It was the start of a new year. Excitement filled the classroom as friends reunited and cliques reformed.
Spring had come once again for Nightingale Magic Academy. Coincidentally, It was in this season that those hellebores, snowdrops and purple crocuses planted by the president of the manga club would finally bloom. The boy in question had brought them back home in order to take care of them during the summer holidays, and now he was carting those flowers back to their rightful place at the clubroom windowsill.
The enigmatic manga club was housed within a little shack far away from the main school building, hidden in a corner that students seldom visited. Even if somebody were to stumble upon this shabby old hut, the word "clubroom" would be the last thing that would come to their mind, for its mossy and wooden exterior more closely resembled that of an abandoned storage shed.
In stark contrast to its outside appearance, the inside of the hut had been made into an adequate living space: complete with a couch, a table, and various flavors of potato chips that may not have expired. In the corner of the shed laid a deflated basketball with a gaping hole torn in its surface. The hollow ball now served as storage for Tin's collection of vintage Pokémon cards. There were massive bookshelves that covered an entire wall—packed to the brim with old manga and superhero comics and tabletop games and worn-out toys that used to be popular back in Year 6.
The clubroom had seen livelier, messier days. But now it was nothing more than a house of memories—memories that perhaps only Tin remembered with any fondness. Regardless, the door creaked open, and Tin stepped inside carrying three flower pots on a small cart. He paused at the threshold as he always did, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.
Tin was a Year 10 student starting that day, and that meant he would be getting his evaluation sheet and an official magic grading during homeroom. As hopeless as he was when it came to training, and even more so when it came to studying, the boy didn't have very high expectations of himself, if any at all.
It wasn't that Tin was mediocre—it was that he was completely and utterly incompetent. In fact, you could just pluck any random office worker off the streets and even they would cast better magic than he could. It made you wonder why he was enrolled at a magic academy to begin with, and he, too, found himself wondering the same thing sometimes. His parents had enrolled him years ago, back when he had aced the practical exam and ticked every box off the interviewer's checklist. By the time he'd lost his touch, it was too late to transfer without explaining why. So he stayed, and failed, and stayed some more.
So now in his new classroom, Tin was given a kraft envelope with the verdict Grade E printed in bold. He lifted the envelope toward the window, hoping the sunlight would reveal a different image, but it only gave him a clearer view of the huge, depressing letter E that he was now branded with.
Around him, classmates buzzed with the same energy of students getting back their test results. Some were frantically reading their evaluation, others pretending not to care, a few radiating the quiet confidence of those who'd trained hard. And, of course, there were always those who compared—leaning across aisles, whispering, chattering, measuring themselves against others.
One student stood out among this particular group of people. Seated at the center of the classroom, his voice drowned out everyone else's as he exclaimed, "No no no are you kidding me? I got a B?" and he made sure everybody could hear him.
Lucas Chen, of course.
He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, but that trademark inflection made him impossible to ignore. A few students were actually listening now. And soon, people started hovering around his desk.
"Huh, that's... good, isn't it? B is really good!"
"No, Renee. B is not good, Renee. Do you have any idea how hard I worked? I timed myself every single day. I cut my sleep by an hour to fit in extra practice. An hour, Renee. Do you know what that does to a person? God, I want to kill myself."
He made a show of burying his face in his hands, letting out a muffled but deliberate "Argh!" into his palms. People were looking at Lucas, even those who sat on the corners of the classroom.
He was with his usual circle of friends. Some of them were from the class next door; it seemed they had come to compare grades.
"Wow, a B? That's horrible, Lucas. What a complete letdown."
"Shut up, Harry. Let me see what you got."
Harry turned his evaluation sheet. Lucas squinted at it, then he snorted.
"Pfft, guys look! This Grade D bozo thinks he can talk."
"Do you even know what sarcasm is?" Harry asked, and Lucas didn't answer—he just turned to the rest of them. "What about you guys?"
