As morning came, sunlight seeped through the gap of the window blinds, a thin beam landing directly across Kafka's eyes. He groggily stirred awake as the alarm clock shrieked beside him.
Click.
The mechanical sound echoed softly as Kafka's hand slammed the switch. Silence returned.
"School… I hate it…" he muttered, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling.
Yesterday's memories swirled in his head — the stares, the shame, the teacher's voice echoing that single word: blank.
He sighed and sat up, feeling the weight of another day pressing down on him.
Dragging his feet, he entered the bathroom. Moments later, he emerged, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. His reflection stared back at him — pale skin, tired eyes, a thin body that seemed to lack any trace of vigor.
"Malnourished," he muttered, forcing a dry smile.
He buttoned his school uniform one piece at a time when a knock came from the door.
"Yes?"
"Kafka, it's time for breakfast. Hurry up and come downstairs," his mother's gentle, mature voice called.
"Okay, Mom," Kafka replied.
When he was done, he paused at the mirror again — his reflection looked back, detached, unfamiliar. Then he left his room, his footsteps echoing faintly as he descended the stairs.
The scent of pancakes filled the air.
"Good morning, dear," his mother greeted from the kitchen, flipping another pancake with practiced ease.
At the table, his father was already sipping coffee, eyes buried in the newspaper.
"Good morning," his father said, without looking up.
Kafka nodded and took a seat. "Good morning, Dad."
That was all. No warmth, no hostility — just habit.
It's not that they were distant out of hatred. It was simply how it had always been.
Kafka ate quietly, the faint clink of cutlery against the plate filling the silence.
Unbeknownst to him, his father's gaze flickered up every now and then — between his son and his cooling cup of coffee.
When Kafka finished, he stood and placed his plate in the sink.
"I'll be going now, Mom, Dad."
"Take care, sweetie!" his mother called out, still smiling as she flipped another pancake.
Kafka paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle, waiting — just waiting — for the other voice.
"…Good luck at school, Kafka."
He turned slightly. His father hadn't looked up, but his voice carried enough weight to make Kafka pause.
"You too, Dad. Take care."
And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Inside, silence lingered until Nefer exhaled softly.
"Seriously, you should take the initiative and talk more with your son, Amon."
Amon grunted, folding the newspaper. "…Maybe next time, Nefer."
He finished his coffee, grabbed his briefcase, and stood.
"I'll be going now. See you later."
"Take care, dear~!" Nefer said, waving as the door closed once more.
Kafka's shoes tapped softly against the pavement as he made his way to school. The morning air was cool, crisp — filled with the chatter of students walking in groups, laughter spilling freely into the streets.
He walked alone.
The sound of his footsteps mingled with the passing cars, the faint hum of life moving forward without him. He watched as two boys raced ahead, laughing breathlessly. A group of girls walked past, their phones raised as they took pictures, smiling at nothing and everything at once.
Kafka's gaze drifted toward the sky — pale blue, the sun already climbing higher.
"Everything moves," he whispered to himself. "Even when you don't."
He passed the same café, his appearance reflected on glasses along with the other students passing behind him, 'If I gone, will anyone notice me or simply become a shadow.' He thought to himself, before continuing walking. The same stray cat sitting on the same step. The cat glanced up, meowed softly
He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.
Everyone seems to know where they're going.
He didn't.
When he reached the school gate, the same chatter greeted him. The same faces, the same greetings, the same world that didn't notice he existed.
"Morning, Kafka!" a voice called — someone from his class. He waved faintly in response, forcing a thin smile before continuing his pace.
Inside, the hallway buzzed with energy. Lockers opened and closed, students exchanging jokes, teachers walking briskly with folders in hand.
Kafka stood still for a moment, watching.
It was a scene that played out every day — yet to him, it felt like watching a play from behind the curtain, where he wasn't sure if he was part of the cast or the audience.
He sighed, stepping forward. His classroom awaited — geometry, again.
As he opened the door, he noticed Columbina already inside, sitting near the window. Her head was tilted, a faint hum slipping from her lips — soft, distant, familiar.
