The day had come. Dawn rose over the horizon, casting warmth and gentle light into Mary's room.
She stood in front of her mirror, still in her pajamas, staring at her own reflection. Her heart pounded more loudly than usual.
Today was different. Today wasn't for training, nor for studying, nor for proving herself. Today was for… hanging out?
It was the first time in her life she would step outside not to chase perfection—but to have fun.
Mary paced toward her closet, a place she rarely ever touched. Her daily life had required only two sets of clothing: her school uniform and her tracksuit. Nothing more.
The rest of her clothes lay untouched, gathering dust, almost like they belonged to a stranger.
Her hand hesitated on the handle. But then she took a breath and flung it open.
*Swoosh*
*Poof*
Dust burst from inside out after all the years of gathering, untouched, uncleaned.
Mary immediately coughed. Only after a few swings of her hands, her eyes reverted.
Inside, there was little that resembled a girl her age.
Most of it was old, worn-out tracksuits she had long discarded. But then, tucked in the back, she spotted something else. Something she hadn't seen in years.
Her hand trembled as she pulled it out: a small dress, soft and silky, the one her mother had given her long ago.
The softness, the smell. It reminded her of someone she used to know.
Her fingers glided over the fabric, and before she realized it, her vision blurred.
Tears piled before her eyes, not because of sadness, not quite.
But because her heart ached—an ache she long forgotten, some piece of her life that had been stolen, and this fabric was the key to remembering it.
This was the dress she had worn when her mother used to take her outside.
A dress for laughter, fun, and carelessness. For moments that weren't about being perfect, but about simply being Mary.
After realizing she was tearing up, she quickly wiped her eyes, breathing deeply, and held the dress up. Slowly, carefully, she slipped it on.
Before the mirror, she swayed on the spot. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt right again.
But then the truth struck. The hemline was far too short for her legs. The fabric stuck uncomfortably at her waist, squeezing too tightly.
The years had changed her body, but not the dress.
Her lips parted in a sigh. She stood there a moment longer, clutching at the fabric as if reluctant to let go. But finally, she took it off and hung it back in the closet.
"...Of course," she muttered under her breath.
All that remained was her tracksuit. Plain, simple, unremarkable—just like every other day of her life. Perhaps that was all she deserved.
Still, she tarried at the mirror, her hands balling into fists.
Was this really how she wanted to show up for her first time out with someone?
Without a choice, she uttered with a sigh, "Nevermind, this will do!"
Then, eagerly, Mary paced to her door, clutching her worn truffle bag. It wasn't much—mainly an excuse to mask any suspicion from her father, and second, she simply didn't own a handbag.
No matter. For the first time, she was eager to leave her house, eager for something that wasn't training or school.
Her steps carried her down the stairs faster than usual, the wooden steps creaking under her rushed pace.
But that eagerness betrayed her...
Her father, who had been slouched on the couch watching yet another race, perked his head at the unusual sound.
"What's the hurry? Where are you going?" He questioned, voice low.
Mary froze mid-step, her fingers gripping the bag. She didn't look at him; she couldn't.
Her heart banged against her ribs as her father rose from the couch and walked toward her, slow and deliberate.
"Where are you going?" he repeated, his suspicion clearly shown.
Mary stammered, "Tra… training…" The lie left her lips fragile, almost breaking apart before it fully formed. Probably because she never did, including her 'dear' father.
Her father's gaze stayed on her, piercing, studying her face, her posture, her trembling hands. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted into something feigned—gentleness. His hand came down on her head, patting it.
"Good girl. There's breakfast in the kitchen. Take it with you."
Mary's lips quivered before she forced herself to answer. "It's okay… I'm not hungry."
"I see."
With one last glare, he turned back toward the couch, collapsing into his seat, his eyes once again fixed on the broadcast.
Meanwhile, Mary didn't move until she was certain he was comfortable again.
Only then did she slowly turn the doorknob. Putting on her shoes. And the moment the gap opened wide enough, she darted out of the house, her steps frantic, almost desperate. She wasn't just leaving—she was escaping.
She was free!
But unbeknownst to her, behind her, hidden in the dim curtain gap, her father's eye followed her. He knew. Her lie had been too brittle, her body too restless, her eagerness too obvious.
Something was up, and he couldn't prove it yet. And he intended to find out.