Renee sheepishly put her evaluation down on his desk. She got a C. Kenzo also got a C. And Kira got a B.
While students were busy chatting away, the homeroom teacher—Mr. Acre—projected something onto the whiteboard. "Since you all like to compare scores so much, there you go, have a look." He said, raising the brightness of the projection and turning off the classroom lights.
Grade A: ■ (Manas)
Grade B: ■■■■■■■ (7 students)
Grade C: ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ (21 students)
Grade D: ■■■■■ (5 students)
Grade E: ■ (Tin)
The classroom went silent. People stared at the data being projected, sighing in both relief and disappointment. But at the same time, attention gravitated toward the two students at the extremes. Tin kept his eyes on his desk. He could feel them looking—first at Manas, then at him.
"That's rough, Tin."
Tin didn't need to look up. He knew that voice. Lucas, passing by on his way to confront Manas.
"Must suck being the only E," Lucas continued. "I mean, even the weird kids did better than you."
Tin gulped but said nothing. He wasn't in the position to talk back to Lucas Chen—not that he was paying Tin any attention anyways.
"Hey, Manas," Lucas called out, approaching Manas' desk. Lucas was smiling, but the volatility in his voice was unmistakable.
"Yes, Lucas. How can I help you?" Manas replied, not looking up from his paper.
"Help me? I don't need your help. I just need to see—up close—what an A looks like."
Lucas leaned against the desk. Then he hunched his back, bringing his face inches away from Manas' evaluation sheet. He narrowed his eyes, placed a hand on his chin, and studied it intently. "Hmm, doesn't look so special to me."
Manas just scowled in confusion.
"Dude... what?"
"I'm just saying, don't get so cocky, alright? I would have gotten an A too if Miss Meredith didn't have a personal vendetta against me. You see here?" Lucas jabbed a finger at his own paper. "If she didn't give me a bad evaluation, I would be grade A by now."
Manas wasn't really listening.
"That's rough man." Manas offered a seemingly sympathetic nod. "Sorry for your loss."
Lucas blinked. "Wait. What? Sorry for my—I'm not—this isn't a loss, I'm explaining something to you."
Someone at the back snorted, which caused Lucas' smile to tighten suddenly. "Were you being sarcastic?" He asked Manas, as if in revelation. Then he whipped around. "And who laughed just now?" he yelled out. Nobody said anything, of course.
Lucas' jaw tightened. He opened his mouth—
"Alright Lucas, settle down." The teacher's voice cut through. "We have a lot to cover today. Back to your seat."
Lucas froze for a solid 5 seconds with his jaw still agape. Then he reluctantly walked back to his desk as instructed. Manas, for his part, had already returned to reading his paper while diligently scribbling down some notes.
"If anyone here is upset or disappointed about their grade. Do not worry. This is still your first year of ALM education. These grades are a baseline, not a verdict. You have an entire three years to improve before your final mage classification."
Mr. Acre then droned on about the upcoming three years. Tin heard fragmented information like "practical exams," "facility rules," "safety considerations"—but none of it stuck. Later, he would wish he had paid attention. But for now, Tin just watched the clock tick.
The rest of homeroom passed in a blur.
"Alright guys, from now until lunch, you're all free to explore this side of campus. Go check out the gym, the canteen, whatever. And—oh, right, this is important—don't forget your dorm assignments." Mr. Acre said, finally dismissing the class with that.
When the bell rang, Tin was the last one out the door. He didn't really have a destination in mind. "Guess I'll check out the gym." he muttered.
Nightingale Magic Academy was divided into two halves by a central courtyard. The Western half housed Years 1 through 9, and the Eastern half was for Year 10 students and above. The East side felt different—older, more worn, like the walls themselves had absorbed decades of spell practice. Tin followed the signs to the gym, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors.
It was massive—three stories high, with floating platforms and reinforced walls scarred by years of spell practice. Students were scattered across—loitering around, checking out all the equipment and testing them out.
