Chapter 3 - First Tests, Forgotten Dreams
The sound of pens on paper filled the air like rain tapping against glass—constant, unrelenting, rhythmic. Class 1-B was locked in academic combat, their faces scrunched in the desperate hope that knowledge would magically flow through their pencils.
Morning light streamed through the windows, catching flecks of dust that danced lazily across the air. Outside, the cherry trees swayed gently, petals slipping through the open frames like snowflakes of pink. Inside, Akio Hukitaske sat perfectly still. His body might have been fourteen, but his eyes told a different story—older, heavier, worn by three decades of life.
The quiz in front of him was simple, laughably simple. Just ten questions. A little warm-up in Chemistry, the teacher had said with a grin that promised mercy. "It's just a check-in to see where everyone's at."
But for Akio, it was something else entirely.
He stared down at the words on the page. Define covalent bond.List the properties of alkali metals.Give three uses of pharmaceutical compounds in daily life.
To a kid, they were tests of memorization. To a person reborn, they were tests of memory.
And his memory, it seemed, was slipping through his fingers like sand.
He tried to summon it all back—the afternoons hunched over beakers, the smell of ethanol and iron oxide, the quiet satisfaction of watching a reaction take shape in glass. He used to live for this. Back when he wanted to be a pharmacist. Back when formulas were spells, and chemistry was his kind of magic. But that dream had been buried under adulthood—meetings, deadlines, gray office lights, and the steady drain of purpose.
He pressed his pencil against the paper. It didn't move.
From the corner of his vision, Hikata Yakasuke was chewing on his eraser. The kids glasses were fogged up from nervous energy, his notes scattered like leaves in a storm. Every so often, he muttered under his breath, "Sodium... sodium... who even names this stuff? Sounds like a soft drink for robots."
Akio couldn't help himself. "It's an element," he whispered. "It wasn't invented."
Hikata turned toward him slowly, eyes wide with mock awe. "You speak during quizzes? The mysterious transfer student reveals his wisdom!" He grinned, tapping his pencil like a drumstick. "Sodium: not a soda. Got it."
Akio almost smiled. Almost. Then his gaze fell back to the page, and that faint smile collapsed under the weight of what he couldn't remember.
He managed a few shaky answers. Ionic bonds—something about electrons. Alkali metals—soft, reactive. The muscle memory of education guided him, even as the facts felt distant and brittle.
But then came that question. The one that cracked something open.
List three uses of pharmaceutical compounds in everyday life.
He froze.
That was the dream he had buried long ago. Not a childish fantasy, but a calling. He remembered staying up late to mix crude medicines in his youth, trying to help his sickly neighbor. He remembered the thrill of chemistry kits, the pride in learning what ibuprofen actually did. And then he remembered giving it all up—swallowed by a world that wanted productivity, not purpose.
The answers began to come, hesitant at first, then faster: pain relief, antibiotics, antihistamines. His handwriting stumbled, but the memories surged. He even added explanations—tiny details about molecular function that surfaced like ghosts from another life.
By the time he was done, the classroom had fallen utterly quiet. The scratching had stopped. The teacher's shoes clicked across the tile, collecting papers with the slow patience of someone who enjoyed the power of suspense.
And then the bell rang.
"Alright everyone," the teacher said cheerfully. "Good effort! Grades will be posted tomorrow."
The room erupted in groans. Hikata shot up like a released spring. "Finally! My brain cells are filing for early retirement!"
He spun toward Akio and froze mid-motion. "...Whoa. Dude, you dyed your hair!"
Akio blinked, momentarily lost. "Huh?"
Hikata grinned, flicking a lock of Akio's now-turquoise hair. "The deal! You actually did it! Guess that means we're officially friends. You're welcome for the free style consultation."
Akio laughed under his breath. He'd done it the night before—a small rebellion, or maybe an acceptance. Something about Hikata's absurdity had made it sound… freeing.
"It's just hair," Akio said, brushing it aside.
"It's a lifestyle," Hikata corrected solemnly, tapping his temple like a philosopher. "One day they'll write books about the turquoise-haired prodigy who brought color to our gray, exam-crushed world."
"Or maybe they'll write about the guy who failed his chemistry quiz because he was drawing rocket-powered crabs," Akio replied.
"Hey! That was scientific art. It's called multitasking!"
Lunch came. The desks pushed together. The chatter grew. Steam from bento boxes filled the room with the scent of rice, pickled plum, and miso. Hikata performed his usual lunchtime monologue—today's topic being "The Great Ramen Conspiracy: Why Noodles Taste Better at Midnight."