...
...
...
On the opposite side of the district, another household prepared for the day with a completely different energy.
Urara twirled before her mirror, clad in her brand-new outfit: light blue denim overalls with a yellow pocket, cinched at the waist with a bright ribbon.
Beneath it, her pink collared shirt peeked out, topped with a tiny bow tied neatly at her neckline.
It was her iconic casual.
Her reflection alone was enough to ignite her. She swayed left, then right, her tail wagging so furiously it was a blur.
"Whoa! I love it!" she cheered, her voice spilling into the house with boundless joy.
Her father, kneeling with his phone, clicked away like a paparazzo. "Look here, Urara! Look here!"
Urara then posed with peace signs, then spun around dramatically, laughing.
Meanwhile, her mother sat at the table, sipping her tea with a faint smile. For her, this scene was familiar: the endless antics of her daughter, the tireless enthusiasm of her husband. Yet even in its familiarity, it warmed her.
While the family was engaged in a morning buffoonery.
Suddenly, a round of bells rang, snapping through the modest house. The cheerful atmosphere froze, replaced with the anticipation of an unexpected guest.
Her mother tilted her head, exchanged a glance with Urara and her husband, then called out, "Coming!" She strode to the door, unhurried yet curious.
When the wooden frame creaked open, it, of course, welcomed a small, composed figure—Mary.
She bowed politely, her voice formal, steady as usual.
"Good morning, Urara's mother. I'm here to pick up Urara."
Urara's mother blinked, caught between surprise and bemusement.
Her eyes swept up and down the girl before her, then remained on the unmistakable sight: Mary, dressed as if she were about to run drills rather than go out with a friend.
"Good morning, Mary…" she murmured, her brow arched in confusion. "What's with the getup? I thought you were going to hang out with Urara."
"Yes. I am here to pick her up for the hangout," Mary answered plainly.
Urara's mother sighed in disbelief, eyes trailing over the tracksuit and the truffle bag clutched at Mary's side.
The impression was clear: this wasn't a girl on her way to enjoy a Saturday. She looked like she was here to drag Urara into training instead.
"Mary," her mother said, "you should've dressed more casually for the occasion."
Mary's gaze stuttered as she glanced down at her outfit. She was right.
Her lips pressed together before she quietly replied, "Sorry, Madam. I only have my tracksuit at my disposal."
For a moment, Urara's mother stood there, speechless.
Something tugged at her heart as she absorbed those words. A girl like Mary at her age didn't even own a single dress or casual outfit?
She was clearly not poor, not because she lacked taste, but most likely because her life had never been given a chance for something as simple as choice. Something she should've done at her age.
Meanwhile, Urara, even with their 'modest' finances, always had at least one or two bright outfits. But Mary? All she had were uniforms and tracksuits, as if her childhood had never existed.
As Urara's mother still gawking at the jittery Mary, a memory flickered in her mind—an old outfit Urara had outgrown, one she'd barely worn since her new set arrived.
Maybe… maybe she could give it to Mary. A token of thanks for helping Urara improve her grades. Or perhaps, a way to give the girl something she so clearly never had.
"Anyway, Mary, come in," Urara's mother said suddenly, stepping aside and gesturing toward the interior.
Mary startled, her composure cracking for a split second. "It's… alright. I can wait out here," she stammered, her feet anchored to the porch. "I'm not sure it would be wise… for me—"
Before she could finish, Urara's mother rolled her eyes, sighed, then placed her hand firmly on Mary's back and nudged her forward.
"Just come in!" she declared with a smile, though her strength left no room for refusal.
Mary stiffened, her cheeks coloring as she was ushered into the house despite her resistance. Her bag pressed awkwardly to her chest, her steps stiff, her movements clumsy.
From deeper inside, Urara's delighted voice erupted like fireworks. "Mary-chan! You're here!"
Her yell cut through the chaos, so bright and jubilant it almost masked Mary's flushed discomfort. Almost.
But outside, far from the warmth of the house, a shadow lingered. Concealed just beyond the vantage point of the doorway, a figure stood still.
His presence was quiet, deliberate, his silhouette blending seamlessly with the scenery, but his gaze was locked firmly on them—on Mary.
It wasn't the gaze of a passerby. It was the unblinking, watchful eye of someone who was following.