"But you aren't the boy I remember."
The stranger's gaze lingered, tracing the lines of Izochi's face as if searching for a ghost beneath the skin. There was a heavy skepticism in the man's voice, a certainty that this was not their first encounter.
"You saw me… before?"
The practiced mask of Izochi's charm began to fracture. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, cautious murmur.
"You were only thirteen,"
The man said.
"I don't—I can't remember that."
The charming boy Izochi had been portraying vanished. The warmth left his eyes, replaced by a crystalline coldness that seemed more like his true self. His voice grew heavy, vibrating with a phantom ache as if something deep inside were tearing along an old seam.
"The day your parents died—"
Izochi didn't hear the end of the sentence. The first few words hit him with the force of a physical blow. His pupils pinpricked, narrowing into sharp points. His face turned to stone, the blood draining from his lips until they were white.
The world around him began to fail. The ambient noise—the rustle of wind, the distant city hum—faded into a muffled, underwater thrum. His vision frayed at the edges, blurring into a hazy gray.
It felt as though his soul were being pulled backward through a tunnel of time, dragging him away from the present and into a world he had tried to leave behind.
The air grew warm and smelled of simmering broth and toasted spices.
"Mother, why am I the only one here?"
Thirteen-year-old Izochi stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching the steam rise from the pots. His mother, a woman with a gentle face softened by the glow of the stove, turned to him with a quiet smile.
"Do you really wish you were at your aunt's house?"
She asked, her voice like a calm tide.
"You sent Chihiro and Akari there,"
Izochi grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. His brow was knitted in a permanent teenage pout.
"I'm just here rotting in boredom."
"You are our firstborn,"
She said, poking a wooden spoon toward him playfully.
"That means you're the one we need by our side."
Izochi let out a long, dramatic sigh. It was the same consolation he'd heard a dozen times, a shield of words his parents used to keep him close.
"I've heard that one before,"
He muttered. He looked toward the front door.
"When is Father coming home?"
"Very soon."
That was her final answer of the afternoon. But "very soon" stretched into a long, quiet wait. It was another thirty minutes before the heavy click of the front door echoed through the hallway.
"I'm back,"
His father announced, his voice weary but warm.
Izochi shot his mother a skeptical side-eye.
"Your 'very soon' took more than half an hour."
"Izochi,"
His father cautioned gently, though his eyes were crinkled with amusement.
"Mind your tone with your mother."
His mother just laughed, waving off the apology.
"Let him be. A boy his age is supposed to have a bit of a bite. It's only natural."
At the dinner table, the atmosphere was thick with Izochi's restless energy. He stabbed at his food, his movements sharp.
"I want them back here. Now."
"You miss them, don't you?"
His father's smile was knowing.
"It's just too quiet,"
Izochi countered, refusing to admit to the loneliness.
"This house is too big for just three people. There's nothing to do, no one to talk to. It's been three days of nothing."
His parents exchanged a look—a secret, silent language of shared affection for their difficult son.
"It has only been three days, Izochi,"
His father reminded him.
"Two more, and your aunt will bring them home."
"Three days felt like a decade,"
Izochi argued, his voice carrying a weight that seemed too heavy for a thirteen-year-old.
"And two days can feel like an eternity."
His father chuckled, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes.
"Careful with those heavy words, son. If you speak like that to the kids at school, you'll never make a friend."
Izochi didn't respond. He sat with his head propped up on his right hand, eating listlessly with his left. When the plate was empty, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor.
He headed to the basin, splashing water over his face with hurried, rough movements.
"I'm going to sleep,"
He announced, his back to them.
"Another lonely night."
"Sleep well, Izochi,"
They called out in unison.
As his footsteps retreated up the stairs, his parents sat in the fading light of the dining room.
"He's such a good boy,"
His father whispered, the pride evident in the set of his shoulders.
"I hope he becomes better than us,"
His mother said softly, her eyes fixed on the empty doorway.
"I can see the kindness in him, even when he tries to hide it. He isn't like the others in our bloodline. He's... different. He's special."
She leaned closer to her husband, her voice dropping to a fragile shimmer.]
"He has a temper, yes. But he feels everything so deeply. He can still cry like a child; he can feel the sharp edge of hurt. Chihiro and Akari are lucky to have a brother who cares that much."
Then, her expression flickered. A shadow of doubt crossed her face.
"I wonder... if we'll be there to see him grow up."
Her husband remained silent, honoring the weight of her fear. A single tear escaped her eye, carving a slow, salty path down her cheek before falling into the remains of her dinner.
"I wonder…"
Outside, the night sky was a masterpiece of silver and ink. The stars were scattered like crushed diamonds across a cloudless void. A massive full moon hung low, bathing the world in a haunting, ethereal light that seemed to turn the earth into a mirror.
From his bedroom, Izochi stared out of the large glass window, listening to his parents.
He lay on his bed, raising his hand toward the ceiling, tracing the constellations with his fingers as if he could pluck them from the sky.
It was a brilliant, beautiful night.