The hallway was quiet except for the sounds coming from inside the classroom — laughter, talking, and the scraping of chairs.
Akira stood outside the door, his hand resting on the cold metal gate. His heart beat fast as he listened to the cheerful voices from the other side.
For a few seconds, he didn't move.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
He could already imagine what would happen the moment he opened that door — the silence, the stares, the hatred. It happened every day now, and still, he came to school.
He whispered to himself, "Just another day."
Then, slowly, he opened the classroom door.
The noise stopped at once.
The laughter, the talking — all gone. The only sound left was the soft creak of the door.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him.
The same cold eyes that followed him every day.
Akira stood at the doorway for a moment. His face didn't show much emotion, but deep inside, he could feel the familiar sting of their gazes.
Without saying anything, he walked to his seat — the one near the window, at the edge of the class, away from everyone.
The desks around his were always empty. No one wanted to sit near him.
He sat down quietly, pulled out his notebook, and turned toward the window. The morning sunlight touched his face, lighting up the scar that ran across his forehead — a thick, pale line that never faded.
Outside, cherry blossom petals floated in the breeze, spinning gently through the air.
He stared at them, pretending not to notice the eyes that still glared at him from every direction.
He was used to it now.
---
A few minutes later, the teacher entered the class. The silence broke for a moment as everyone turned their eyes forward.
"Alright, everyone, settle down," she said, placing her books on the desk. "Let's begin the lesson."
The room filled again with the soft sounds of pens, turning pages, and the teacher's calm voice.
Akira looked at his textbook but didn't really see it. His thoughts drifted away — back to how it all started.
---
When he first joined this school a few months ago, things were so different.
At first, people were unsure of him. He looked a bit older than the other students — his face sharper, his expression quiet, and that scar on his forehead made him look unapproachable.
He had expected people to avoid him. And they did. For the first few weeks, no one talked to him. They whispered, stared, and stayed away.
But slowly, things changed.
People realized Akira wasn't scary. He was polite, calm, and never got angry. He always helped when someone dropped their books, and he never said anything rude.
Little by little, people started talking to him. They smiled. Some boys invited him to play basketball. For the first time in years, he began to feel like maybe — just maybe — he could live normally again.
And then, there was Mira.
Mira was cheerful and kind. She was the first one to walk up to him without hesitation.
"Hey, you're always so quiet," she had said one day, smiling brightly. "Do you even know how to smile?"
He had blinked, surprised, and gave a small, awkward smile.
"There," she laughed, "see? You can do it."
She talked to him often after that — about school, about friends, about nothing and everything. Her laughter made the world around him a little less dark.
Akira liked those days.
He didn't say it out loud, but he was happy.
He thought his past had finally stopped following him.
Until that morning.
---
It was a normal school day when everything changed.
Akira walked through the gate like always, with his bag over his shoulder. The air felt different — heavier somehow.
When he passed by groups of students, they stopped talking. Some stared, others whispered.
He didn't understand why.
When he entered the classroom, all eyes turned to him. Mira was standing near the teacher's desk. Her hands were trembling, and her face looked pale.
"Mira?" he said softly, walking closer.
Before he could say anything else — slap!
The sound echoed through the whole room.
He froze. His cheek stung. His eyes widened.
"Why…?" he whispered.
She didn't answer at first. Then, with shaking hands, she showed him her phone.
On the screen was a news article — one that made Akira's breath stop.
> "Akira Sato — a boy who killed his father — released from juvenile center last year."
The world around him went quiet.
He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
Whispers filled the air.
"It's true?"
"He killed his own father?"
"That's why he looks so weird…"
Mira's eyes filled with tears. "Why didn't you tell me, Akira?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
What could he say? That he didn't want to kill his father? That it happened because of something he couldn't control?
He knew it wouldn't matter. No one would believe him.
That day, everything broke.
The classmates who once smiled at him stopped talking. The friends who laughed with him now looked away. Even the teachers spoke to him in polite, careful tones, as if he might explode at any moment.
And Mira — she couldn't even look at him anymore.
---
Now, months later, this was his life.
He came to school every morning. He sat in the same seat. He listened to the same whispers, saw the same hateful eyes.
But he still came.
Every day.
He didn't run away.
He knew he couldn't escape what he had done — or what people thought of him. He had made a promise to himself when he left juvenile: I'll live with it. I won't hide.
Sometimes, during lessons, his mind would drift back to that night — the shouting, the fear, the moment everything went wrong. He would feel his chest tighten, and he'd stare out the window until the feeling passed.
He wasn't proud of what he did. He would carry that guilt forever. But deep inside, he knew there was a reason — a reason no one cared to understand.
---
"Akira, please pay attention," the teacher's voice called suddenly.
He blinked and looked up. "Sorry," he said quietly.
A few students laughed under their breath. One of them whispered, loud enough for him to hear, "Murderer."
Akira didn't react. He just looked back out the window.
The sunlight hit the petals of the cherry blossoms outside. They looked light and free, dancing on the wind.
He wished he could be like that — just a petal, carried away, without a name, without a past.
But no. His name had already become something else — something cursed.
He turned his gaze back to his notebook and tried to focus on the lesson, even though the words blurred on the page.
He had gotten used to this — to being hated, ignored, judged. But that didn't mean it stopped hurting.
He just learned how to keep the pain quiet.
---
When the bell rang, the class filled with noise again.
Everyone rushed out quickly, chatting and laughing as if the silence during class had never happened.
Akira stayed behind, waiting for the room to empty.
When the last student left, he finally stood up, picked up his bag, and looked outside the window one more time.
The wind touched his hair softly. The scar on his forehead tingled a little under the sunlight.
He whispered to himself, "Another day done."
Then he walked out of the classroom — alone, as always.
End of Chapter 1