Rikka High School, disappear.
Today, while conducting a listening exercise with Class 2-A, our school was suddenly bombarded by what can only be described as an explosive sound. At first, I thought something had malfunctioned inside our classroom.
I was wrong.
Shuuji had always believed that providing was enough.
Work had demanded his time, his attention, his energy, and he had told himself—more than once—that this was what being a father meant. He worked so his family would never lack anything. He worked so the house could remain standing, so their lives could continue without fear.
Somewhere along the way, he had mistaken presence for responsibility.
The Fujita family returned to their residence with a resolve that felt almost fragile in its intensity, each of them carrying a quiet determination to mend what had been broken with Yuma. They did not know how difficult the path ahead would be, nor how long it would take, but one thing was clear to all of them now: the first step mattered more than anything else, and it had to be the right one—just as Himari had said.
The day Yuma returned home, they greeted him without ceremony, without forced warmth or exaggerated concern, simply telling him welcome home as though trying not to disturb the delicate balance between them.
Yuma responded with a nod.
Nothing more.
Rikka High School. How I wish that institution would simply disappear from the face of the Earth.
Today, while teaching Class 2-A, a series of alarms began blaring from the direction of the neighbouring school. At first, I assumed it was merely their class bell—an irritation, but a tolerable one. I was wrong.
It was the fire alarm.
The dinner passed uneventfully, marked by quiet conversation and the soft sounds of cutlery against porcelain. Sasaki and Midori had cooked far too many side dishes, the result of the four children enthusiastically harvesting tomatoes, potatoes, and lettuce from the garden. Himari carefully avoided every dish that contained tomatoes. After eating and resting for about forty-five minutes, everyone gathered once more in the living room. Himari was the last to arrive.
During the time she had spent alone in her room, she had finally noticed something—something subtle, yet crucial—about the messages she had sent to Yuma.
Himari let out a heavy sigh after hearing their full story. It was worse than she had imagined. The embarrassment on their faces was unmistakable—having to seek help from a stranger to mend something they themselves had broken, exposing a side of them they likely wished had never come to light.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Himari suggested after a moment. “We can talk more after we’ve eaten. This is a heavy topic—let’s take a short break first.”
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.
