Akira then opened the last two letters—one from Grandma, one from the Grandpa he'd never met. The first was from Miyamura Yui.
He pulled out the slightly yellowed white paper, looked at it... and blinked.
There wasn't a single word written.
Confused, Akira turned to the old woman watching TV beside him.
"Grandma, what's this? A 'wordless heavenly book'?"
Miyamura Yui didn't quite catch what he meant by that phrase, but from the puzzled expression on his face and the blank paper in his hand, she understood enough. With a soft chuckle, she explained:
"Hehe... I didn't know what to write back then. Besides, who can predict the future?"
There was another sentence in her heart that she didn't say:
If one day I'm no longer around, and they read this letter, the pain they finally buried might come back again. What would be the point?
"What about Grandpa's?" Akira then opened the letter from the grandfather who passed away before he was born. Inside was a yellowed photo and a short piece of paper.
He examined the photo—a little boy in split pants was giving a peace sign to the camera. Akira held it up, compared it to his father's face, and asked curiously,
"Is this Dad when he was little?"
Miyamura Yui took the photo, glanced at it, then smiled.
"Daiki's grown now, so the resemblance isn't obvious. But you, Akira—you really do look a lot like him."
"They really do look alike," Shouko chimed in, comparing the photo to Akira.
Akira, however, didn't think so. But he was the only one who disagreed.
As the clock neared nine, Miyamura Yui stretched a little and began to shoo them out:
"Alright, alright. You've seen everything. It's time to go—this old woman needs her rest."
She didn't even ask if they were staying the night. She used to, but they always answered the same—"It's just a 30-minute drive, we'll head home." So eventually, she just stopped asking.
"Okay, we'll head back. Call me if you need anything," Daiki said, standing from the tatami.
"Same here, Mom," Shizuka added, stretching and yawning.
"If anything comes up, just call me. Daiki might not be able to answer during work."
"Goodbye, Grandma."
"Bye-bye, Miyamura Grandma!"
As they stood at the entrance putting on their shoes, Shizuka suddenly remembered something.
"Mom, don't eat leftovers. They're bad for your health, seriously."
"Got it, got it. Don't worry," Miyamura Yui replied casually, brushing it off.
Once the four of them got in the car, Akira suddenly paused and asked,
"Do you think Grandma might sneak out and dig up the time capsule to take a peek?"
"She's not that bored, okay?" Shizuka shot back immediately.
"Yeah, I don't think Miyamura Grandma would do that either," Shouko agreed.
"Akira, you're just overthinking."
But sure enough, after watching the car drive off, Miyamura Yui let out a long sigh. Then, without hesitation, she walked back inside, picked up a hoe, and strolled out to the vegetable patch.
Just a few strokes of the hoe later, the time capsule was unearthed.
Guilt? None. Not even a little.
Ten years from now, she might not even be around. And she was very curious about what everyone had written. She'd dig it up, have a look, and bury it back exactly where it was.
Besides—they were the ones who buried it in her vegetable plot.
"Riiiiiing!"
"Alright, that's it. Class dismissed."
Takeuchi didn't even wait for students to respond. He slammed shut his math textbook and rushed out of the classroom like it was on fire.
Akira, still seated, watched him leave with a blank face.
In his heart, he no longer considered Takeuchi a "teacher."
After spending a month in this new class, Akira had fully grasped what kind of person Takeuchi was—both in class and in everyday life.
Terrible. Just... terrible.
You couldn't really call him evil, or even trash. But as a homeroom teacher? He was rock bottom.
He put in the bare minimum effort. Didn't care whether students understood his lessons or not. Most of the time, he just went through the motions to collect his salary.
If a student raised their hand to ask something, he'd scold them for "not paying attention." In the first few days, people had still tried asking questions—but every time, Takeuchi snapped back with blame. After that, no one dared ask again.
During Japanese class, his favorite "method" was to make students take turns reading the passage aloud. By the time the last person finished, there'd be barely ten minutes left. Then he'd speed-run through the explanation in a voice faster than a race announcer.
Not even top students could keep up. As for Shouko—who had hearing difficulties—she couldn't understand a word.
Thankfully, Akira would reteach everything to her every night. Patiently. Clearly. Until she understood.
"Ishida! What did you do this time!?"
Takeuchi's voice suddenly boomed through the hall, pulling both Akira and Shouko out of their thoughts.
They turned their heads and looked out the window into the hallway.
Takeuchi had grabbed Ishida by the arm and was dragging him toward the teacher's office. Behind them was a crying Miko.
Akira didn't need to guess what had happened. Ishida had definitely made her cry again.
And as usual, Miko had reported it, and Ishida hadn't resisted—he just let himself be pulled away. He even threw a cold glare back at the crying girl.
But why didn't he care?
Because he knew Takeuchi was all talk and no bite. He'd scold Ishida just enough to say he "handled" it, then send him back.
And when the bullied student's parent showed up? Takeuchi would pretend he'd done all he could:
"I already gave him a stern lecture. If you're still not satisfied, please contact his guardian."
Then Ishida's aunt would come. She'd bow. Apologize. Always.
Akira had even once seen a furious parent try to hit Ishida's aunt in the teacher's office. Takeuchi had stepped in—not to defend her, but just to protect himself.
Ishida had felt guilty for a couple of days after that.
Then... back to normal.
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POWER STONE!!!
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