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( Five homes. One quiet spring day before school begins.)
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Shibaditya — Hoshino House, Morning
The first sound is a spatula tapping a pan like a metronome. Ai hums as if the kitchen is a stage, apron flaring like a costume whenever she spins to reach the butter. Ruby leans her chin on the table and stares at me with the intensity of a prosecutor.
"Onii-chan," Ruby says, "tomorrow you will not leave the house without breakfast, a water bottle, courage, and my blessing."
"I can manage three of those," I say.
"Which three?" Ai asks, sliding pancakes onto my plate in a perfect stack. She kisses my forehead without warning. "Say 'courage.'"
"Courage," I repeat, and it sounds almost true.
The window is cracked open; the air smells like wet stone and the sweet, distant green of new leaves. Somewhere, a delivery bike rattles past. It feels like a day designed to be gentle.
Ruby nudges a small notebook across the table. On the first page, she's written: Rules for Onii-chan: Smile. Breathe. Text me at lunch. Don't forget you're cool.
"I thought I was calm," I say.
"You're both," Ai answers. "Calm when you think, cool when you walk, and extremely flustered when hugged."
She demonstrates. Ruby cheers. I surrender.
When we settle, the room softens into clinks and quiet talk. Ai asks if my blazer fits; Ruby insists on ironing it "for luck," even though Ai already did. The two of them orbit me with ridiculous, inconvenient love.
"New class," Ai says, pouring tea. "New year. Any plans?"
"Be helpful," I say. "Not loud. Listen more."
"Boring," Ruby declares, then softens. "Perfect."
I finish eating and stand at the doorway to watch them a second longer: Ai rinsing a bowl, Ruby humming with the iron, sunlight catching dust in the air like confetti paused mid-flight. The feeling I have is simple and too large for words: a life that keeps choosing me back.
"Evening practice?" Ai asks. "Try your uniform one last time."
"Mm," I say.
Ruby points at the door. "Adventure awaits," she intones grandly.
"Today is laundry," Ai says. "Tomorrow is adventure."
I step out into the hallway, blazer over my arm, and promise myself I'll remember this exact morning the next time the world feels too fast. It's ridiculous how much steadiness can be stored in pancakes and sisterly nagging.
Tomorrow, the bell rings.
Today, the house is enough.
---
Arko — Watabe–Suou House, Late Morning
If I breathe like nothing's happening, nothing will happen. This is my theory as I butter toast with the casual precision of someone not thinking about a new class, new names, or the rumor of transfer students that my brain refuses to care about.
"Tea," Saki-nee says, placing a cup by my elbow. She moves like calm water—never hurrying, never wasted motion. "Eat while it's hot."
"I am," I say, as if that helps.
A chair scrapes. Yuki sits opposite me with a book she isn't reading. She watches the steam from my cup and pretends she's studying thermodynamics.
"You're restless," she says.
"I'm seated."
"Restless in the mind," Saki-nee clarifies, amused.
I consider objecting, decide against it, and eat. The toast is perfectly crisp. The kitchen is perfectly quiet. Yuki's foot taps once, and the entire room registers it like a metronome.
"I'll walk with you tomorrow," she says. It isn't a question.
"You have your school," I remind her.
"I also have legs."
Saki-nee hides a smile behind her cup. "Coincidence is a powerful concept for little sisters."
"It's not coincidence," Yuki says. "It's logistics."
"Stalking," I say, purely to watch her ears turn pink.
They don't. She has better control than that. "You'll meet new people," she says softly, eyes on me now. "Be kind."
The word hangs. I swallow it with tea. Kindness is easy until it isn't; teasing is easier. I don't say that. I unwrap a small candy Yuki slides over without comment. She pretends not to notice me pocket it like a talisman.
Saki-nee smooths the sleeve of my blazer as I stand. Her fingers pause at the seam, a private ritual from when I was shorter and braver because I didn't know to be otherwise.
"Don't outrun yourself," she says. "Walk."
I nod. Outside the window, a petal floats past, early and foolish. Inside, Yuki marks her page and closes the book.
"You'll be late," she says.