A disturbance near the center of the gym drew Tin's attention. Students were gathering, forming a loose circle. Tin moved closer, curious despite himself. In the center of the gathering stood Kenzo. His back was to Tin. Across from him, a magic-resistant dummy. It came with a Manameter and a floating display on top of its head.
Kenzo casted a fireball at it. Upon being hit, the dummy tumbled backwards, then it instantly righted itself like a tumbler doll. The display showed:
INCOMING: 53 MF
"So... is that high or low?" Carla asked—she was part of the crowd.
"Well, we won't know until we compare. Someone should go next," Kenzo said.
The crowd's eyes wandered until they landed on one person. "Joseph, you go next." Ephraim said, "Yeah, I wanna see Joseph try." Ahron said.
"Ah, geez, if you guys insist," Joseph said. He seemed excited despite his words.
INCOMING: 54 MF
"Damn, Kenzo. You lost to Joseph?" Ephraim laughed, "that's embarrassing, man."
"Wait, shut up Ephraim, let me try again, I wasn't serious," Kenzo said. How did I do worse than Joseph, of all people? was written on his face. So Kenzo tried again.
Incoming: 53 MF
The crowd laughed. Kenzo's cheeks flushed. He can only keep quiet now. Luckily, the attention quickly shifted elsewhere. Someone else was already stepping up to try—Ephraim, maybe, or one of the other B-ranks eager to show off. Either way, the attempts started rolling in.
Incoming: 61 MF
Incoming: 56 MF
Incoming: 58 MF
The dummy received fireball after fireball from the many zealous students trying to outscore each other. Tin, who was watching from the back, almost felt bad for it.
"Hey. It's Tin."
Tin looked up. A girl was pointing at him. One of the popular group—Carla, the one who'd asked about the scores earlier.
"You used to be good, right? Why don't you try?"
The crowd went quiet. Heads turned. Tin's jaw tightened. "No thanks."
"Come on, don't be shy." Ephraim grinned—whether he was being friendly or not was up to interpretation. "Let's see what an E grade can do. For comparison."
Joseph snickered. Kenzo's eyes lit up. Tin stood frozen. Every instinct told him to walk away. But everyone was staring at him now.
"Alright, fine," Tin said. People made way.
The dummy stood in front of him.
Tin raised his hand. Closed his eyes. Reached for that familiar spark—
Nothing.
He tried again. He breathed deeper. He remembered the thousands of times he'd done this in the past. The desire, the drive, the passion—
—and the utter lack of those things. Nothing again.
Tin couldn't even muster a simple fireball and nobody was surprised. Save for perhaps Kenzo, who felt a tinge of melancholy looking at him now. The air was awkward. This was the sight of a failure.
A voice cut through the tension.
"Guys, leave him alone."
Everyone turned. Manas, with a controlled smile on his face, approached the crowd.
"Tin doesn't like to show off, you know?" he said. "Besides, he's going through some kind of—" He gestured vaguely. "You know. A thing. With his magic."
Ephraim's mouth opened, then closed. Even he wasn't stupid enough to argue with Manas.
"Yeah, Ahron! Don't bully my boy Tin like that!" Ephraim said, punching Ahron lightly in the shoulder.
"What? Me? What did I do!?"
Everyone laughed. The awkward air dissipated just like that.
Tin should have let it go. He should have walked away. But something—some stupid, stubborn thing—made his mouth open.
"Wait."
The word came out too quiet. No one heard.
Tin's face burned. He should stop. He should just leave.
"Wait," he said again. His voice was louder this time, but not any more dignified, nor any less feeble. His voice cracked on the word.
A few people turned. Confusion on their faces. He'd failed twice. What could he possibly say? Manas, in particular, was watching now. His expression unreadable.
Tin's hands were shaking; he didn't know where to go from here. He just didn't want to leave things half-baked—even if it cost him his reputation, or whatever that was left of it.
