Haruto learned that tiredness came in layers.
There was the kind that lived in the muscles, earned honestly through movement.
Then there was the deeper kind—the one that settled behind the eyes and stayed even after sleep.
He felt the second one when he woke up.
The room was darker than usual. Clouds pressed against the window, heavy and low, as if the sky itself was unsure whether it wanted to rain. Haruto lay still for a moment, listening.
The apartment was silent.
Too silent.
His mother should have been up by now. Even on her rare days off, she moved early, unable to fully rest. Haruto swung his legs off the bed and stepped into the narrow hallway.
The kitchen light was off.
"Mum?" he called softly.
No answer.
He found her sitting at the small table, coat still on, hands wrapped around an untouched cup of tea. Her shoulders were slumped forward, not in sleep, but in thought.
"You're up early," she said without looking at him.
"You didn't wake me," Haruto replied.
She gave a tired smile. "I forgot."
That alone made his chest tighten.
She finally spoke while staring at the wall.
"They reduced my hours again."
Haruto nodded. He didn't ask why. He didn't need to.
"The supervisor said demand is down," she continued. "Said it like that explains everything."
Haruto pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. The table between them felt wider than it really was.
"How much?" he asked.
"Enough," she said quickly. Then, after a pause, "Not enough."
They sat there, measuring silence.
"I can help," Haruto said.
She looked at him then, sharply. "With what?"
"Anything," he replied. "Part-time. Deliveries. Cleaning."
"You're eleven," she said.
"I'm capable."
That word again. Useful. Capable. The ones adults used when they were already losing.
Her gaze flicked briefly to his wrist before she caught herself.
"No," she said firmly. "School comes first."
Haruto didn't argue. He filed the refusal away.
On the way to school, rain finally began to fall.
Not heavy. Just enough to soak into clothes and linger.
Riku was waiting under their usual overhang, kicking at a pebble. When he saw Haruto, he brightened immediately.
"Good timing," he said. "I was about to declare this spot haunted."
"You'd still stand here," Haruto replied.
"True."
They shared an umbrella that was too small for two people. Riku leaned dangerously close, humming an off-key tune.
"You're quiet today," Riku said.
Haruto considered lying. Then decided not to.
"Money's getting tight."
Riku's smile faded just a little. "Again?"
Haruto nodded.
Riku didn't say anything for a while. Then, "My uncle runs a warehouse. They sometimes let kids help after school. Cash work."
Haruto glanced at him.
"I'm just saying," Riku added quickly. "If you ever need it."
"Thanks."
The word felt heavier than before.
School passed without incident, which somehow made it worse.
The safety evaluation continued, but more subtly now. Wrist scans were quicker. Questions shorter. Teachers stopped mentioning it entirely.
That afternoon, during a routine fitness test, Haruto was paired with an older student.
"Don't overdo it," the instructor warned again.
Haruto nodded.
He matched the other boy's pace exactly. Same steps. Same breathing. When the whistle blew, they stopped together.
The boy stared at him, confused. "You were holding back, weren't you?"
Haruto met his eyes. "So were you."
The boy laughed uncertainly and walked away.
Haruto's wrist felt warm.
After school, Haruto took the long way home again.
This time, the old man by the river wasn't there.
But something else was.
A small drone hovered near the bridge, quiet and steady, its lens turning slowly as if tasting the air. No markings. No sound beyond a faint hum.
Haruto stopped walking.
The drone paused.
For three seconds, they faced each other.
Then the drone rose and drifted away, disappearing between buildings.
Haruto exhaled only after it was gone.
That night, he helped his mother sort through bills.
She didn't ask him to. He just did.
Each envelope was a small thing. Thin paper. Printed numbers. But together, they weighed more than any single disaster.
"We'll manage," she said, more to herself than to him.
Haruto believed her.
He also knew belief wasn't enough.
In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and rolled up his sleeve.
The red mark was clearer tonight. Not brighter—deeper. Like something beneath the skin was aligning, waiting.
"I won't," he whispered. "Not yet."
The mark didn't respond.
Outside, the river flowed on, indifferent and patient.
And somewhere within the city, unseen systems adjusted themselves—quietly noting that a boy had begun to endure more than he should.