"It's Sunday."
"You'll be late to thinking."
I laugh, betray myself by smiling, and escape before they can point it out.
---
Sagnik — Shirakawa–Ogiwara House, Noon
Order: toast, two minutes; coffee, three; planner check, five; spiral thoughts, indefinite.
Chitose has commandeered the counter and is composing what she calls a "functional bento" while stealing every third piece of tamagoyaki she cooks. She hums a victory tune after each theft.
"You're hovering," she says without looking up.
"I'm standing."
"You're hovering in soul."
Sayu peeks around the doorway. "Can I… sit here?"
"It's your chair," I say.
She sits with careful gravity, sleeves covering half her hands. "New year," she murmurs, eyes bright in that way that looks like worry but is really energy looking for a job. "New notebooks?"
"Lined," I say. "Tabs. Color-coded."
"Of course," Chitose says, fond and merciless. "New class?"
"Same building."
"New people?"
"Statistically, yes."
Chitose slides the bento lid shut with a flourish. "Then here's my advice: breathe, smile, and say one thing you don't rehearse."
"That's two things," I say.
"Free bonus."
Sayu nudges a pen toward me—the one with a tiny gold star taped to the clip. "For tomorrow," she says. "So you don't forget to write something you felt, not just something you did."
I look at the pen like it's heavier than it is. My sisters have a talent for making a person admit he's a person. It's alarming.
"Thank you," I say. It sounds like the kind of thank you that means more than one thing.
Chitose leans her elbows on the counter. "And try to be at least a little late to your first overthinking session. We're having lunch."
I do as commanded. The three of us eat bentos meant for tomorrow because apparently the present is worth celebrating too. When we're done, I clean the counter until it shines like a plan.
Tomorrow is a puzzle I want to solve. Today, I let the pieces rest on the table and trust they'll fit when I'm there to touch them.
---
Hemon — Himeno–Power Apartment, Afternoon
There's a special silence after a small disaster. It smells faintly of toast.
"Brother Hemon!" Power declares, bursting from the hallway with the force of a comet, hair wild, grin feral. "Observe my art." She holds up a plate of triangles. They are bread-adjacent.
"They're… abstract," I say diplomatically.
Himeno appears behind her like a weather system that promises rain in exactly the right amount. Coffee, towel, the kind of smile that says I've already forgiven you for the next thing you haven't done yet. "He means they're burned, but brave."
"Bravery is delicious," Power says, crunching.
I should review tomorrow's route, set alarms, iron something. Instead I watch this ridiculous little world work: Power devouring triangles like victory tokens; Himeno switching off the stove with the tenderness of a person who knows appliances can't be trusted; sunlight cutting a rectangle on the floor that Power steps into as if chosen.
"Tomorrow," I announce, "I will wake at six, exercise, and become a man who owns a comb."
Himeno raises an eyebrow. "Ambitious."
Power slaps my back hard enough to rearrange my spine. "We shall train! At dawn! Or… at noon. Noon is also fearsome."
"Let's start with seven-thirty," Himeno says. "And a comb you can locate."
I set three alarms. Then I set one more because optimism is childish and I have sisters.
On the table, I arrange a very official pile: notebook, pen, wallet, student ID, a convenience-store pudding I bought because I am weak to bribery disguised as morale.
"Is that for me?" Power asks, already reaching.
"It's for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow Power is hungry now," she argues, then pauses when Himeno looks at her. "Tomorrow Power will adapt," she amends, tucking the pudding back with exaggerated gentleness.
We eat actual dinner—Himeno's cooking, edible in a way that makes you feel forgiven for being human. I wash dishes; Power dries, occasionally flinging a towel like a banner. Himeno stands at the doorway and calls this teamwork. It is.
If tomorrow is a test, I'm not ready. If tomorrow is a story, I like this opening scene.
---
Rito — Kuroe–Izumi House, Evening
The house is made of quiet noises: scissors, pencil, kettle, the small reassuring click of Sagiri's tablet waking and sleeping as she checks lines she's already perfect.
"Turn," Shizuku says, pinning my shoulder seam like she's harpooning a whale. "Breathe. Not that much."
