There were two kinds of silence in the world.
One was warm.
Harumei learned that first.
It lived in the early mornings of his childhood, when the house was still and the sun had not yet touched the windows. His mother would sit on the floor, spine straight, eyes closed, hands folded gently in her lap. Her voice flowed softly, repeating the names of gods with a calm devotion that made the air feel lighter.
Harumei never understood the words. He didn't need to.
The rhythm itself was enough. It settled something deep in his chest, something he did not yet know how to name. Faith, he would later realize, was not always belief. Sometimes it was simply trust—trust that someone, somewhere, was listening.
Those days passed quietly. Happily.
And then, one evening, they ended.
The city was alive with light. Cars passed in steady streams, horns blending into a constant hum. Harumei was late. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the small urgency of youth. He stepped forward when he should have waited.
The sound came too fast.
Metal. Brakes. A scream that never fully left his throat.
Five seconds were all it took.
As his body lay broken on the asphalt, Harumei's thoughts did not linger on pain. They went home. To his mother's chanting. To his father's tired smile. To the unbearable image of their grief.
He tried to stay conscious. Not for himself—but for them.
The darkness did not care.
Elsewhere in the same city, under the same sky, silence took a different shape.
Sauto sat at the back of the classroom, staring through the window instead of at the board. The teacher's voice blurred into background noise, words piling atop each other without meaning.
Demons were evil. Gods were good. Angels descended to save the world.
That was the story.
But something about it felt… incomplete.
If demons were born evil, why were gods born righteous? Who decided that? Why did destruction require horns and fire, while salvation always arrived in light?
"Hey. You. Last bench."
Sauto blinked.
The class laughed as the teacher's patience snapped. He was sent outside without ceremony, the door closing behind him with a dull finality.
The hallway was empty. Quiet.
Sauto leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. He wasn't angry. He never was. Anger required energy—something he learned not to waste.
Later, Nanase found him by the stairs, arms crossed, expression familiar and unyielding.
"You spaced out again," she said.
"So you noticed."
"I always do."
She was the only one who did.
That evening, they went to his place. It was large, clean, and empty in a way that echoed. The lights turned on automatically. No voices followed. No questions were asked.
They talked. Laughed. Remembered the riverbank where they first met—when he had cried without knowing why.
For a moment, the silence retreated.
The next morning, it returned.
Sauto locked the door behind him and ran.
He slowed near the convenience store on the corner, breath uneven, chest tight for reasons he couldn't explain. The automatic doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling artificial light onto the pavement.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant.
Sauto didn't plan to stop. His feet just… did.
A television hung above the counter, volume low, subtitles scrolling beneath the anchor's calm expression.
"—a tragic traffic accident earlier this morning…"
Sauto's steps faltered.
On the screen, blurred footage showed flashing lights, police tape, a crowd held back by uniformed arms. A still image followed—an ordinary street, an ordinary crossing, marked forever by something irreversible.
The anchor continued, detached and efficient.
"The victim, a high school student identified as Harumei Shinna, was pronounced dead at the scene…"
Sauto stared.
He didn't know the name. He didn't recognize the face in the small photograph that appeared beside the text. Just another boy. Same age. Same uniform style. Same life stage suspended mid-stride.
Gone.
Just like that.
Five seconds, the reporter said. A mistake. Bad timing.
Sauto felt something twist inside his chest—not sharp enough to be pain, not loud enough to be grief.
Just heavy.
Around him, customers came and went. Someone laughed near the shelves. Coins clinked against the counter. Life moved forward with unsettling efficiency.
He looked back at the screen.
A warm family, he thought suddenly, though he had no way of knowing.Someone who was loved.
And still—
"What kind of world is this…?" Sauto murmured under his breath.
If gods watched over people, why was the timing always so precise in its cruelty? Why did happiness end not with warning, but with impact?
A boy raised in faith died without meaning.Others lived without purpose and continued breathing.
The cycle didn't feel fair. It didn't feel guided.
It felt careless.
Sauto turned away from the screen and walked out before the report finished, the automatic doors closing behind him with the same soft chime as before.
Outside, the light had changed. The signal ahead flickered red.
He stopped.
For the first time, he waited.
The city moved around him—cars rushing past, people brushing by, unaware that somewhere, a life had just ended, and somewhere else, another had begun asking questions that would never fully leave him.
The silence returned.
Colder this time. He ran and...
*Crash*
Two accidents. One city.
The horn reached Sauto just a fraction of a second too late.
Impact erased thought.
Harumei awoke to white.
Not the harsh white of hospitals, but something softer. Endless. Weightless.
A boy stood before him, flute in hand, smiling as though they were old friends meeting again.
A god.
The words settled easily in Harumei's mind. There was no fear—only recognition. As if the faith he had grown up around had finally taken form.
"You were not meant to die yet," the god admitted, embarrassment flickering across his ageless face.
Harumei accepted it.
Not because it made sense—but because kindness had taught him that not every mistake was born from malice.
Reincarnation followed.
Light. Runes. A promise unspoken.
Sauto awoke to darkness.
Not empty. Not silent.
Observant.
There was no warmth here. No flute. No gentle smile. Something watched him—not with hostility, but with interest.
Questions he had never voiced pressed against his consciousness.
If gods are good… why do they hesitate?
No answer came.
Only a presence, withholding something it clearly possessed.
Somewhere, a balance shifted.
Back in the white space, the god lowered his hand after the ritual ended.
For the first time in a long while, his smile faded.
He looked—not forward, but sideways. Toward something unfolding beyond his reach.
"May you live well," he whispered.
Whether it was a prayer… or an apology… even he did not know.
Author's Thanks
Thank you to everyone who has read my books.I'm truly grateful to all readers—both on Webnovel and Wattpad.
Your support means more to me than I can properly express. Because of you, I recently achieved Diamond Rank in Wattpad's "30-Day Challenge."
Just like in my stories, you are all a part of my family as well.This milestone belongs as much to you as it does to me.
Thank you for reading, supporting, and believing in my stories.