Kafka froze for a second. Her hum… the same as yesterday's lullaby.
She must have noticed him, because without turning her head, she said quietly,
"You came early today."
Kafka blinked, unsure whether to reply.
"...I couldn't sleep," he finally said, walking to his seat.
"I see." Columbina smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "Then I'll hum for you again, after class."
Kafka didn't answer. He simply sat down and stared at the whiteboard — blank for now, soon to be filled with formulas he couldn't understand.
'Maybe that's what life is,' he thought.
'A board full of things you'll never truly solve.'
Just like that, Kafka thoughts continued to swirl, never bothering to listen- to something he couldn't understand. Why would he? He wasn't smart, even if he tried, the same results still remain unchanged.
It was an inevitable conclusion, Kafka will always remain a failure.
With that final thought, Kafka gazed towards the sky, once again.
—-----------------------
"What's wrong, Kafka?" Columbina asked again — the same question, the same soft tone as yesterday.
Kafka sighed, resting his cheek on his hand. "Don't you ever feel tired asking that same question?" His gaze met hers — or where her eyes should have been, behind those ever-closed lids.
"Hey, Kafka."
A voice came from behind him. Turning around, he saw Geisha standing there, shifting awkwardly.
"What is it, Geisha?" Kafka asked, his voice flat but not unkind.
Geisha opened his mouth, then hesitated. "No… never mind. I just wanted to check if you're okay. Some of our classmates have been giving you strange looks."
Kafka blinked, and only then did he notice — the sidelong glances, the whispers half-hidden behind raised hands.
"...Sorry," he murmured, out of habit rather than guilt.
Geisha gave him a small, uncertain nod before walking off, leaving Kafka and Columbina alone.
"Don't mind them, Kafka," Columbina said softly.
A gentle breeze drifted through the open window, brushing her hair into the sunlight. For a moment, the rays caught on her, outlining her in gold — serene, almost angelic.
Kafka stared at her in silence, unsure whether to call her real—or just another dream that refused to fade.
Getting up from his chair, Kafka walked out, leaving Columbina alone as she continued to hum.
"Hey, you bitch! Don't you ever get tired of coming here?! Quit hanging around like you're still an heiress! That title vanished the moment your father committed that crime!"
"That's right! How about taking our advice and just kill yourself? Hehehe~"
The laughter multiplied—five voices overlapping. Kafka stopped in his tracks and turned his head toward the empty hallway.
There, his eyes showed him: five students surrounding a single girl, her purple hair hiding half of her face as she stared at the floor in shame. Slowly, she lifted her head—
"Stare…"
Their eyes met. For a long, silent moment, Kafka and the girl looked at each other.
Then, without a word, he turned away. His steps resumed, steady and unbothered, until the noise behind him faded into silence.
"Raiden Mei, heiress of ME Corporation," he muttered. "If I remember correctly, her father—Raiden Ryoma—was accused of economic fraud. What a meaningless life… they blame his daughter simply because his blood runs through her veins. Humanity is truly cruel."
He exhaled softly, made his way to the cafeteria, and bought three sets of bread before returning to the classroom.
"Welcome back, Kafka~" Columbina greeted him, her head turning toward the door as he entered.
Kafka didn't answer, just placed a single bread on her desk before sitting down.
Columbina smiled, happily munching away like a small, content hamster.
"I just saw something I shouldn't have seen," Kafka said after a pause.
"What is it?" Columbina asked, still chewing.
"Bullying."
"Oh."
Silence followed. Only the faint sound of bread being eaten filled the room—two people sharing a moment.
"Did you help?" Columbina asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. Her soft voice carried no judgment — only gentle curiosity.
Kafka didn't answer right away. His gaze wandered toward the window, following the slow drift of clouds across a pale morning sky. "I didn't."
"Why?" Columbina leaned forward on her desk, resting her chin on her hands as her eyes searched his face.
