The walk to Meisei Magic Academy on Wednesday morning was, as I'd anticipated, an exercise in controlled terror. Each familiar landmark – the corner bakery with its scent of sweet bread that I could usually almost feel in the air, the park where younger children played, their high-pitched calls visible in their open mouths and joyful movements – now seemed like a station on a path to execution. My own footsteps on the pavement were too loud in my awareness, each one a reluctant beat dragging me closer. I clutched the straps of my school bag, Haru's returned notebooks a heavy, reassuring weight inside, a stark contrast to the hollow fear clawing at my insides.
The school gates loomed, a monstrous maw ready to swallow me whole. I paused, my breath catching, a wave of nausea threatening to send me fleeing back the way I came. One step. Just one step at a time. The mantra from yesterday. It was all I had.
Inside, the corridors were a kaleidoscope of motion and muted sound that vibrated through the polished floors. Students hurried past, a river of unfamiliar and too-familiar faces. Every peripheral movement, every burst of laughter, every glance that lingered a second too long, sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. My gaze was a frantic, scanning thing, searching for orange pigtails, for a sneering smile, for Rika's disdainful eyes. The fear of Emi was a cold, coiling serpent in my stomach.
My locker felt miles away. When I finally reached it, my fingers fumbled with the combination, clumsy and slick with sweat. I half-expected a hand to slam it shut, a mocking voice to hiss in my ear. But nothing happened. Just the ordinary, impersonal chaos of a school morning unfolding around my tightly wound bubble of anxiety.
Homeroom with Ms. Sato was the first major hurdle. I slipped into my seat by the window just as the bell chimed, my head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone. I could feel the subtle shift in the classroom atmosphere, the almost imperceptible turning of heads, the brief, curious silences. I was the returned ghost, the subject of hushed whispers I couldn't hear but could acutely sense. Ms. Sato's gaze met mine as she took attendance, her expression soft with a gentle concern that didn't pry. She simply marked me present and moved on, a small act of normalcy for which I was profoundly grateful.
I risked a tiny glance towards Emi's usual seat. She was there, whispering animatedly with Rika, occasionally casting a sly, knowing look around the room. When her eyes flicked towards me, a cold, reptilian smile touched her lips before she turned away, feigning indifference. It wasn't a direct confrontation, but it was a promise. A threat hanging in the air. I see you. I haven't forgotten. The serpent in my stomach tightened its coils.
The morning lessons passed in a blur of heightened awareness and forced concentration. I kept my notebook – my new notebook, the one I'd reluctantly started last night for classwork – open, pen poised, trying to appear engaged, normal. But every nerve ending was on high alert. I was terrified of being called on, terrified of drawing attention, terrified of that moment when Emi would decide to make her move.
Then came the period designated for festival group work. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. Facing Haru, Aya, and Kenji after my two-day absence, after Haru had seen me at my absolute worst, after he had come to my home.
I walked towards their usual cluster of desks by the window, each step an act of supreme will. They were already there. Aya looked up first, her face breaking into a wide, genuinely relieved smile. "Minami! You're back!" she exclaimed, her voice warm. She quickly signed a hesitant, slightly clumsy, 'Welcome back,' a gesture so unexpected and kind it almost brought tears to my eyes. She must have been practicing.
Kenji glanced up from his book, offered a curt nod, and then, to my surprise, added, "Good. We were concerned about the spirit-warding diagrams. Your input on the flow is… necessary." High praise, coming from him.
And Haru. He looked up as I approached, his blue eyes meeting mine. There was no pity in his gaze, no awkwardness, just that same quiet, steady observation I was coming to recognize. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in what might have been the ghost of a smile. The tension in my shoulders eased by a fraction. He wasn't going to mention the park. He wasn't going to treat me like a broken doll.
I sat down, my hands trembling slightly as I pulled out the festival notebook Haru had returned to me, opening it to the page with Aya's notes and the question directed at me: "Minami – any more thoughts on how the 'flow' initiates?"
The silence stretched for a moment, expectant. All three of them were looking at me, waiting. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was different now, mingled with a strange, hesitant sense of… responsibility? They were waiting for my input. My scribbles.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up my pencil. My mind went back to the feeling of that arcing line, the idea of energy emanating from within, of protective JSL signs carving shapes in the air. I couldn't explain it in words, not fully. And I was still terrified of any overt gesture that might trigger that frightening internal warmth, that strange external shimmer.
So, I drew.
Next to my original arcing line, I began to sketch a series of smaller, connected curves, almost like a visual representation of a deep breath being drawn in, then an outward expansion. I drew arrows to indicate the direction of movement, the sense of something gathering, then being projected. I added a small, central point – like the circle Haru had drawn – and then showed the lines energiiing from it, not aggressively, but with a sense of controlled, purposeful grace. I tried to convey the idea of intention, of focused will shaping these flowing forms.
When I finally paused, my hand aching slightly from the unaccustomed effort and the tension gripping my body, I risked a glance at them.
Aya was leaning forward, her eyes bright with interest. "So, it's like… gathering something from a central point, and then… releasing it, shaping it?" she asked, her own pencil already starting to translate my abstract flows into more concrete design elements on her own pad.
Kenji hummed thoughtfully. "A focal point of intent. Yes, that resonates. Many incantations or ritual preparations involve a similar gathering of personal energy or will before the main working."
Haru was looking at my drawing, then at my hand still resting on the page, then back at the drawing. He picked up his pencil and, beside my new sketch, he very lightly drew a simplified outline of a hand, fingers slightly curled as if holding something intangible, then a soft, outward motion. It was a subtle echo of a JSL gesture for 'giving' or 'projecting,' but deconstructed, analytical. He looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. Like this?
A jolt, not of fear this time, but of pure, unadulterated shock, went through me. He saw. He truly saw the language beneath my lines, even when I was too afraid to speak it fully.
I stared at his small sketch, then back at him, my throat tight with an emotion I couldn't name. I nodded, slowly, a single, profound affirmation.
A tiny smile, genuine and surprisingly warm, touched Haru's lips. "Okay," he said softly. "I think I understand the initiation now."
The bell for the end of the period rang, making me jump. I'd been so absorbed, I hadn't even noticed the time passing. We had survived. I had survived. The first group meeting back. It hadn't been a disaster. It had been… almost good.
As we packed up, Aya gave my arm a light, encouraging squeeze. Kenji even offered another, "Productive session."
Walking out of the classroom, the oppressive weight of the school corridors felt infinitesimally lighter. The fear hadn't vanished, the serpent in my stomach hadn't magically disappeared. Emi and Rika were still out there, a lurking threat. But as I glanced back, Haru was looking my way. He offered another of those small, almost imperceptible nods, a silent acknowledgment that passed between us.
And for the first time since stepping through those school gates that morning, I felt a tiny, fragile seed of something other than pure dread. A hesitant whisper of… maybe. Just maybe.