The school bell had rung over an hour ago, but Kaito Ishida still wandered the empty halls, dragging his sneakers across the floor, his bag slung low, like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Everyone else had someone waiting for them.
Friends. Lovers. Family.
Just an empty apartment and a fridge that hummed louder than the TV and a family
"What should I cook tonight?" he muttered to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Maybe... fried rice. Or just rice."
The thought didn't bring comfort. Just a hollow sort of ache.
Outside, the world was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. The sky wasn't sunset-orange — it was sickly gray.
Kaito stopped walking.
A thick black smoke curled in the distance, rising into the sky like an accusation. Heavy. Wrong.
Something in his gut twisted hard.
"Where is that coming from?" he asked the nearest stranger, voice tight.
The man glanced over, frowning. "Not sure. Might be a fire."
Kaito didn't wait to hear the rest. His feet moved before his brain could catch up.
He ran like he was trying to outrun the feeling already blooming in his chest — that gnawing, soul-deep dread.
Every step pounded through his body until he turned onto his street.
And the world cracked open.
The crooked mailbox. The blue potted plants.
And the house.
His house.
Swallowed in flames.
People were shouting. Firefighters barking orders. Someone tried to grab him, to pull him back.
He didn't feel their hands.
All he felt was wrong.
"Mom!? Dad!? Riku!? Aiko!?" he screamed, his voice breaking into pieces.
He stumbled inside — smoke burning his lungs, the heat clawing at his skin.
But none of it compared to the sight.
His family wasn't fighting to get out.
They were already dead.
Bodies broken and bloodied. His brother's hand stretched out like he could have saved them if he just had one more second.
Kaito stood frozen, a puppet with cut strings.
He couldn't scream.
He couldn't breathe.
The world blurred at the edges, narrowing until it was just him and them.
And the unbearable silence.
The days after blurred into one endless gray smear.
Police reports. Social workers with tired eyes. Strangers offering meaningless condolences.
Everyone said, "I'm sorry for your loss."
No one said, "I'm sorry you have to keep waking up without them."
After the funeral, he stood alone at the graves.
No umbrella. No jacket.
The rain soaked him through, but he didn't move.
He didn't cry.
He didn't know how.
It felt wrong — like crying would mean he accepted they were gone.
He tried to stay with relatives.
Tried to pretend he was still someone they could love.
But it didn't take long.
Too many closed doors.
Too many forced smiles.
Too many whispered conversations when they thought he couldn't hear.
"He's too much trouble."
"He's broken."
So he left.
Not because he wanted to.
But because there was nowhere else to go.
The streets didn't care about broken boys.
The first night, he curled up under a bridge, the rain seeping through his thin jacket, each drop slicing cold into his bones.
He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood just to keep from crying.
Because crying wouldn't make him warm.
Crying wouldn't make him less alone.
"I'm... okay," he whispered to the dark, the lie barely holding together.
The next day, he scavenged for food.
Pride was the first thing he had to kill.
Then shame.
Then hope.
One night, he tried to steal a rice ball from a convenience store.
The old lady at the counter caught him.
She should have kicked him out.
She should have called the police.
Instead, she shoved two rice balls into his hands, gruffly muttering, "Eat. Next time, ask."
He bowed so low he almost fell over, whispering, "Thank you," as his throat burned with something too messy to name.
Gratitude. Humiliation. Need.
Days bled into weeks.
He became a ghost drifting through the city — sleeping in laundromats, hiding in library corners, blending into the places no one wanted to look.
Every mirror showed a stranger.
Sunken cheeks. Hollow eyes. A jacket two sizes too big.
He hated that boy.
Hated how weak he looked.
Hated that he kept surviving when it would have been easier to just... not.
Then — a lifeline.
The Hoshino family.
They didn't look at him like he was broken.
They didn't flinch when he stayed silent for days.
"Welcome home," Mr. Hoshino had said the first night, handing him a towel.
No lectures. No expectations.
Just warmth.
He didn't trust it at first.
He waited for the kindness to crack open and show its teeth.
But it didn't.
Little by little, he breathed easier.
Little by little, he let himself exist again.
School was a different story.
Kids whispered.
Pointed.
Laughed.
"That's the kid whose house burned down."
"Bet he's messed up."
He tried not to care.
He told himself he didn't.
But lies were harder to swallow these days.
Especially when he saw Yumi — Mr. and Mrs. Hoshino's daughter — cornered because she dared defend him.
"Back off!" she shouted.
A slap cut her off.
Kaito saw it.
And froze.
His fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Because deep down, he still believed he deserved this.
Later that night, he couldn't look her in the eye.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to his plate.
Yumi gave him a smile so soft it hurt.
"It's not your fault," she said.
But it felt like it was.
He stopped going to school after that.
Stayed in bed.
Counted the cracks on the ceiling.
Thought about leaving.
Thought about staying.
Thought about... nothing.
Until one day he got up.
"I'll cook tonight," he said, surprising himself.
Mrs. Hoshino smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.
No questions.
Just trust.
The grocery store smelled like soap and wet floor tiles.
The cashier — a teenager — smiled at him.
"First time cooking?"
Kaito shrugged. "Nope."
"Good luck, man," the boy said, flashing a thumbs up.
Kaito almost laughed.
Almost.
Then — chaos.
A gunshot cracked the air.
Kaito dropped his groceries without thinking.
He ran toward the sound.
Toward the screaming.
Toward the man with the gun and the little girl frozen in his shadow.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he threw himself forward.
Tackled the man.
A flash.
A bang.
Pain bloomed across his chest.
He gasped, blinking down at the red spreading across his shirt.
The world tilted.
The girl was crying, shaking him, begging him to stay awake.
Kaito smiled, even as the cold started to seep in.
"I'm glad..." he rasped, "... I could save someone."
The darkness was gentle when it came.
Not angry. Not cruel.
Just... peaceful.
Like slipping into a warm sea.
And then he woke up in a familiar place — it was school, a hallway where it had all begun.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, and the air smelled faintly of old textbooks and floor cleaner.
Confused, he wandered down the empty corridor until he caught sight of himself in the glass of a window —
A boy with messy hair and a glasses, wearing the same uniform... but with tears silently streaming down his face.
He stared at his reflection, breathing heavily.
"Huh? Why... why am I crying?" he whispered, clutching at his chest as a strange emptiness gnawed at him.
He wiped at his eyes roughly, but the tears wouldn't stop.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt like he had lost something important—something he couldn't even remember.