Kafka exhaled softly, his thumb brushing against the crinkled edge of the bread wrapper. "Because… there wasn't much point. I don't know her, and even if I did, she probably wouldn't want my help. People like me don't make things better — we just make things awkward."
Columbina blinked slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Then you could've at least tried to talk to her. Told her it wasn't pity."
Kafka gave a faint, tired chuckle — the kind that lacked any real amusement. "You think she'd believe that? It's easier not to get involved. The world doesn't change just because I do something small."
For a while, Columbina said nothing. She pressed her fingers into the soft bread, her voice quiet when she finally spoke. "That's kind of sad, Kafka."
He looked at her, eyes dull but not unkind. "It's just… how things are."
She studied him for a moment longer, then smiled faintly — not mocking, just melancholic. "Maybe. But I think you only see half the picture."
Kafka turned his gaze away again, toward the light filtering through the glass. The hum of her voice filled the silence, soft and distant — and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if she might be right
"Practical Research is the last subject today, Kafka. Do you remember the assignment Sir Mizuki gave us?" Columbina suddenly changed the subject, making Kafka pause mid-bite on his bun.
"...There is?" Kafka blinked, confusion clear in his tone. He was sure there hadn't been any assignments.
"Hm. Did you forget?" Columbina asked, her tone light but teasing, her head tilting ever so slightly.
"I… don't know? It's my first time hearing there was an assignment for Practical Research." Kafka scratched his cheek, unsure if he had really missed something or if Columbina was messing with him again.
"I see." Columbina nodded, her eyes curving into a gentle smile.
"What about you? Did you do it?" Kafka asked, half expecting an answer that would make him feel worse.
"I did not." Columbina's voice carried a peculiar pride, as if she were declaring an accomplishment rather than a failure. "I was sleeping all day and did nothing."
Kafka stared at her blankly for a moment before sighing. "You sound way too proud of that."
Columbina only laughed softly, her expression carefree — a sharp contrast to Kafka's weary gaze.
Just as the two continued talking, the classroom door slid open with a faint creak. Their teacher, Mr. Mizuki, stepped in, his usual calm expression carrying a hint of exhaustion. The chatter immediately died down as everyone turned their attention to the front.
"Alright, class," Mr. Mizuki began, setting his notes on the desk. "Since this semester is already coming to an end, this will be your final research defense. I'll be giving you two months to gather your data, develop your concept, and write your study. This time, we'll focus on qualitative research."
A collective sigh rippled through the room—half from relief, half from dread. Kafka simply stared at the board, unmoving, his pen rolling idly between his fingers. Columbina, beside him, quietly hummed as if the announcement didn't concern her at all.
Moments later, the bell rang, its sharp tone cutting through the silence. Bags rustled, chairs scraped, and the end of another day arrived.
Kafka didn't move right away. He simply sat there, staring blankly at his notes, though not truly reading them. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled between the words "research" and "purpose," both feeling heavier than they should.
"Kafka, are you not leaving yet?" Columbina asked softly, already standing beside his desk. The sunlight from the window cast a faint glow on her hair, making her look as though she were glowing faintly.
"In a bit," he replied, tucking his pen into his bag. "Just… thinking."
"About the research?" she asked, tilting her head, her voice playful but gentle.
Kafka gave a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that. Mizuki said it's qualitative—studying people, behaviors, experiences." He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Columbina blinked, silent for a few seconds before replying, "Are you perhaps worried you'll fail?"
Kafka chuckled quietly. "I guess..."
"Well," she said with a faint giggle, "maybe a rest mind will give you an answer you need during defense."
Finally, Kafka stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go. The air's getting heavy here."
As they stepped out of the classroom, the hallway was already quiet. Only the fading warmth of the afternoon sun filled the space, stretching long shadows across the floor. Columbina walked beside him, still humming her tune—soft, almost dreamlike.
Kafka didn't say a word, but as they walked down the empty hall, a quiet thought slipped through his mind.
"You've been humming that lullaby all day. Don't you get tired of it?" Kafka asked, his tone casual yet faintly curious.
"Is it bad?" Columbina tilted her head slightly, her closed eyes directed toward him as though she could still see his expression.
