boy's eyes met Himari's. He gave a small, polite nod. There was no malice in it, no cold appraisal. If anything, it was… neutral. Guarded. Like a security camera acknowledging movement. Then they were gone, the bell jingling softly behind them.
The bakery was quiet for a moment.
"School project," Uncle Kenji muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone. He looked out the window, watching them walk down the street. "They've been here for three days. They don't take pictures. They don't talk to anyone but shopkeepers. They just… observe." He shook his head, as if to clear it, and then his usual smile returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Anyway! Enough about our mysterious guests. How's the festival menu board coming, superstar?"
The encounter left a strange aftertaste. The boys weren't rude or threatening. In a way, that made their presence more unsettling. They were like shadows that didn't quite match the shape of the buildings they fell upon.
The feeling lingered as she met Hana, whose chatter about volleyball tryouts was a welcome distraction. School was a return to a world with defined rules. In history class, Rin was already at their shared desk, her notes neatly arranged.
"I found a book on the influence of Dutch traders on Edo-period art," she said softly, pushing a heavy volume towards Himari. "It might be a good angle for our project."
"That's a great idea," Himari said, genuinely impressed. "It connects the internal culture to an external influence."
Rin smiled, a rare, fleeting expression. "I thought you'd appreciate that."
The art room after school had become a sanctuary. The menu board was a masterpiece of warm colors and inviting design. Today, they were applying a final, clear sealant to protect it. The sharp smell of the varnish filled the air.
"It's really good, Tanaka-san," Kawabe said, standing back to admire their work. His hands were speckled with paint, and there was a smudge of varnish on his cheek. "Everyone on the committee is thrilled."
"We did it together," she said, and she meant it. In this room, with the evidence of their collaboration before them, it was easy to feel like a normal girl.
As they cleaned the brushes with silent, synchronized movements, Kawabe took a quiet breath. "The festival… it's going to be busy. But after our shifts are over, I thought maybe… we could check out the other booths. Together."
The question hung in the varnish-scented air. It was a simple, teenage invitation. The part of her that lived in the sunlight of Mizube, the part that was the volleyball player, the artist, the baker's niece, wanted to say yes. She could almost feel what it would be like: the noise of the festival, the strings of lights, sharing a candy apple, laughing at Riku's attempts to run the coffee machine.
But the other part of her, the part that lived with a secret so profound it had shaped her entire life, tightened like a fist. A walk at a festival wasn't just a walk. It was a step into a spotlight. It was a chance for a boy to look at her too closely, to ask a personal question, to try to hold her hand. It was the risk of a flinch, a hesitation, a reaction that wasn't quite what he would expect. It was the fear that a moment of normalcy could unravel five years of careful, quiet safety.
She looked at his face, so open and hopeful, and felt a wave of sadness so sharp it was almost physical. To protect the life she had built, she had to reject the very normalcy she craved.
"Kawabe-kun," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I… I appreciate the offer. But I can't. My family… they'll need my help with the bakery booth. And… it's just… complicated."
The light in his eyes didn't just dim; it seemed to shut off. He looked down, focusing on scrubbing a brush that was already clean. "Oh. I see. Okay. No problem." The silence that fell between them was heavy and absolute.
The walk home felt longer than ever. She had made the choice she had to make. The walls were intact. So why did she feel like she was the one who had been locked out?
That evening, as she helped her grandmother wash the dinner dishes, the television in the living room was on. Her grandfather was watching a news program.
"…and while the government denies any connection, the recent vandalism at a clinic in Osaka has sparked renewed debate. The clinic, which provides a range of medical services, was spray-painted with slurs, a tactic allegedly associated with 'Purist' sympathizers. A spokesperson for the health ministry reiterated that all citizens have a right to privacy and care…"
"Turn that off, dear," her grandmother called from the kitchen. "It's all just fearmongering. No one would bother with a clinic way out here."
Her grandfather clicked the remote. The screen went black.
Later, in the quiet of her room, Himari opened her sketchbook. She didn't draw the festival or the menu board. She found herself sketching the two mysterious boys from the bakery. She drew them not as villains, but as neutral figures, their faces indistinct, their postures alert. They were like sentinels, but whether they were guarding something or waiting for something, she couldn't tell. Then, on the opposite page, she drew Kawabe's face, his expression bright and smiling. Between the two sketches, she left a vast, empty space.