The alarm rang just as the clock hit 6 a.m.
Itsuki stretched out his hand and turned it off without moving from where he lay. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling — his eyes open but unfocused — as the faint darkness above him slowly dissolved into the first pale strokes of dawn. He stayed like that for a few quiet seconds before sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and heading to the bathroom to get ready for school.
By the time the clock reached seven, he was slipping his headphones into his bag and pulling it over his shoulder. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, his pace slowed for a brief moment, as if he was trying to remember something. Then, without a word, he continued walking.
At the counter, he picked up the lunchbox his mother had left for him.
"She must've taken an early shift again—" he muttered under his breath, staring at the bag for a moment before zipping it close. His gaze lingered on the quiet room — the still kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator — before he finally turned away and stepped outside.
The morning train was, as always, packed. He stood near the door, hands buried deep in his pockets, watching the reflections of tired faces in the glass. The air was filled with a mix of faint chatter, station announcements, and the metallic screech of the rails, and an eerie children's rhyme music that played through the speakers. Tokyo mornings always had their rhythm, but today, for some reason, it all felt slightly… off.
He couldn't explain why.
When he arrived at school and stepped into the classroom, he noticed it immediately — the empty seat beside his.
"Amane's not here yet?' he thought. "She usually gets to school early.'
He sat down, glancing briefly at the new teacher setting things up at the front of the class. Nothing seemed unusual about her, but the room itself felt wrong. Everyone was seated quietly — no noise, no laughter, no half-whispered gossip like the mornings usually had. Just silence.
"That's odd," he thought. "They're actually… calm today?"
The hours trickled by uneventfully, the strange sense of stillness refusing to fade. When lunchtime came, there was no bell. Everyone simply stood up at once and left their seats in complete order, as though they'd rehearsed it. The same thing happened at the end of the day — no chime, no sound — just a synchronized calm.
"Did the bells break or something?" he muttered as he watched the other students file out. It was eerie. But Itsuki didn't care too much. He wasn't close to anyone except Seiji, who was still on sick leave — and maybe Amane, though she was also absent.
"If only they were this calm every other day," he said with a small sigh, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he left.
The train ride home passed quietly, and when he stepped into his house, he let everything else fall away. Whatever weirdness had happened at school didn't matter anymore — tomorrow was the weekend.
He dropped his bag, went straight to his bed, and lay back with a long exhale. Grabbing his phone, he scrolled lazily through the news, random posts, and trending videos.
The screen's glow flickered across his face for a few minutes, then dimmed as his eyes grew heavier. Soon, the phone slipped from his hand, and the quiet hum of the house faded into silence.
*****
The alarm rang just as the clock hit 6 a.m.
Itsuki stretched out his hand and turned it off without moving from where he lay. He had gotten the dream again which made him wake up sometime around 5am, causing to stay up since then. For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling — blankly, quietly — as the faint darkness above him thinned beneath the light of dawn. It was the same quiet morning as always?
He stayed that way for a while before finally sitting up, rubbing the side of his face, and heading for the bathroom to get ready for school.
By the time the clock reached seven, he was slipping his headphones into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. As he descended the stairs, his steps slowed for a brief moment, as if trying to recall something that was on the tip of his mind — something he'd already done, perhaps. Then he blinked, brushed it off, and kept walking.
At the counter, he picked up the lunchbox his mother had left for him.
Outside, the chill of the morning breeze greeted him. He walked the same path, crossed the same intersection, waited on the same yellow line at the station he normally did. The train doors opened with a hiss, and he stepped in, standing near the door, his hands in his pockets. Around him, tired faces stared all round, swaying with the motion of the train.
Tokyo mornings always carried a kind of rhythm — a rush of life hiding under fatigue — but today, something about it felt different.
He frowned slightly. "Didn't I already hear this song play?' he thought, glancing at the station's speakers. Then he shook his head. "Probably just déjà vu.' as the children music sounded through the speakers and echoed through the train.
When he arrived at school and walked through the gate, he slowed again. The weather somehow felt the same — the cloudy brightness, the passing breeze, the two girls who were talking by the vending machine, one laughing after the other said something he couldn't hear.
He hesitated for a moment. "Strange…" he whispered, before forcing his legs to move forward.
Stepping into the classroom, he immediately noticed the empty seat beside his.
"Amane's not here yet?" he thought. "She usually gets to school early."
He stopped for a moment. Hadn't he said that before? He wasn't sure.
He sat down, resting his chin on his hand as the new teacher at the front adjusted a pile of books and chalk. The room was silent — unnaturally so. Everyone was already seated, their attention fixed forward. No chatter. No greetings. Everyone was just silent.
"That's odd," he thought. "They're actually calm today."
But he remembered thinking that once already — or maybe he only felt like he had.
The morning dragged on, his sense of unease growing with each passing minute. Something about the day was wrong, but he couldn't figure out why. Each class felt like an echo of something he'd already done — the same voice, the same answers, the same page turned over at the same time.
He rubbed his temples, telling himself he was just tired.
The hours melted away as teachers came and left, and before he realized it, the classroom was filled with the sound of chairs sliding back. No bell. No announcement. Every student stood up at the exact same time, gathering their things in perfect silence.
Itsuki sat frozen, eyes darting between them.
"What's… going on?' he thought to himself.
The students filed out in perfect order — one after another, expressionless, moving as though pulled by invisible strings. The teacher didn't say a word. No one did.
A cold shiver ran down Itsuki's back as the last of them stepped out. He sat there, alone in the quiet room, the ticking clock above the board marking each second like a pulse.
And in that moment, he finally realized what he had somehow simply ignored all this while — something about the day wasn't right.