Monday — History
Teacher: Owada Fumiko, age 35
Classes: 1-C, 2-A, 3-D
There is a saying often repeated in history: history should never repeat itself, especially when what occurred in the past was undeniably bad.
Unfortunately, Rikka High School appears to treat this as a personal challenge.
Yuma continued to walk on eggshells around them, polite yet distant, present only in body, as though his heart had already stepped far away. Deep down, they had no choice but to admit it — they were losing him. Just as Himari had warned. And despite their clumsy attempts to close the distance, Yuma only withdrew further, shutting everyone out one by one.
For the next few days, the atmosphere in the house grew noticeably heavier.
Everyone carried their own thoughts about Yuma, each trapped in quiet contemplation. On the surface, nothing seemed amiss — meals were prepared, doors opened and closed, greetings were exchanged. Yet if one looked closely, the difference was unmistakable. Something had shifted, subtly but irrevocably.
Yuma, however, remained unchanged.
By the time they reached home, it was already past midnight.
No one quite remembered how they had managed the journey back. The roads blurred together, the familiar turns taken on instinct rather than awareness. Ever since Himari’s words had settled into the room like a suffocating fog, their sense of balance had been thrown off, their routine fractured in a way none of them had anticipated.
They were not panicked. They were not arguing.
They were simply… disoriented.
Himari tapped her finger lightly against her cheek, the familiar chat window still open on her phone. Two blue ticks glowed beneath the last message she had sent. She stared at them for a long moment, unmoving, as though the answer might surface if she waited long enough.
Her other hand drifted to the dining table, fingers tapping softly, rhythmically.
“Is something wrong?” Midori asked gently, placing a plate of freshly cut fruit on the table as she studied her daughter’s distant expression.
The rich, aromatic scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the café, warm and familiar, clinging to the air as though it had seeped into the walls themselves. Dressed entirely in black—a black jacket layered over a black shirt, a black cap pulled low, black trousers, and polished black shoes—the man chose a seat in the far corner, one carefully positioned to give him a clear view of the counter, the kitchen entrance, and the bakery shelf. There were only a few customers scattered about, perhaps because it was still early, just past ten in the morning. This café was usually crowded during lunchtime and remained lively well into the night, its drinks and cakes selling out almost as soon as they appeared, coveted like rare treats.
