The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.
Beep-beep-beep.
Yura's eyes opened before her hand moved.
She stared at the cracked ceiling above her, counting the familiar stains shaped like continents she had named years ago, when it was easier to pretend she lived somewhat else.
Okay, she thought. Up.
She reached for her phone, careful not to let it fall. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, but it still worked.
That was good enough.
Room was barely wide enough for her mattress and a narrow shelf stacked with secondhand books.
Environmental science. Old paperbacks. Romance novels she hid behind textbooks, their spines bent from rereading.
She sat up slowly.
Her body protested immediately.
A dull ache pulsed along her ribs, Bloomington deeper when she inhaled. She pressed a hand there out of habit, fingers brushing over skin that felt tender and warm.
It's fine, she told herself. Just another bruise.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold.
Tap
Her feet found her slippers, thin soles worn smooth. She stood, stretched carefully, and changed into her clothes for the day—plain jeans, a faded hoodie, sneakers she scrubbed every weekend until the rubber looked gray instead of white.
She tied her hair into a low ponytail, finger moving fast and practiced.
In the bathroom mirror, she paused.
Her face looked... Normal.
Tired, maybe. Eyes a little hollow. Lips dry.
But normal.
She splashed water on her cheeks, flinching when it stung.
From the other room came the sound of a TV turning on.
Click
Aunt Lila was awake.
Yura's shoulders tensed automatically.
She grabbed her bag and stepped out of her room as quietly as possible.
The living room smelled like cheap instant coffee and cigarette smoke.
Ron was already there, sitting on the couch in his undershirt, feet propped on the table like the space belonged to him alone.
It did.
"Morning," Yura said softly.
No answer.
She moved to the kitchen.
Clink
The spoon hit the mug too loudly.
Ron glanced over.
"Tch."
Yura froze.
"Sorry," she murmured, immediately. "I'll br quick."
She poured hot water, stirred, and took a careful sil. It tasted burnt and thin, but it was warm. Enough to keep her awake through her first shift.
She placed the mug in the sink, rinsed it, wiped the counter—once, twice—then headed for the door.
"Hey."
Ron's voice.
Her hand tightened around her bag strap.
"Yes?"
"You forgot this."
Something flew.
Thud
A book hit the wall beside her head, sliding down and landing at her feet. It was hers—an old paperback she must have left on the table the night before.
Her ears rang.
"Don't leave your trash lying around," he said. "You think this is your house?"
"I'm sorry," Yura said quickly, bending to pick it up. Her fingers shook. "I'll be more careful."
He scoffed.
Aunt Lila didn't look up from the TV.
Yura slipped her book into her bag and stepped outside.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Only then did she breath.
—
The sky was still dark when she reached the bus stop. Streetlights flickered, casting long shadows on the wet pavement from the last night's rain.
Tap-tap
Her shoes echoed softly as she walked.
She hugged her jacket closer, breath fogging in the cool air.
Just get through today, she thought. Then tomorrow.
The bus arrived with a tired groan.
Screen
She took a seat near the back, pressing herself close to the window. As the city rolled past—sleeping shops, closed cafes, stray cats darting through alleys—her eyelids grew heavy.
She rested her head against the glass.
For a moment, she smelled something strange.
Not smoke. Not rain.
Something clean.
Green.
She frowned, lifting her head, but the scent vanished as quickly as it came.
Must be my imagination, she thought.
She rubbed her palm absently.
The faint crescent scar there felt warm.
—
Eldoria University was already awaken when Yura arrived.
Students streamed through the gates in clusters—laughing, yawning, checking phones, adjusting hair and clothes that looked effortless expensive.
Yura walked a little faster.
She kept her gaze down, navigating through bodies and voices.
"Did you see the new transfer—"
"I swear, that professor is so hot—"
"Midterms already? Kill me—"
She slipped into the cafeteria through the side entrance.
The smell hit her immediately.
Oil. Steam. Coffee. Bread.
She tied her apron, washed her hands, and go to work.
Clatter
Stray stacked.
Ssshh
Frying oil.
Her arms moved automatically as she scooped rice, plated food, wiped counters. Her body knew this routine better than it knew rest.
"Hey."
A girl from her department stood nearby, holding a tray.
Yura looked up. "Yes?"
The girl wrinkled her nose.
"Do you work here... every day?"
"Yes," Yura said. "Morning shifts."
"Oh."
A pause.
Then, quieter: "That explains the smell."
Heat crawled up Yura's neck.
"I—I always wah—"
"It's fine," the girl said quickly, already turning away. "Just... yeah."
Yura stared after her.
Her hands felt greasy.
She scrubbed them harder than necessary.
By the time her shift ended, her shoulders ached and her stomach growled.
She changed out of her apron and headed to her first lecture.
The classroom buzzed with chatter.
Yura slipped into a seat near the back, setting her notebook down neatly.
A group of girls filled the row beside her—perfume sweet and sharp.
One of them glanced at Yura, then whispered something.
They laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
Yura focused on the board.
It's okay, she told herself. They don't know you.
The professor entered.
Tap tap
Shoes against tile.
"Good morning, everyone."
The lecture began.
Yura took notes diligently, her handwriting small and careful.
Still, she felt it—the gap.
She was twenty-one. Most of them were eighteen, nineteen.
She'd enrolled late. Worked first. Survived first.
Something, it felt like her life had started behind everyone else's.
When the lecture ended, chairs scraped back.
She packed her things quickly.
As she stood, her elbow bumped someone.
"Oh—sorry!" She said immediately.
The girl looked her up and down.
"...It's fine."
She walked away.
Yura exhaled slowly.
—
She skipped lunch.
Instead, she went to the oldest tree in campus—a massive ginkgo with roots that twisted like veins above the soil.
She sat beneath it, pulling out a small bag of bread crumbs.
"Here," she whispered.
Tap-tap-tap
Tiny paws approached.
A gray kitten emerged from behind the roots, following another, then a third.
Yura smiled.
There it was.
That small, fragile moment where the world softened.
She fed them quickly, watching their ears twitch and tails flick.
"Eat slowly," she murmured. "No fighting."
The kittens ignored her advice completely.
She laughed under her breath.
For a while, she forgot about the whispers. The looks. The bruises.
She leaned back against the tree, closing her eyes.
The wind rustled the leaves.
Shhhhhh
Something brushed her hair.
She stiffened.
The scent came again.
Forest.
Cool. Clean.
Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.
Her scar tingled.
Yura opened her eyes.
No one was there.
Just the tree. The kittens. The sky.
"... Weird," she whispered.
She pressed her palm to get chest, heart beating a little faster than before.
Thump-thump
She stayed there longer than she meant to.
Eventually, her phone buzzed.
Time for her next job.
She stood, brushing crumbs from her jeans.
"Be good," she told the kittens. "I'll come back."
As she walked away, she didn't see the way the leaves above her stirred—through there was no wind.
Nor did she feel the gaze that followed her steps, heavy with patience and restraint.
—
That night, as Yura lay in bed, exhaustion pulling her under, she stared at her palm again.
The crescent scar glimmered faintly in the dim light.
It itched
Not painfully.
Just... insistently.
Like something trying to remind her of a promise she couldn't remember making.
She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow.
"Tomorrow," she whispered to the dark. "Just... let tomorrow be easier."
Outside, somewhere beyond the city's lights, something ancient listened—
and waited.