He rolled up his sleeve. Cracked his knuckles—more of a nervous habit than a taunt. Then, before he could think about it, he slammed his fist into the dummy's Manameter.
The punch was sloppy. His form was questionable. Something halfway between a jab and a hook. It was just a desperate swing from someone who didn't know what else to do, nothing more.
The dummy rocked back. The display flickered.
INCOMING: 23 MF
Tin stared at the number. His hand throbbed. He shook it out, wincing. Punching metal hurts a lot, apparently.
A beat of silence.
Then Ephraim snorted. "Okay? And?"
He turned back to his friends, already bored. "Anyone else actually want to try? Someone who can actually do magic?"
The crowd's attention shifted away from Tin like water flowing around a rock. Someone else was already stepping up to the dummy, eager to show off.
Tin stood there for a moment; nobody cared to comment on what he did, as if he was invisible. His hand hurt. His face was hot. He'd done something—he didn't even know what or why—and no one cared. He turned and walked toward the exit.
Behind him, voices picked up—arguing, laughing. The crowd moved on. Yet above the noise, Kenzo's gaze followed his retreating back.
Tin continued to loiter around the Eastern campus. It was by the library steps that he first noticed him.
A kid—ungracefully thin and tall, with a shock of black hair that curled into a rotund, disco-ball shape—was hovering at the edge of a group huddled around a phone. They were laughing at something, and the kid, Archit, took a half-step forward, his mouth opening.
"What are you watching?" he asked. His voice was a little too loud, a little too abrupt. And his mouth curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his unfocused, obsidian eyes.
The laughter stopped. Four faces turned to him briefly. A guy named Nello just stared for a beat, then he let out a flat "Nothing, dude," before turning his back, deliberately closing the circle again. The others followed suit, shoulders hunched against the awkwardness.
Archit stood there for a moment, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, before his eyes scanned the courtyard and landed on another potential target.
He shuffled off, interrupting a basketball game, spouting something about how they shouldn't be playing sports outside of PE class, only to have Ephraim throw a ball at him, shouting, "get lost, Archit, no one cares!"
But it was the girls who were the most brutal. It happened by the juice cart. A pretty, popular girl named Ahaana was waiting for her order. Archit appeared beside her. He leaned in a little bit too close, tickling her ear with his unpleasant breath.
"What kind of juice are you getting? My favorite is banana!"
Ahaana didn't even flinch. She didn't even look at him with disgust or annoyance. The way her eyes slid over him like nothing—he was like air to her. Ahaana took her juice and walked away, rejoining her friends and laughing away—probably at him—without a backward glance. Archit was left talking to the empty space where she'd been.
The vendor mistook Archit for a customer and asked for his order. "I'll have the banana juice!" he said, "it's my favorite," he said, despite not having any prior intention to make the purchase.
Tin watched Archit fumble with his coin purse for a whole minute, trying to find the right amount of change. Tin watched him hand over the wrong amount despite that, and in the end having the vendor sort out the money for him. Tin watched as he poked the drink with his straw a bit too hard, and it spilled all over the counter. And the vendor didn't show it, but he, too, was more than fed up with the boy.
"Can't even drink without making a mess. What's wrong with him?" A voice came from behind Tin. A familiar voice. Tin turned around, and saw a bespectacled Japanese student walking up to him. "Hikaru? You were watching too?" Tin asked.
"No, no, I just got here. And why are you stalking Archit, dude? Usually it's the other way around."
"I'm not stalking Archit. I just happened to be looking." Tin said, being evasive. Hikaru nodded.
"Man, he never learns, does he?" Hikaru shook his head, watching Archit fumble with the spilled juice. "Always trying to talk to people and then getting ignored. You'd think he'd stop after, like, the thousandth time."
Tin said nothing.
