One year later, the colors had grown stronger. They no longer hung as hazy veils—now, faint, translucent shapes moved with each person, like ghosts of what was to come.
Nogare watched his best friend Taro kick a stone down the road, and overlaid on the boy's laughing face was the image of him kneeling in the dirt, clutching a splintered toy wagon with one wheel snapped clean off. Their teacher, Fumiko-sensei, stood at the front of the classroom explaining calligraphy strokes, but behind her, a ghostly version of herself sat at her desk with her head in her hands, tears streaming down her face onto an open letter.
The images didn't make noise. They didn't speak. They just were—quiet previews of pain waiting around the corner.
"Taro," Nogare said one afternoon, as they played by the riverbank, "did you break your wagon?"
Taro looked up from stacking pebbles, his brow furrowed. "No way! Dad just fixed it last week. Why would you say that?"
Nogare bit his lip. He'd meant to keep quiet, but the ghost image had been so clear he'd forgotten himself. "Just… wondered," he mumbled.
The next day, Taro came to school with red-rimmed eyes. A cart had rolled over his wagon on the main road, shattering the wheel exactly as Nogare had seen.
A week later, during lunch break, Nogare found Fumiko-sensei arranging papers on her desk. The ghostly afterimage of her crying was so sharp it made his chest ache.
"Fumiko-sensei?" he said softly. "Are you sad about something?"
The teacher's face hardened. She set down her pen with a sharp tap. "Nogare Mirai, that is an inappropriate question for a student to ask. Focus on your studies, not on prying into your elders' business."
He bowed his head in apology, but the words had already slipped out. Seven days after that, the headmaster announced to the class that Fumiko-sensei's son had been killed in the war across the sea. She did not return to school for a month, and when she did, Nogare saw her crying at her desk every morning.
It happened with Ryo, the carpenter's son, on a hot summer morning.
Nogare was sitting under the great oak tree at the edge of the village when he saw Ryo and two other boys heading toward it, carrying a rope to swing from the lowest branch. Over Ryo's small frame, the ghost image was stark and sudden: his body tumbling through the air, arms flailing, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
His mouth opened before he could stop it. "Ryo! Don't climb that tree—you'll fall and break your arm!"
Ryo turned, grinning mockingly. "What are you, some kind of fortune-teller now? You're just scared because you can't climb as high as me!"
The other boys laughed. Ryo scrambled up the trunk, his bare feet finding hold in the rough bark. Nogare ran after them, shouting again, but it was too late—his foot slipped on a wet patch of moss, and he fell exactly as the vision had shown.
The crack of bone echoed through the quiet street.
That evening, Sato the carpenter stood in the Mirai's doorway, his face dark with rage. His aura blazed a violent crimson that made Nogare shrink back behind his mother.
"Your son is cursed!" Sato roared, slamming his fist against the wooden frame. "He speaks of misfortune, and it follows! Ryo has never been hurt climbing that tree—not once in six years! You've filled his head with dark magic, haven't you?"
Keiko stepped forward, her hands folded in front of her. The gray haze around her had deepened to ash. Without a word, she dropped to her knees on the dirt path, bowing so low her forehead touched the ground.
"My son meant no harm," she said, her voice steady despite the tremble in her shoulders. "We will take full responsibility for Ryo's care. I will offer free readings to your family for a year, and give you all the savings we have set aside for Nogare's schooling."
Sato's jaw clenched, but he said nothing as Keiko disappeared into the house and returned with a small cloth pouch heavy with coins. He snatched it from her hands and stormed away.
That night, Nogare sat on his mother's lap as she held him close. Hot tears streamed down his face, soaking through her kimono. She didn't scold him. She didn't raise her voice. She just rocked him back and forth, her own cheeks wet, repeating the words he had heard so many times before—this time, they sounded like a prayer and a sentence all at once.
"You must never tell. Never. Your truth is a curse they will make you bear alone."