The rain lasted three days.
Not heavy. Not violent. Just constant—thin lines falling from a gray sky that never seemed to change. The kind of rain that soaked into everything without making noise about it.
Kaito stopped counting after the second day.
Routine returned, as it always did. Bells rang. Meals were served. Chores were assigned. The orphanage continued pretending nothing had changed, as if the world hadn't hesitated more than once around him.
Kaito learned something important during those days.
The pressure behind his left eye reacted differently when he wasn't alone.
He noticed it first during breakfast.
Jun sat across from him, elbows on the table, chewing slowly. He didn't talk much in the mornings. Neither did Kaito. They shared silence the way other people shared conversations.
Usually, the pressure was constant—dull, distant.
Now, it softened.
Not gone.
Just… quieter.
Kaito frowned slightly, then shook his head. He told himself it was coincidence. Everything strange always was.
— You're staring, Jun said without looking up.
— No, Kaito replied.
Jun smirked.
— You always say that.
They were sent outside after lunch.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the ground slick and dark. Puddles reflected the dull sky, broken by ripples whenever someone stepped too close.
Kaito walked carefully, adjusting his steps to compensate for his blind side. He hated uneven ground. It made him feel exposed.
Jun noticed.
— Left side's bad? he asked casually.
Kaito stiffened.
— …Yeah.
Jun nodded once.
— Figures.
He didn't ask how.He didn't ask why.
That mattered more than Kaito wanted to admit.
They reached the far edge of the yard, where the fence leaned slightly inward and weeds grew unchecked. No one liked this part of the grounds. It felt forgotten.
Jun crouched and picked up a stone, tossing it lightly into a puddle.
— You ever feel like you're late to something? he asked suddenly.
Kaito froze.
— What do you mean?
Jun shrugged.
— Like everyone else got instructions and you missed the meeting.
The pressure behind Kaito's eye sharpened for just a second.
— No, he said too quickly.
Jun glanced at him, then looked back at the water.
— Yeah, me neither.
But he didn't sound convinced.
That night, the dream returned—but it was smaller.
No ruined cities.No fractured skies.
Just a hallway.
Plain. Narrow. Dimly lit.
Kaito stood at one end. Jun stood at the other.
Between them, the floor was cracked—not broken, just fractured enough to be noticeable.
— Don't cross yet, Jun said.
His voice echoed slightly, wrong in the empty space.
— Why? Kaito asked.
Jun didn't answer.
Instead, he looked down at the cracks, then back up at Kaito. His expression was older than it should have been.
— If you step wrong here… things don't line up again.
Kaito looked at the floor.
The cracks shifted subtly, like they were alive.
— I don't understand.
Jun smiled faintly.
— You will.— Just… not now.
The pressure behind Kaito's left eye grew warm. Not painful. Almost reassuring.
The hallway began to blur.
— Jun, wait—
The dream ended.
Kaito woke before the bell.
The pressure behind his eye lingered longer than usual, like something reluctant to leave.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face, fingers brushing the scar without thinking.
Don't cross yet.
The words stayed with him through the morning.
During chores.
During lunch.
During the quiet moments where nothing happened—and those were the ones that unsettled him the most.
That afternoon, Jun handed him a book in the library.
— Found this behind a shelf, he said.
Kaito took it.
It was old. The cover was blank. No title. No markings.
— What's it about? Kaito asked.
Jun shrugged.
— Didn't open it.
Kaito hesitated, then did.
The pages were empty.
Every single one.
Jun watched him closely.
— Weird, he said.
Kaito swallowed.
— …Yeah.
The pressure behind his left eye pulsed once.
Not warning.
Recognition.
That evening, as lights dimmed and the orphanage settled into silence, Kaito realized something that made his chest tighten.
For the first time since the fire…
Since the accident everyone insisted on calling an accident…
The world felt slightly more stable.
Not because answers were coming.
But because someone was standing close enough that, if things shifted again—
He wouldn't be alone when they did.