Hikaru glanced at him. "What? You feel bad for him or something? Don't you remember how much of a tattletale he was back in year 7? How he almost got me in trouble after he told Ms. Benson I was copying homework? I wasn't even copying—I was just looking at Kenzo's paper because I thought I'd made a mistake. But Archit had to open his big mouth. Or about that time he ratted us out for staying in the clubroom after curfew? Remember that? We all got detention for a week because he couldn't keep his mouth shut."
Tin listened, thought for a minute, then he nodded his head. "Yeah, you're right. He deserves all of this."
Hikaru nodded in agreement, "right?" Then he crossed his arms. They chatted for a while about this and that. Hikaru loved talking—about classes, about other students, about nothing at all. Tin mostly listened, nodding along, until the conversation naturally wound down.
"Anyway, I should probably check my new room assignment," Tin said, glancing toward the dormitory.
Hikaru waved him off. "Yeah, man. Catch you later."
Tin made his way to the bulletin board at the dormitory entrance. A crowd of students clustered around it, their heads bobbing up and down. Tin stood on his tiptoes, barely making out his name on the leftmost column of the list, but people's heads were blocking out the room number written next to it. "Hey," Tin poked the nearest tall student with his finger.
No reaction. Tin tried again. "Hey."
"Can you please stop? I'm trying to read!" The student said in a voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. He whipped around, facing Tin. It was Archit. Of couse it was.
When did he get here?
A few students nearby had heard the exchange. Lucas was among them. He snickered.
"Nice going, Archit. Yelling at the E. Really picking on someone your own size."
Archit didn't hear what Lucas has said. Tin didn't hear enough to understand the joke either, but he knew it was at his expense. His face soured. Of all the people to be seen with, it had to be Archit. He'd rather be caught dead.
"Hello Tin. How are you?"
"Huh? Y-yeah, I'm doing fine. Anyways, my name. Do you see it? On the left side?" Tin asked, pointing at it. "My room number. What does it say?"
Archit opened his mouth to read the board, but Lucas's voice cut through first.
"Aww, this is wholesome. The E asking the D for help reading. This is a good thing—they're bonding, guys! Don't laugh!"
A few people snickered.
Archit didn't even realize people were making a joke out of them. He just stared at the board. His finger hovered, then dropped. He started from the top again.
Tin waited. He glanced left and right; he felt the weight of a thousand stares. Clearly the help wasn't worth all the embarassment. But who could've foreseen this?
Just get the number and walk away. I do NOT want to be affiliated with him.
Archit's finger traced down the list. "T... T... There! Room 18!" he said finally. Tin nodded quickly, "thanks," and left just as quickly to his newly assigned room.
Room 18 was at the end of the hall—just before the stairs leading up to the second floor. Tin fit the key into the lock—it stuck, he wiggled it, it opened—and stepped inside.
There was a bed. A window, and a table.
No soul.
Tin didn't unpack. He didn't even close his door all the way. He just plopped himself down on the bed, letting his weary eyes fall shut.
3 years.
The thought repeated like a mantra.
Just 3 more years.
The words wrapped around Tin like a warm blanket. His breathing slowed. The tension in his shoulders began to ease. Sleep pulled at the edge of his conciousness—
*CRASH*
Tin's eyes snapped open.
Glass. Shattering glass.
He lay still for a moment, heart pounding, trying to place the sound. He glanced at his window—not broken. There weren't anything in the hallway that could shatter, either.
Tin slowly turned. The sound must've come from beyond that wall—
Room 17.
Tin sat up. Listened. Through the thin drywall, he could hear movement. Footsteps. A sound he couldn't quite name—something between a gasp and a sob.
He should ignore it. It wasn't his problem. It was never his problem. Yet his feet were already carrying him to the door.
Tin stepped into the hallway, then he looked into room 17. The door was wide open.
Archit was standing there. Hands tangled in his hair, gripping at it. A broken flower vase lay on the floor at his feet. Fragments of shattered porcelain scattered across the soiled wood—and amongst them, a single marigold.