Shaking his head, Kafka replied, "No, it's good. It's just… a repetition of rhythm."
"I see…" Columbina's lips curved into a soft smile. "Then perhaps, should I create another?" Her voice was light, playful, and the humming only grew louder — a little melody that followed them wherever they went.
"You don't have to," Kafka said, his voice even quieter this time. "I'm not complaining about your lullaby. It's just a question."
Columbina hummed once more, this time softer, like a fading breeze. "Questions without complaints are still curious things, Kafka."
He didn't respond. Instead, they continued walking down the corridor — the sound of their footsteps echoing gently against the white-tiled floor. When they reached the elevator, Columbina pressed the button.
A faint ding sounded above the metallic doors, but before they could open, the air shifted.
A familiar scent — faint perfume mixed with the crisp tone of rain — drifted past him. Kafka turned his head slightly. Standing just beside him was a girl with deep violet hair, falling neatly to her shoulders. Raiden Mei.
Their eyes met for a moment — his dull, hers uncertain — before Kafka looked away, pretending to study the reflection on the elevator's surface.
The silence between them was heavy but fragile, like glass that could shatter at the smallest sound.
Columbina, however, broke it easily. She leaned forward, her head moving slightly between Kafka and Mei, curiosity written all over her face. "What's wrong, Kafka?" she asked, voice carrying a teasing gentleness.
Kafka's gaze flickered to her for a second before he exhaled quietly. "It's nothing."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Columbina stepped in first, her humming returning — light, almost cheerful — while Kafka followed, his expression unreadable.
Raiden Mei hesitated before stepping in after them, her hands clutching the strap of her bag. The elevator doors closed, sealing them inside a small world of quiet hums and unspoken thoughts.
The air was still. The only sound was Columbina's tune — gentle, dreamlike, yet strangely distant.
Mei's reflection in the polished metal walls looked fragile, tired — a faint shadow of the girl who once held herself proudly. Kafka noticed but said nothing.
As the elevator descended, Columbina's voice floated softly through the silence. "You know, sometimes, silence says more than words ever could."
Kafka glanced at her — but she wasn't facing him. Her head was slightly tilted downward, her lips still curved in a faint smile.
Mei's grip on her bag tightened, her reflection trembling slightly.
When the elevator stopped on the fifth floor with a soft ding, the doors opened. Mei stepped out first, her pace quick but composed.
Kafka lingered, watching her figure vanish into the crowd of students below.
"Kafka," Columbina murmured beside him, her tone almost wistful. "You always look at people like you're trying to understand something that isn't meant to be understood."
He paused, his gaze still on the closing elevator doors. "I… Am?"
Columbina smiled faintly, her hum resuming — softer this time, almost like a sigh turned into music. "Hm. Your eyes are kinda scary because you're looking at everyone like you're checking on them."
The doors shut once more, and the melody faded with them — leaving Kafka alone with his thoughts and the faint echo of her lullaby.
'...am I really that noticeable?' Kafka thought to himself, tempted to smash his head at the metal wall of the elevator before sighing.
Just like that, the door opened as they stepped out.
"What got you thinking so hard, Kafka?" Columbina asks despite the hint of confusion lingering in her voice.
"It's nothing-" Kafka stopped his words and looked at the purple hair who was already walking ahead of them.
'Didn't she just stop at the fifth floor?' Kafka stared in confusion, as the winds blew, Mei's purple hair flattered gently.
'Ignore it, It's not like I'll see her again." Shaking his head, they continued to walk towards the exit as Columbina sweetly hummed again but this time, it was different.
'When did she have time to compost another lullaby?'
'Forget it, asking too much will definitely lead to an unquestionable answer.'
With that, Kafka resumed his pace as the sky starting to darkened. Perhaps, something might happen to the world sooner or later, but what's that have to do with him?
It doesn't concern him as he was nothing but a insignificant instrument of life, his small gesture of help will not changed anything nor will he willingly help others just to satisfied his non-existent ego.
[END]