November 5th:
In the depths of darkness,
I always find myself crying for no reason, alone in this place, with pain gripping my heart.
As if I've lost something important—something precious to me—but no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what it is. No matter how much I scream or cry, this sadness and pain refuse to disappear.
That's when I began to run through the snowstorm, like a madman with no direction, as if I were running away from something.
Yet the pain clung to me throughout that seemingly endless path.
There, I saw a stone statue of someone—I didn't know who it was—but the moment I saw it, tears started pouring down my face, and my heart felt like it was going to burst from the rapid pounding.
He had been kind. He had been gentle. He had been wise. He had been intelligent.
My tears dried as I wept for him, and I began peeling the stone with my bare hands, as if searching for someone trapped inside. But all I found was a pile of stone.
And with that, the sorrow ended.
And the dream faded…
---
Beneath the serene night sky, bathed in moonlight,
three figures sat around a small campfire, surrounded by pine trees dripping with rain.
One of them—smiling—placed a pot on the fire and began adding spices to the meal.
In front of him sat a young man with jet-black hair, silent and still.
Despite his torn shirt and ragged clothes that offered no warmth, the chill of midnight didn't seem to affect him.
The cook had tried several times to start a conversation, but the black-haired boy didn't respond, didn't even seem to listen.
Still, the aroma of the food forced him to glance over, no matter how much he tried to look away.
His dull, tired eyes kept stealing peeks into the pot. His body, covered in wounds, cried for nourishment to heal, and he couldn't hide the loud growls of his stomach—deprived of real food for weeks.
This made the cook chuckle softly.
"Seems like your stomach spoke before your mouth. You're one stubborn guy.
But you'll have to wait a bit longer—it still needs a few more ingredients."
Just as the black-haired boy tried to hide his embarrassment, the third one suddenly woke from sleep in a panic, his face filled with terror.
The other two turned to him. Tears were streaming down his face.
The cook rushed to ask what was wrong, more surprised by the tears than anything.
But the white-haired boy quickly wiped them away.
"I'm fine," he muttered.
Suddenly, both the black-haired and white-haired boys stood up.
Without a word, they faced each other—ready to fight.
Their expressions were blank and cold, like this was something they did every day.
The third one was stunned.
He couldn't let them kill each other—not after healing them, not before at least hearing a "thank you."
"Are you two machines or what? Why are you so set on killing each other? Is this some kind of personal grudge?"
The white-haired boy was barely standing—his injuries, his hunger, and the cold were too much.
Rising so quickly had made him dizzy, and his hastily bandaged wounds reopened.
The pain consumed him, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Even so, he had stood, eyes filled with fire, eager for battle.
The black-haired boy barely turned toward the cook, answering him without moving his face.
"What does it matter to you? You're a stranger. This isn't your business."
"If I see two people trying to kill each other, isn't it natural to at least ask why? Maybe there's a way to stop it."
The black-haired one sneered.
"Stop us? After watching us fight for a full day? What makes you think you understand anything about us?"
The cook's eyes narrowed.
"You knew I was there?"
"Of course. There were four of you watching us. You and the smoke chose to step in. The other two left.
It's funny, isn't it? Was watching us fight really that entertaining?
Anyway, you've done enough. You and that smoke. If you're satisfied, leave. This doesn't concern you."
The cook looked at the white-haired boy—now collapsed and bleeding again.
He knelt beside him, smiling.
"You're right. I wasn't going to get involved anyway. I was just curious.
But how about this—why not eat first? You're both injured. Neither of you has eaten in a week.
I managed to bandage your wounds because I was lucky to find supplies in the rubble.
The nearest city is 30 km away. If those wounds reopen, I doubt either of you will survive."
The black-haired one clenched his fist.
"I appreciate your concern… but I can still fight."
"Maybe you can. But your friend has reached his limit."
He gently tapped the unconscious white-haired boy, and he slumped further, out cold.
"See? I'm not forcing anything. I just don't want this food to go to waste.
Besides, isn't it nice to make friends once in a while?"
Reluctantly, the black-haired one sat down.
Even he couldn't ignore the exhaustion and hunger.
---
The night was peaceful, the fire warm, and the smell of food comforting.
The two boys sat apart, their faces hollow with fatigue and grief.
The cook stirred the pot.
"I've heard that food cooked over fire tastes better than any home meal, haha."
The joke fell flat.
"Alright, maybe I'm not good at jokes…"
He sighed, stirring faster.
"Let's introduce ourselves at least. I'm Akane Itsuki. I'm 18. And you?"
He asked the white-haired boy.
"Raite Haizaki. Same age."
"Haizaki, huh? Nice to meet you.
And you?"
The black-haired boy hesitated. His eyes narrowed.
"There's no harm in sharing a name, right?" Itsuki added with a friendly tone.
"…Titus," he said, his voice trembling.
Itsuki's face changed instantly. For a second, he looked angry. But then he smiled again.
"Titus? That's a unique name. I had an old friend with that name."
The black-haired one looked around nervously.
"I'm sorry. That was a lie… My name is Hayami Toki. I'm 19. Probably."
Haizaki noticed the unease in Hayami's voice.
Itsuki smiled gently.
"Names are meant to identify us. Our parents choose them with meaning.
Sometimes they're names of flowers, or animals, or virtues.
Most people are proud of their names. But sometimes, they can feel like a curse."
That hit Hayami hard.
"Anyone can start over. That includes names.
If hearing your name brings you pain, give yourself a new one.
I think… I'll give you both new names."
Both boys reacted with surprise.
"What? Isn't this just a game?" Haizaki asked.
"Yeah, but everyone reaches a point where they want to forget everything and begin again."
Itsuki thought for a moment, then pointed to Haizaki.
"You'll be Yule from now on."
Then to Hayami,
"And you'll be Hiro.
What do you think? I think I'm great at naming people!"
"…Wasn't this supposed to be a game?"
"Hiro? That's… weird. But… I kind of like it."
A faint smile appeared on Hayami's face.
Haizaki—now Yule—was shocked to see it.
"Hey! Even you're smiling? That's kind of gross, honestly."
"…Huh!? You got a problem with my face, you royal mutt! You ever looked in a mirror?"
"Oh, shut up, you pointy-eared twig. I'll snap your horns off and stick them in your eyes."
Itsuki burst into laughter, watching them bicker over nonsense.
For a moment, they forgot everything and just laughed.
But then Yule bent over, clutching his stomach in pain