Archit was crying.
Not the quiet, stifled kind. The ugly kind—shoulders heaving, breaths coming in hitched gasps, tears streaming down his face and snot dripping off his chin.
Tin was standing in the doorway.
He hadn't noticed me.
The thought came.
I can walk away.
The thought came next. Clear and sharp.
I can just walk away right now and this wouldn't become my problem.
Tin took a soft step backward. Then another. His eyes stayed fixed on Archit's clumsy figure, waiting for any sign that he'd been seen. None came. And so he turned around, ready to disappear into the hallway.
Archit had sunk to his knees. His shoulders were still heaving, but the sobs had quieted to something worse—a thin, keening whine, like an animal caught in a trap. And his hands were reaching for the glass. Picking up the shards with bare fingers. One by one. Blood already welling up, dripping down his palms, mixing with the water on the floor.
He wasn't even looking at what he was doing. His eyes were darting all over the place—unfocused, lost. He was picking up the pieces like they were treasure.
"Mommy's flower," he said to himself, whimpering, voice broken. "Mommy's flower. I have to fix it. I have to." He reached for another shard—
Then a hand grabbed his wrist.
Archit's head snapped up. His red, swollen eyes found Tin's face, and for a moment, he just stared—like he couldn't process what he was seeing.
He tried to pull his wrist free, reaching for another shard. He struggled, Tin's body rocked back and forth trying to restrain the boy. He grasped onto Archit with both of his hands.
"Idiot! What are you doing?!" Tin yelled.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Archit struggled harder. In the struggle, Archit's hand twisted. A fresh gash opened on his palm—deeper than the others. Blood spilled faster, hot and slick against Tin's fingers. Archit cried out in pain.
Tin froze upon seeing the damage. Slowly he released Archit's arm. Both of the boys couldn't cast healing magic. But the bleeding still had to be stopped, somehow.
The door creaked.
A girl stood in the doorway—some student from further down the hall. Either she was drawn by the noise or she was just heading for the stairs past this room. Her eyes went wide at the scene: Tin on his knees, Archit bleeding, shards everywhere.
Tin didn't recognize her. "Hey, you!" he called out. "Can you cast heal?"
The girl blinked. Her eyes darted from Tin to Archit to the blood on the floor. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"I... sorry. Heel?" Her accent was thick, words carefully measured. "My English... not so good."
"Healing magic. Can you do it?" Tin said, with more clarity.
She shook her head quickly, understanding the word even if she didn't know the full sentence. "No. Sorry. I cannot. I am... only basic."
Archit whimpered behind him, still reaching weakly toward the broken glass. Tin grabbed his wrist again—gently this time—and pressed it against Archit's own chest to keep it still.
Tin looked back at the girl. "The infirmary. Can you go? Tell them 'someone's bleeding.' Lead them here."
She hesitated, eyes still wide.
"Please," Tin said. Almost a plea.
She nodded once and disappeared down the hall. Her footsteps echoed, fading quickly into the back.
Tin looked around, spotting a clean towel that was folded and hung unevenly on the bedframe. He grabbed it, knelt back down, and pressed it against Archit's palm.
But Archit hissed. He tried to pull away.
"Hold still," Tin sighed as he wrapped the towel around Archit's injured hand. The spilt water sloshed around on the floor and made their pants wet. But the bigger problem was that it could eventually soak into the wood.
"Do you have a cloth? Anything to clean up the water?"
Archit didn't answer. His eyes only found the marigold still lying in the water. Its petals have curled, orange against the dark wood.
"The flower," he whispered. "Mommy's flower. It's... it's dead."
Tin followed his gaze. For a moment, he just looked at it. Then, without thinking, he reached out and picked it up gently, setting it on the bed to dry. Archit watched him do it. His breathing calmed.
Tin glanced at Archit's opened backpack. Inside was a small packet of soft, dry tissues. He took one.
