I shifted uncomfortably inside my uniform. The winter tie constricted my throat, each breath scraping against the starched fabric. The socks—an unholy cotton blend—coiled up to my knees, suffocating my calves and itching in relentless waves. Even my trousers joined the assault, stiff and unforgiving, pressing creases deep into my skin. I shifted my weight in the corridor, feeling trapped in my own body, longing to peel away every layer.
Masato needed a hall buddy to help him navigate the many flights of stairs that plagued our high school. Unlike the ones near the temple—gentle wooden planks with gradual inclines—the stairs here at Chichibu High were not designed with care. They were steep, narrow, and unforgiving, the kind that demanded your full attention; crawling up them on all fours wouldn't be beneath anyone who misjudged a step. Masato, naturally, wasn't about to tempt fate—not here, not where your future wife might be walking by.
But I wasn't shifting because of Masato. I had been uncomfortable all morning.
Alison hadn't arrived at school today, and today of all days was the first day back. Despite her wild nature outside, she was fairly tame at school, taking her education incredibly seriously. Even when she had been sick in the past, Alison would still make it in—choosing to endure whatever she had to in the infirmary rather than surrendering to a rest day at home. Classmates would flock to her during lunch breaks, drawn by an innate magnetic energy she gave off even at her lowest. I remembered a time when two guys from our baseball team literally stood guard by the infirmary doorway, their faces noble and stern like royal sentries.
This morning, I had arrived on the school premises with a renewed passion, almost as if school had finally become bearable. Committed to our promise, and with nerves threatening to spill over, I had spent the morning battling inner turmoil and the sleepless night that had preceded it.
But she hadn't arrived. The first day back was precisely the kind of occasion she never missed; she would usually slip into her seat before the teacher could even glance up, her commitment to perfect attendance announced by her sheer presence alone. Yet her chair remained empty. As lunch approached, her large entourage of fellow students was left without their blooming flower.
When Masato returned to my side, very little was exchanged between us. I sensed our silence wasn't from a lack of mutual concern, but rather because our minds simply had nothing more to offer on the matter. The empty hallway fed the quiet, drawing out another dark thought.
It was fascinating how entirely she had taken over all our lives and our hearts. She could just be unwell, sure, but the classroom's entire mood had shifted in her absence. Within me, a selfish desire began to grow—a wish that today, just for today, all of us could just forget about her. Just to make the day ahead a little easier to bear.
As we navigated the steep stairs, with Masato channeling his heavy, uncontrolled strength through his hands on my shoulders, I felt deeply guilty for having such a horrible thought. Not even the physical strain of guiding him could make the guilt go away.
Yet, as we entered the hallway leading to homeroom, I heard the faintest mumble of voices escaping the classroom. I walked in first, Masato following close behind. The atmosphere inside was noticeably different—still anxious, perhaps, but less tense. The movement and the way people were grouping around the desks gave me the impression that, somehow, the class was already moving on.
We sat down at our desks in the middle row at the back. Our presence stirred no recognition from anyone. As I took my seat, I wondered if I could just drift the day away, hoping my mind would latch onto something—anything—to help me get by.
It didn't take long.
I was high above the clouds. A lone stone bench floated in the ether, its surface slick with condensation. The wind howled, slicing at my exposed skin, leaving behind a stinging chill. My gaze drifted to the horizon, where clouds heaved in dense, textured layers—each one a ghostly mountain range, shifting and breathing. The pale blue above pressed down with an invisible weight, making my head and neck ache. For a moment, the bench offered a fragile refuge from the vast, unsettling sky.
I sat down right in the middle, wondering what dark corner of my subconscious was about to stir. Usually, my dreams were fragmented or, like a cracked mirror, held a warped reflection—not of me, but of something I'd recently seen or experienced. Lately, it had been the cyan-eyed girl. Last night, my mind had retraced the courtyard, but that was all I could control. It stubbornly refused to rewind to the moment I had seen her elegantly glide across the dining room.
Instead, I drifted toward the Kitsune.
I was no longer in the sky where clouds floated like a moving world. My mind had settled directly in front of the stone Kitsune. I was still seated, but now I was resting on the thick grass of the courtyard. My vision refused to look beyond or away from the statue. Though I wanted to run my hands through the grass beneath me, a strange mental force commanded me to concentrate.
So, I did.