Sagiri glances up from her sketchbook. "He looks nice."
"He looks almost nice," Shizuku corrects. "We're aiming for unfairly charming."
"I thought we were aiming for on time," I say.
"That too."
I hold still. The mirror shows a boy who sometimes forgets to be in his own frame. With these two adjusting the focus, it's harder to disappear.
"Tomorrow," I say, testing the word. It tastes like mint and a little like fear.
Sagiri sets her pencil down carefully. "You'll be okay."
Her voice has more certainty than mine. I borrow it.
Shizuku finishes and steps back. "Perfect." She flicks a minuscule thread off my sleeve with surgical satisfaction. "You can ruin it in the morning by putting it on like a raccoon."
"Thank you," I say, and mean it.
We eat at the low table: noodles, pickles, tea. Shizuku tells a story about a costume commission that involved seventeen buttons and one client who believed in magic glue. Sagiri shows us a tiny comic of me tripping in the doorway and landing on my feet anyway. It's a joke. It's also hope.
After dishes, I stand at the gate for a minute and breathe the evening. The air has that pre-spring softness, like the city is loosening a tight collar. Somewhere a train sighs. Somewhere a dog insists on being taken seriously. I think of the hill to school and the gate we'll meet under and the particular joy of seeing four familiar faces doing their worst to look unbothered.
Inside, Sagiri pins a small safety charm to the inside of my blazer hem without telling me. Shizuku catches her and pretends not to.
I pretend not to notice both.
---
Night — Five Houses, Same Sky
Shibaditya
Ai lays my tie across the back of a chair like a ribbon on a finish line. Ruby sets my notebook square on the desk and pats it twice for good luck. The house quiets in layers—sink drip stopping, kettle cooling, last door clicked shut. I lie on my back and watch the ceiling like it might play tomorrow's opening scene if I'm patient. When I close my eyes, I can still hear pancakes and a song Ai didn't write down. I tell myself to remember that, even if everything else gets loud.
Arko
I set my alarm for a reasonable hour and then for the hour after, because the first one is an optimist. Yuki's candy rests in my pocket; my fingers keep checking it's there like I've acquired a new heartbeat. Saki-nee knocks once and opens anyway. "Sleep," she says, not question, not order, just the answer to something I didn't ask out loud. I do, eventually, and dream about a classroom with sunlight so bright the dust looks like a blizzard of tiny plans I haven't made yet.
Sagnik
Pens aligned. Shoes by the door. Backpack horizontal, zipper facing north because that feels like respect. I look at the star on my pen and make a small promise: one unexpected thing tomorrow. Not a risk. Just a moment I don't rehearse. The room answers with the tiniest breeze from the window. It smells like trees trying on leaves in the mirror.
Hemon
Four alarms. One comb. Pudding labeled "MORALE" in huge letters to discourage theft. It won't work. Power is a force of nature; labels are suggestions. Himeno taps my door once—goodnight in Morse code. I tap back. When I finally roll over, the city hum sounds like a distant audience, waiting for the lights to go up. I grin at the darkness because the joke hasn't arrived and I'm already laughing.
Rito
Blazer on a hanger, shoes lined like patient soldiers, sketch tucked under my pillow because luck is a superstition I've decided to respect. From my window, the sky looks close enough to touch. I whisper something to it that I don't say to people yet: Please let me be brave in the small ways. It doesn't answer, but somewhere a breeze nods. Good enough.
---
Closing — The Quiet Between Seasons
Hikarizaka's slope waits, a thin road threading pink trees that are almost ready to burst. Desks wait. Name tags. Chalk lines that will curve into formulas and jokes and notes traded in margins. The sun steps down the street early, stretching practice light across front doors.
Tomorrow we will wake, each to our particular chaos, and meet at the gate pretending we haven't sprinted there in our heads a thousand times already.
No grand declarations tonight. No phone calls. Just houses that learned our rhythms and hearts that learned each other's names long before we did.
The bell hasn't rung yet.
But if you stand very still in the spring air and listen, you can hear it breathing in.