Akio barely touched his food. His mind was still caught between the past and the present, between the person who'd given up on his dream and the child who once believed in it without question.
When Hikata noticed his quiet, he leaned over. "You good? You look like you're solving the meaning of life or deciding between two brands of shampoo."
Akio chuckled softly. "I just… forgot how much I used to love this."
"What, chemistry?"
"Yeah. And... everything that came with it."
Hikata grinned. "Then love it again. Simple as that." He took a bite of his onigiri, chewed thoughtfully, and added, "If ramen gets cold, you heat it up. Same with dreams."
Akio stared at him, baffled and amused in equal measure. "You realize that's actually kind of profound, right?"
"Yeah," Hikata said between bites. "That happens sometimes."
After school, the two parted ways at the gate. Hikata waved dramatically, shouting something about becoming "the first ramen-based astronaut detective."
Akio watched him go, feeling something like gratitude stir inside him.
He walked home slowly. The streets were lined with vending machines and convenience stores, each one glowing in the orange light of sunset. Bicycles whizzed past. Somewhere, a radio played a nostalgic pop tune from the early 2000s.
When he reached his house, it was as if time folded inward. The wooden gate. The narrow walkway. The faint scent of miso soup drifting from the kitchen window.
He stepped inside.
"Akio, that you?" his mother called. "There's taiyaki on the counter! Don't ruin your dinner!"
Her voice—it was exactly as he remembered. No matter how much time had passed, it carried the same unshakable warmth.
"Got it," he replied, slipping off his shoes. The tatami mat felt soft under his feet, grounding him in a world that shouldn't even exist for him anymore.
Upstairs, his old room waited like a time capsule. His childhood books were still stacked unevenly on the shelf, a cracked Rubik's cube sat on the desk, and the model solar system above his bed still hung slightly crooked, its paper planets faded with age.
He stood there for a long time, staring at it all.
This was where it began. The dream, the passion, the kid who wanted to change the world with medicine. He'd built those dreams here—scribbled formulas on scrap paper, mixed colored water pretending they were potions.
And somewhere along the way, he had left it all behind.
He sat at his desk and pulled out a notebook. The paper felt rougher than he remembered, the pages tinged with age. He opened his chemistry textbook and began to read. Slowly, methodically.
The symbols and equations returned like old friends—tentative, awkward, but welcome. Covalent bonds, ionic exchange, molecular polarity. Each line he reread felt like reclaiming a piece of himself.
At some point, his mother peeked in. She didn't speak right away, just leaned on the doorframe and watched him with quiet pride.
"You always did study like the world was ending," she said softly.
He looked up, smiling faintly. "Maybe it did. And now it's starting again."
She chuckled. "Just don't stay up too late. You'll ruin your eyes again."
He promised he wouldn't, though they both knew he'd keep going anyway.
Hours passed. The world outside darkened, the hum of cicadas giving way to the gentle buzz of streetlights. Akio's pencil scratched across the paper in steady rhythm. For the first time in years, it wasn't obligation—it was joy.
He wasn't studying to pass. He was studying to remember.
At one point, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The faded planets spun slightly in the breeze from the open window—Jupiter twirling lazily, Saturn's ring tilting toward the moonlight.
He thought of the person he used to be: tired, detached, trapped in a cycle of survival. That person had forgotten curiosity. He'd forgotten wonder. He'd forgotten that learning wasn't just a means to an end—it was the end. The process, the growth, the joy of knowing something new.
He closed his eyes and smiled.
It wasn't much. But it was enough.
The next morning, he would wake up with turquoise hair and dark circles under his eyes, trudging through Nakamura High's gates once more. Hikata would probably tease him about becoming a "mad scientist of hair dye and insomnia."
But Akio wouldn't mind.
Because now, every quiz, every note, every stumble through rediscovered knowledge wasn't a burden—it was a return.
He was no longer an adult trapped in his younger self. He was a dream rediscovering its dreamer.
And in that quiet, moonlit room, Akio realized something simple, something quietly profound:
The dream of becoming a pharmacist had never really died. It had only been waiting for him to wake up.
He looked at the open notebook one last time before sleep claimed him.
A single line glowed faintly in the lamplight—something he'd written absentmindedly in the margin:
Dreams don't expire. People just forget to look at the label.
He smiled again.
And for the first time since waking in this younger world, Akio didn't fear the future. He was ready to live it.
[To be continued in Chapter 4: The Shadow of the Old World]