Anari hummed softly to herself, a long, thoughtful "Hmmmmm…" slipping from her lips as she glanced around the house.
Empty.
Both of them were gone.
The living room, once filled with quiet footsteps and background chatter, now sat in an awkward silence. The air felt still, like a theater stage after the curtain had dropped, when the actors had all left and only the echo of their voices remained.
She puffed her cheeks in slight annoyance, nodding to herself as if making a very important decision.
"I should not sleep today… nope," she declared, voice bright and stubborn.
Her expression lit up, as if hit by sudden inspiration.
"And I should make him come with me to the shopping mall!" she added, raising one arm high like she had just declared war on boredom itself.
"Let's go—!"
—Rrrring.
She stopped.
Her head tilted to the side.
"…Huh?"
Who could be calling this early in the morning?
With a little skip in her step, she made her way toward the landline resting by the wall. The screen blinked. The ringtone buzzed again.
She picked up the receiver, pressing it to her ear with a light-hearted, bubbly tone.
"Helloooo~?" she chimed, voice sweet and childish, almost like a sing-song.
But the moment the voice on the other end spoke…
Everything changed.
"…Anari, right?"
The voice was low. Sad. Wounded.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
"…Y-Yes?" she replied, unsure.
There was a brief pause.
"…Asahi Rentaro's friend, right?"
The tone had grown colder. Not harsh—just… dull. Lifeless.
"…Y…Yes."
Her voice shifted. Suddenly formal. Polite. Guarded.
"…It's me."
A breath. A struggle.
"Asahi's father."
Silence.
Everything slowed down.
"…Huh…? S-Sir…" she stammered, her throat tightening.
There was no response right away—only the sound of someone on the verge of shattering. Then finally, in a voice that seemed to crack with every word:
"…Can you come to the hospital… right now?"
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"…Huh?"
Her heartbeat, which had always been gentle like her, suddenly pounded with urgency.
Fast.
Faster.
"…As fast as you can. Please."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Then—softly, like a ghost whispering through a cold window:
"…I… I'm sorry."
—Click.
The line went dead.
Anari just stood there.
The dial tone buzzed quietly against her ear.
Her wide eyes stared at nothing. Her breath hitched.
"…A…Asahi…?"
The receiver slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a dull clack.
And then—
She moved.
She didn't think.
Didn't grab her schoolbag.
Didn't even properly slip on her shoes.
She just ran.
Out the door.
Down the road.
She didn't know which hospital.
Didn't ask. Didn't wait.
Her legs moved faster than her mind could follow.
Her chest tightened. Her lungs begged for air.
Her vision blurred—not from wind, but from the hot sting gathering behind her eyes.
She ran.
Ran through the streets, through morning crowds, past confused glances.
Every step screamed the same desperate truth:
Asahi needed her.
And that was enough.
The hospital room was cold.
Not the kind that came from air-conditioning or sterile tiles—but a deeper cold. The kind that sank into the skin. The kind that spread from words unspoken.
Asahi lay behind glass walls, silent and unmoving. Machines whispered around him, steady in their rhythm—alive when he barely was.
His mother sat in the consultation room, clutching her shawl like a lifeline. Her husband stood beside her, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the floor. Silent. Distant.
The doctor faced them. A man with eyes that had seen too many truths. He didn't blink. He didn't soften. He had no room for comfort today.
"Asahi was fine until yesterday," his mother said, voice barely stable. "He was laughing. He even made jokes. He asked for curry…"
Then her words cracked.
"What happened to him?!"
Her voice tore through the silence—raw, confused, pleading.
The doctor exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
"Fine… until yesterday?" he repeated, a trace of irony behind his calm tone.
A bitter smirk flickered across his face.
"I don't think so."
The words struck like frost. The room felt colder still.
Her breath hitched.
"…What?"
She looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
The father remained still—like marble carved by restraint. His silence louder than any scream.
The doctor's gaze turned clinical.
"It's PTSD."
Time seemed to pause.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Only a shaky, quiet—
"…What?"
"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," he explained, tone steady. "It forms after witnessing something the human mind was never meant to process. Traumas that bury themselves in dreams, that replay like broken film. Nightmares. Hallucinations. Dissociation. Fear so real, it becomes your reality."
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing.
"Your son has been battling something. And from what I see… I don't believe he was ever 'alright.'"
"No… no…" she whispered, tears welling. "He would've said something. He would've told me."
The doctor's reply was ice.
"No. He wouldn't. That's exactly the problem."
She covered her face. Tears spilled freely now.
The father remained unmoved.
The doctor looked at the sleeping boy through the glass again—like trying to see beyond what eyes could catch.
"I don't think this was just a nightmare," he said quietly. "This… was something else. Something he saw. Something we can't even begin to understand."
His voice fell into a hush.
"…No. Not a dream."
He looked down at his own hands, as if unsure of the line between science and belief.
"He saw something we never could."
The mother wept openly now, her body trembling with the weight of the unknown. Of helplessness.
The father's jaw tightened—but still, he said nothing.
Not yet.
But behind his silence…
Somewhere in the depth of his distant stare—
A thought echoed like a buried truth clawing its way up.
"…I think I know."