The sky was turning a pale violet by the time Seiji reached home. He slid the wooden door open, the faint scent of simmering broth greeting him as warmth seeped from the kitchen.
Ayane was still bustling, her apron once again tied around her waist, though this time strands of loose hair fell against her cheeks. She smiled at him over her shoulder.
"You're just in time. Wash up, dinner will be ready soon."
Seiji nodded, slipping his shoes neatly to the side before heading to the washroom. As he splashed cool water across his face, he caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror. His features were plain, unremarkable. Yet in the curve of his eyes there lingered a certain light, something that seemed stubbornly unwilling to fade, no matter the shadows around it.
When he returned, his father was already at the table again, newspaper folded away this time, his quiet presence filling the space.
"How was Mrs. Kanda?" Haruto asked.
Seiji sat down, setting his bag aside. "She's fine. She said something, though… something I can't quite get out of my head."
Ayane looked up with curiosity as she placed bowls of rice before them. "What did she say?"
"That I shouldn't let the world strip away my heart." Seiji's tone carried no drama, but the words hung in the air with a weight of their own.
Haruto tapped his chopsticks together thoughtfully before answering. "Old people see things clearer than we think. They've lived through the worst of storms. Maybe she sees something in you."
Seiji gave a small smile but let the matter drop. He didn't feel like someone extraordinary. Just… someone trying to do the small things right.
The dinner passed quietly. Laughter at Ayane's gentle teasing, a grunt from Haruto when Seiji brought up his classmate's antics, the soft rhythm of chopsticks and bowls. It was not excitement, but steadiness. A home that felt unshaken by the world beyond.
Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and the house began to quiet, Seiji retreated once more to his room. The cicadas were louder tonight, their voices weaving with the soft hum of the summer wind. He sat cross-legged at his desk, notebook open once again, ink brush poised above the page.
Tonight's thoughts were scattered. He wrote half-formed lines:
What does it mean to live well?
Do the small things matter if the world forgets them?
A man is not great because of strength, but because of the way he carries the weak.
The brushstrokes bled slightly against the paper, but Seiji didn't mind. His words weren't meant for anyone else. They were his way of trying to give shape to the feelings inside him.
A faint knock broke his focus.
"Seiji?" His mother's voice, soft beyond the paper door.
"Yes?"
There was a pause, then: "Don't stay up too late. You have class tomorrow."
"I know," he replied. "Good night."
"Good night, dear."
Her footsteps faded, and silence reclaimed the hall.
Seiji set his brush down and leaned back, gazing once more at the night sky beyond his window. A thin crescent moon hung low, framed by shifting clouds. For reasons he couldn't explain, a strange ache pressed against his chest. as if this quiet, ordinary world might slip through his fingers one day.
He shook the thought away. It was just the weight of a long day. Nothing more.
Closing the notebook, he lay down on his futon, the fabric cool against his skin. The sound of the cicadas lulled him, the warmth of his family still lingering in his mind.
The night pressed in heavier than usual. Seiji sat at his desk, the glow of his monitor dimmed to near black, his reflection faintly staring back at him. His textbooks lay untouched, the neat stack turning into nothing more than a barricade between him and reality. The faint hum of the ceiling fan filled the silence, rhythmic yet unsettling, as though each rotation carried a warning he couldn't understand.
He tapped his pen against the desk, over and over. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound felt louder than it should have been, echoing in the confines of his room. His parents' voices drifted faintly through the walls, muffled laughter, the clatter of plates, the ordinary kind of warmth that should have comforted him. But instead, it gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the crawling sensation that everything he knew, everything he leaned on, was about to fracture.
Seiji shifted in his chair, restless. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed thicker, clinging to the edges of his vision. He rubbed his eyes, muttering, "It's just… lack of sleep. Yeah."
But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
The phone on his desk buzzed once an old class group chat lighting up with another useless notification. He ignored it. His friends had been reaching out less lately anyway. And he hadn't replied in weeks. Each message felt like a bridge he didn't have the energy to cross.
Instead, he opened the drawer to his right. Inside, the folded note he'd found earlier that week stared back at him. The paper wasn't ordinary. It had a faint shimmer to it, catching the dim light in a way that no notebook paper ever should. He hadn't told anyone about it. Not his parents, not his friends. Something about it felt… personal. Almost like it was waiting for him alone.
He picked it up carefully, fingertips brushing the smooth surface. Even after days, the words scrawled across it hadn't faded:
"When the world calls, will you answer?"
He swallowed hard. The handwriting was elegant, almost archaic, as though penned centuries ago. And yet, it had appeared in his bag without explanation. He had laughed it off at first, convincing himself some classmate was messing around. But tonight, under the heavy silence, it didn't feel like a joke anymore.
The window rattled slightly against the wind. Seiji stood, walking over to shut it, only to pause. The neighborhood outside looked unchanged quiet streets, dim streetlights, the faint bark of a dog two houses down. But there was something wrong in the air. The usual comfort of familiarity was gone. Instead, the scene felt staged, like a painted backdrop just waiting to peel away.
He pulled the curtains shut quickly.
"Stop overthinking.." he whispered, though his pulse was betraying him, racing faster with each second.
He returned to his desk, staring again at the note. The shimmering letters seemed sharper now, their glow faint but undeniable. He set it down flat, pressing his palm against it. The paper felt warm. Too warm.
His desk lamp flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied.
Seiji froze.
The shadows in the room seemed to shift with the light, stretching unnaturally, writhing as though alive. He stumbled back a step, knocking his chair against the wall. The ceiling fan hummed louder, its blades spinning faster without him adjusting the speed. The air grew thick, heavy, and his ears buzzed with static.
The laughter from his parents downstairs cut off abruptly.
Seiji's chest tightened. He strained to listen, but silence swallowed everything. Not even the clatter of dishes remained.
"…Mom? Dad?" His voice cracked. No answer.
He took one step toward the door, then froze again when the note on his desk began to glow. Faint at first, then pulsing, like a heartbeat. The letters bled into the page, forming new lines beneath the original question:
"Your night is not your own."
His breath hitched. Panic clawed at him, but his body wouldn't move. His eyes were locked on the words, even as they shifted again, letters rearranging into something else entirely.
"The spark is watching."
The lamp flickered violently, plunging the room into brief bursts of light and shadow. Each time the bulb lit, the note seemed closer to the edge of the desk, inching toward him.
Seiji stumbled back again, pressing himself against the wall. His hands shook as he muttered, "It's just… I'm tired. That's all. This isn't real. It's not real…"
But the note didn't stop glowing. The pulsing rhythm synced with his racing heartbeat until he couldn't tell if it was his chest pounding or the paper itself alive in front of him.
The silence in the house was suffocating now. No laughter, no footsteps, nothing. Just him and the growing hum of something unseen.
The night outside felt darker. The air heavier. And somewhere, beyond the curtains, he swore he heard a whisper faint, almost like a chant carried on the wind.
Seiji gripped the edge of his desk, forcing himself to stand straighter, though his legs trembled. His eyes locked onto the shimmering words one last time.
"When the world calls, will youanswer?"
This time, the question didn't look like an invitation. It looked like a threat.
And Seiji, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, knew his life would never be the same after tonight.