Chapter 6 - Deadlines and Dreams Collide
The second semester arrived not with a whimper, but a roar. Nakamura High buzzed with activity—cultural festivals, final exams, and club showcases consumed the calendar. For Akio, it felt like walking a tightrope over an ever-widening canyon. Every day was packed: chemistry quizzes in the morning, tutoring sessions after school, club meetings in the evening. Somewhere in between, he found time to breathe—barely.
Riki had grown more serious since their study sessions began. He still hid behind sarcasm and tough talk, but Akio could see the effort beneath it. Rumane, ever the enigma, absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Her grief was still there, bound tightly under her quiet exterior, yet she had begun to let Akio in. One evening, she handed him a red headband—a small gift, almost playful, but also sincere. She said it suited him, that he had the presence of a great pharmacist even at his age. He wasn't one, of course, but the gesture carried weight. It was her way of saying she believed in him.
Even Hikata, wild and unpredictable, had begun to channel his chaos into something oddly constructive. One day, while balancing dangerously on a desk chair, he boasted, "Crab shells are made of chitin, right? Imagine using them to make dissolvable capsules! Eco-friendly, crab-powered medicine! It's genius!" Afterward, in the same breath, he spiked up Akio's hair and declared he should keep it that way—as a promise between them, a goofy gesture of friendship. Hikata laughed, but Akio took it seriously. To him, it wasn't just a fleeting joke—it was a vow, sealed in that ridiculous moment.
Akio, exhausted and also half-listening at the same time, only muttered, "That's... actually not a bad idea."
But as everyone settled into their strange rhythm, Akio felt a shift. Something stirred beneath the surface—like a memory clawing its way back through the cracks of time, from the faded mind of his thirty-year-old self into the present.
Scene 2: The Echo of a Forgotten Child
The classroom buzzed as students prepared their final presentations. Akio stood near the projector, adjusting slides. His topic: the long-term effects of childhood trauma and how pharmaceutical interventions could aid psychological healing.
It was something personal to him—on multiple levels.
As the slides clicked forward, Akio recited the script he'd rehearsed. "Research shows that early exposure to traumatic events can impact not only brain development but also immune system function. Medications targeting cortisol levels—"
He froze.
On the screen was a stock image: a child sitting in a hospital clothes, holding a stuffed animal. Just an image, chosen at random from an online medical journal.
But her eyes.
Wide. Brown. Curious and sad all at once.
His daughter's eyes.
The breath hitched in his throat. His fingers trembled on the remote. A sharp pain stabbed through his stomach, as if a hidden blade had twisted between his ribs.
No one noticed at first. But then he staggered back. His vision blurred. The classroom spun. And before anyone could react, Akio ran.
Through the hallway. Past confused students. Down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
He collapsed beside a camphor tree, vomiting into the grass. The sky wheeled above him, unforgiving and cold.
Moments later, footsteps thudded behind him.
"Akio!" Rumane's voice was tight with concern. "What happened? Are you sick?"
He wiped his mouth and tried to stand. "I'm fine. Just... pressure."
But the lie stuck like ash on his tongue.
She would've been eight now.
He could still see her hands gripping a crayon, drawing fat cats in purple and orange. She used to call him "Dada" with the confidence only she had. Her laugh echoed in the hollow of his memory.
He'd fought with his wife that morning. Something stupid. He'd slammed the door and left for work.
That was the day.
The day the car exploded.
The authorities said it was a random act. A drunk driver.
But that didn't matter.
His daughter was gone. His wife left him soon after, the weight too much to carry. They divorced quietly. No blame. Just silence. Just grief.
He had failed them.
And now, in this second life, he was given another chance. Another life. Another path.
But not for her.
Never her.
He curled beneath the tree, pulling his knees to his stomach. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
As the sky faded into dusk, students began heading home. They passed him, whispering, unsure. To them, he was just the quiet student who helped others. The one who always seemed a little... older.
And in that moment, they saw something more.
Not a peer.
But a parent grieving.
Scene 3: Of Bonds, Time, and Unspoken Truths
He didn't explain.
How could he?
What would they say if they knew their friend wasn't just a little odd or mature—but a adult reliving his younger life, carrying the trauma of a life once lived and lost?
So he said nothing.
But his friends noticed.
Rumane left a small white flower on his desk the next morning. She said nothing, but the meaning was clear. Grief recognized grief.
Yasahute, ever silent, began walking home with him more often. They didn't speak, but Akio appreciated the presence. It felt grounding.
Riki clapped him on the shoulder during gym class. "You look like crap, Woww. You want to lift weights after school or something?"
He meant it. That was Riki's way of saying, "I'm here."
And Hikata...
Hikata showed up with a ridiculous rubber duck hat, wiggled it on his head, and declared, "Quack therapy! Scientifically untested but emotionally essential!"
Akio laughed.
A real laugh.
And that was the first step forward.
The seasons changed. Cherry blossoms bloomed, exams passed, and life surged forward.
Akio poured himself into his studies. He devoured pharmacology textbooks, interned at local clinics, joined medical workshops. He stopped seeing this second life as borrowed time and started seeing it as something earned.
Rumane followed a similar path. They studied together often—late nights in the library, notes passed during lectures, quiet support on days when grief returned like a tide.
Riki pursued experimental drug research. Yasahute leaned into mental health sciences, using his quiet intuition to study trauma and recovery.
Hikata? He defied all logic, charisma blazing. He became the host of a late-night science-and-pranks show. "Doctor Detectives!" it was called. Somehow, it worked.
And Akio?
He graduated with top honors.
He opened a small independent pharmacy in a town on the edge of the mountains—somewhere quiet. Peaceful.
The ribbon-cutting ceremony was simple. A breeze rustled the sakura trees as children ran past. A young kid pointed at the colorful displays inside. A mother smiled, taking his hand.
Inside, the shelves were filled not just with medicine, but with compassion, illustrated instruction cards, and a corner with medicine to heal stress nerves for every person to buy when needed for.
Behind the counter, a plaque hung, modest and warm:
To heal what we cannot fix. To mend what we cannot say.
He stood there for a long time, watching the sun beam through the windows, illuminating every corner. His hands, now older again, bore the weight of time and memory. But they were steady and 18.
The dreams of his daughter still visited him.
But now, in those dreams, she smiled.
And he smiled back.
Because he wasn't just reliving his past.
He was building a future.
A second chance used not to forget...
But to heal.
(THE END)