Chapter 1: The Weight of Stillness

The mornings in Hoshimachi always felt the same. A quiet town stirring awake, its heartbeat slow and steady, like it had all the time in the world. The air smelled of damp earth and fresh rice, the kind of scent that clung to your skin if you stood outside too long. The streets, empty but not abandoned, held the echoes of a thousand routines repeated endlessly.

I hated it.

The same rusted bicycles parked outside the same wooden houses. The same old men sweeping the same sidewalks, nodding at me like they had for the past seventeen years. Everything in this town was predictable. Safe. Trapped in a cycle it had no desire to break.

I should be used to it by now.

But every morning, when my alarm rang at 6:45 AM, I’d stare at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—to feel different. And every morning, disappointment settled in before my feet even touched the floor.

With a sigh, I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The pale morning light filtered through my window, casting soft shadows on the wooden floor. Somewhere downstairs, my mother was moving around the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the low hum of the radio filling the silence between us.

We didn’t talk much these days.

I pulled on my uniform—white shirt, navy blazer, the same as everyone else at Hoshimachi High—and ran a hand through my messy black hair. I barely glanced at the mirror. I already knew what I’d see: tired eyes, a face that didn’t quite know what it was supposed to feel.

Downstairs, breakfast was already on the table. A plate of rice, miso soup, and tamagoyaki, neatly arranged, like my mother had set it out on autopilot. She stood by the counter, her back turned to me as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.

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"Morning," I muttered, pulling out a chair.

She didn’t turn around. "You’re late."

I wasn’t.

But I didn’t argue. I just picked up my chopsticks and ate in silence, the warmth of the food doing little to thaw the cold distance between us. It hadn’t always been like this. I tried to remember a time when our conversations weren’t just empty exchanges of necessity, but nothing came. Maybe those memories had been lost somewhere in the stillness of this town, buried beneath years of the same conversations and the same unspoken disappointments.

Outside, a bicycle bell rang, sharp and clear. Shouta. Right on time.

I shoved the last bite of rice into my mouth, grabbed my bag, and stepped into my shoes. "I’m going."

"Be home early," my mother said, but I was already halfway out the door.

Shouta was waiting at the end of the street, one foot resting on the pedal of his bike, his usual lazy grin in place. "Took you long enough. Thought you died in your sleep or something."

I rolled my eyes, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "Maybe next time."

He laughed, pushing off as I fell into step beside him. "Same old Ren. What’s the plan today? Gonna stare out the window in class and dream about Tokyo again?"

I kicked a small rock on the pavement, watching it skitter away. "Maybe."

He didn’t push further. He never did. That was the thing about Shouta—he always knew when to leave things alone.

The walk to school was short, the same path I’d taken since I was a kid. Past the convenience store where old Mr. Sakamoto sat on a stool outside, reading the newspaper. Past the vending machine that had been broken for months but still stood there like a forgotten relic. Past the railway tracks, where a train rumbled by at exactly 7:32 AM, its whistle slicing through the morning air.

Every step was a reminder that nothing here changed.

That I was still here.

And that I didn’t know how to leave.

Hoshimachi had always been this way. A town caught in a moment, like a photograph that refused to fade. The streets whispered stories of people who never left, of dreams that settled like dust on windowsills. The fireflies would return in the summer, just as they always did, their glow weaving through the night like scattered stars.

Ren didn’t know it yet, but this town had a way of keeping its people.

And sometimes, it had a way of bringing lost things back.

By the time I reached the school gates, the weight of the morning had settled over me like a familiar coat.

Just another day.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Then, for the first time in a long time, something changed.

There, by the old sakura tree near the entrance, a girl stood with her arms spread wide, her white dress catching the breeze. She spun in slow, lazy circles, her dark hair swaying, her laughter barely audible over the morning chatter of students passing by.

She looked… free.

I stopped in my tracks.

And for the first time in years, I felt something shift.

Like a breath held too long, finally released.

Like the first ripple on the surface of a still lake.

Like the whisper of a distant summer, calling my name.