I stared up at the Kitsune—at its condescending, stone expression, and at how it proudly flaunted its five tails as if each one held more cosmic meaning than my entire existence. Those were the first bitter thoughts that came to mind. Though the deep mystique it presented gradually subsided, my internal irritation, I held its gaze. I stared directly into its eyes, hoping I'd be able to see deeper.
And I did. For the first time, I realized its eyes had color. They were a striking, golden green—a shade that could easily be mistaken for pure gold but instead demanded recognition as a terrifying, natural beauty. It was beautiful, fierce, and utterly otherworldly, as if it held secrets from the next life or from my forgotten past. These were my thoughts, though I felt increasingly clouded internally—uncomfortable with the sheer depth of this dream and how painfully conscious I was within it, yet completely clueless as to why I had drifted here.
My vision began to blur, my eyes losing focus on the Kitsune as its gaze turned into glowing, hovering fireflies, while the trees behind the statue grew sharper. I realized then that I wanted to look beyond it—behind the Kitsune.
I peered up toward the massive branches. My heart instantly sank in dread.
One of the branches hanging directly over the courtyard's fence sagged under a mysterious burden. My eyes caught the reason: crows clustered there, feverishly tearing at something suspended from the wood. What chilled me most was the silence—the only sound a faint rustle of feathers as they worked, beaks flickering in synchronized violence. They reached into a tightly woven net, extracting strips of raw flesh. Two ravens focused on a limp, protruding limb, their dark eyes glinting with predatory precision.
The limb didn't resemble a mammal or a rodent. I think I refused to believe it initially—perhaps out of sheer horror at how visceral and real this all felt—but I could clearly see that the crows were feeding on one of their own kind.
And the feast was still alive. Blood escaped from its twitching beak, its glossy eyes wide with absolute helplessness. I thought for a brief, frantic moment that I should intervene. But one of the crows pulling at the net pecked violently at the victim's face, gouging its eyes out with a swift, brutal twist. Dark red, almost black blood immediately poured out, and the flesh that had been held compact by the netting unfolded, spilling over onto the ground below.
The crow on the branch immediately noticed the fallen meat and swooped down to the earth on the other side of the wooden fence. It tossed the piece of flesh into the air before catching it in one swift, sickening swallow. Its eyes scanned the forest floor, looking for predators or perhaps more prey.
Then, it noticed me. It looked my way directly, its head snapping rigidly from side to side, and then it launched itself instantly—flying right over the fence and straight toward my face.
I was still sitting paralyzed on the grass. I had zero time to react, no control over my limbs, and nothing to cover myself with. In one swift, violent motion, it clamped its beak down on my nose.
I had hoped the shock would pull me back to reality, but as the agonizing pain coursed all over my face, tears instantly pouring from my eyes, I was forced to endure the brutal tearing. My nose felt as if it were being ripped wide open, my throat burned like it was in flames, and my eyes clamped shut as I fell straight back onto my spine. The crow kept its death grip on my face, twisting, turning, and pulling at my flesh.
Then, suddenly, I felt a heavy hand slam onto my shoulder. My body, which had lost all motor control before, fought its basic survival instincts—because in the depths of your own mind, you are forced to endure yourself.
The hand violently yanking me back into reality.
"Hey, Yoshi?"
The voice was familiar, soft and feminine, but my eyes were slow to open, and my throat reflexed. My insides inverted instantly, giving me absolutely no time to regain control. My hands desperately grasped at something firm, but my vision fell backward into darkness as my body gave way. My chest heaved violently, my back arching as the tension surged through my shoulders and into my neck.
My nose screamed with blinding, phantom pain, but just like in my subconscious, I was powerless to respond. Guilt prickled under my skin, sharp and electric. My insides convulsed, my chest rising with every desperate, ragged gasp as a burning, metallic taste pooled at the back of my tongue. Ambient noises—the fluorescent lights' distant buzz, the scrape of a chair leg, a muffled cough—pressed in around me, anchoring me in the classroom even as I trembled on the edge of panic. The world blurred at the edges, color and sound flowing into each other, as if the classroom itself refused to focus. My eyes clamped shut in embarrassment and helplessness, the sensory aftershocks of the nightmare lingering in every nerve.
As my fingernails dug firmly into the rough wooden edges of my school desk, the intense physical struggle was the only thing keeping me from slipping right back under.