Archit's face was still wet—tears, snot, a smear of crimson from when he had swiped away his tears with a bloody hand.
Tin lifted the tissue, then he tenderly wiped Archit's cheek.
Archit went very still.
"Your face is a mess," Tin muttered, but his hands were careful. "You also stink. Go take a shower after this."
Archit just nodded meekly. His body, usually tense and jittery, finally went slack. Trusting. Like a child who'd finally found someone to take care of things. Like the way he sat with his mother years ago, when she had bandaged his scraped knees and scolded him for not wearing his knee pads.
Tin took several tissues and layered them into a thick pad, wiping the floor. The damp tissues gathered the shards easily. Glass clung to paper as he swept.
"This is how I was taught to clean up broken glass. With a damp cloth or tissues, not with your bare hands. Even if you pick up all the visible shards with your hands, there are still microscopic fragments that you can't see."
Archit watched him work. "My mom told me that," he whispered. "About the wet cloth. She told me, but I forget. I always forget."
"Remember, then."
Tin finished with the glass and sat back on his heels. His eyes drifted to the bed—to the marigold drying on the bed. He didn't know why it was so important, just the fact that it was.
"The flower," he said quietly. "It'll be okay. Just let it dry."
"Mommy's flower," Archit whispered. But this time, it didn't sound like a cry. It sounded something like hope.
Footsteps in the hall.
Tin looked up. Archit flinched.
The nurse appeared in the doorway. The girl from earlier was with her.
The nurse moved past Tin without a word, kneeling beside Archit. She unwrapped the bloodied towel from Archit's hand. The cuts beneath were ugly—some shallow, one deep, still welling red. Archit whimpered, trying to pull away.
"Hold still," the nurse murmured. Not unkindly. Then she closed her eyes.
Tin felt it before he saw it—a shift in the air, a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. Her hands began to glow. Soft. Gold-tinged. Like sunlight through closed eyelids.
Healing magic.
Archit went still. His breath caught.
The light seeped into the wounds, and Tin watched—fascinated despite himself—as the edges of the cuts began to knit. Slowly. Not instantly like in stories. The deep one took longer, the flesh pulling together layer by layer, like watching a time-lapse of a flower closing.
Archit's bleeding stopped.
The nurse exhaled, and the light faded. She looked tired—just for a moment, a flicker of exhaustion crossing her features before she masked it.
"There," she said quietly. "You'll be fine. The deep one might scar, but it's closed." She reached into her bag, pulling out a roll of bandages. "I'll wrap it anyway. Keep it clean for a few days."
Archit stared at his hand. At the pink, puckered skin where the gash had been. At the bandages the nurse was now winding around his palm.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," he whispered. Wonder in his voice.
The nurse almost smiled. "That's the idea."
Tin backed toward the door, deeming himself unnecessary.
The girl was still standing in the hallway, her one arm held the other, looking meek. She looked young, younger than Tin, even though she was probably the same age. She'd been watching too.
Tin stopped in front of her.
"Hey."
She looked up.
"Thanks. For getting help."
Haruka blinked. Then, slowly, she nodded. "You... welcome."
Tin hesitated. He should leave. He wanted to leave. But something made him ask:
"What's your name?"
She tilted her head. "Haruka."
"Haruka." He repeated it once, committing it to memory. Then his voice dropped, quieter. "Don't tell anyone what you saw here. Okay?"
Haruka's eyes searched his face. Questions flickered behind them—curiosity, confusion, maybe understanding.
She didn't ask why. She just nodded again.
"Okay," she said softly. "I say nothing."
Tin held her gaze for a moment longer. Then he turned and walked down the hall toward Room 18.
His door clicked shut.
Tin was on his bed again, looking at the ceiling, counting the stains left by the previous occupants. One. Two—
"Three years."
Tin closed his eyes.
If he could survive three more years here, that would be enough.