All content in this novel is for fictional and entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. This story may include emotionally heavy or distressing themes. Reader discretion is advised.
By the time I reach the stairwell leading toward the school gate, my chest feels tight again — like something invisible is coiling around my ribs, squeezing just enough to remind me I'm never fully alone inside my own mind.
Going home now would be a mistake. Mom would take one look at me, notice a wrinkle in my uniform, and decide I'm a defective product that needs recalibration.
Nope. Definitely not going that way.
I turn away from the station path and drift toward the river instead.
---------------
The riverbank is nearly empty this time of day.
A few middle-schoolers kick a soccer ball badly.
An elderly man feeds pigeons like they're long-lost friends.
Wind pushes the water downstream in slow, glassy ripples.
I sit on the lowest step of the concrete embankment, hugging my bag loosely to my side.
For a moment, it's just me and the sky.
But my mind refuses to stay quiet.
The blank space in the yearbook.
A perfectly rectangular void staring back at me.
Who would go through all that trouble to erase someone? And why?
The dream.
Her voice—soft, warm, familiar. Calling my name from a place I couldn't reach.
I press my hand to my chest. My heartbeat flutters like it's trying to answer her.
A sigh slips out before I can swallow it.
Something feels unsettled in the air—like the world is holding its breath, waiting for me to notice a pattern I'm not ready to see.
I stare at the drifting clouds, my thoughts chewing on themselves.
…Why do I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something bigger?
Something reaching for me?
I shake the feeling off, pick up my bag, and stand.
"I need sugar," I mutter. "Or distraction. Preferably both."
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By the time I reach the shopping district, the sun has dipped low, washing the storefronts in amber light.
The air smells like grilled dough, cheap perfume, and capitalism.
Crowds swirl around me—students chatting, office workers dragging their feet, tourists taking pictures of things locals stopped caring about decades ago.
My senses are assaulted immediately.
Claw machines!
Rows of blinking neon gremlins calling out to me like seductive demons.
They even have mochi the cat from my favorite Tv show.
No. I am stronger than this.
One plushie slides down the prize chute in slow motion as I walk by.
…One wouldn't hurt though. I am barely stronger than this.
Wait is that...I sniff the air like a dog..that's Taiyaki!
A stall blows a warm, sweet cloud of red-bean-scented temptation directly into my face.
I hold my breath like I'm passing a toxic chemical spill.
Nope. Not today.
I refuse to get trapped in a spiraling food coma and wake up broke.
But I guess just one wouldn't hurt.
Fresh melon pan.
The sign glows at me from across the street like a siren.
"Limited batch! Freshly baked!"
I glare at it.
The melon pan glares back.
A battle of willpower between a girl with no self-control and a bread with too much power.
My stomach growls. Who am I to judge.
"Four melon pans, please," I say to the shopkeeper.
"Why of course! Coming right up!" he grins.
Well. That was one heck of a distraction.
I bite into one melon pan as I walk, warm and sweet and exactly what I needed. The paper bag rustles in my hand. The sky has darkened a little more than I expected.
"It's almost getting dark… I need to head home," I mutter.
I start speed-walking like a criminal fleeing the scene — which, honestly, is the energy I'm radiating after panic-buying four melon pans.
But as I round the corner, the weight in my chest returns.
Heavier. Colder. Like something is following me.
I quicken my steps, clutching the warm melon pan bag like it's a lifeline. The sky is tinting toward evening, the streetlights flickering one by one in pale yellow halos.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don't really want to see who that is....
My phone buzzes a few more time.
Ugh! There's only one person who texts this aggressively.
I check the screen.
HIRO:
Where r u man
Mom's not home yet...I think she is still at work.
Maybe I don't know....
…That's unusual. She's probably caught up in something.
Before I can reply to him, another message pops up:
HIRO:
Dad made teriyaki chicken!!
It smells like heaven here!!
Get home fast or else there won't be any left for you~
What the hell does he think I am, four?
I type back:
MIO:
Walking home. Maybe don't breathe near the food until I get there.
He replies instantly.
HIRO:
I'll try but can't promise anything. The air is risky.
I smile into my sleeve. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget the weight in my chest.
Another buzz.
HIRO:
Also can sneak in some ice cream on your way?
We ran out
I roll my eyes
MIO:
I wasn't born to indulge your bad habits.
His response is immediate:
HIRO:
TRAITOR.
I tuck my phone away, smirk fading quickly.
The moment my eyes lift—
My breath catches. A girl stands across the street. Not just any girl.
She's wearing an old-fashioned school uniform—one I don't recognize. Her blouse is neatly pressed, her skirt longer than modern styles, her hair tied back with a simple ribbon.
She stands too still. Too quiet. Like she's waiting.
Her posture—the outline of her silhouette—tugs at a buried place in my memory.
My heartbeat stutters. It can't be but she looks—She looks like—The dream.
My fingers curl around my bag strap. The girl lifts her head.
Our eyes almost meet—A car passes. And she's gone.
Not "walked away" gone.
Not "lost in the crowd" gone.
Gone like she was never there at all.
------Chapter Ends------