The orphanage ran on routine.
That was the first thing Kaito understood.
A bell rang at the same hour every morning. Beds were made the same way. Meals were served in the same order. Silence was rewarded. Questions were not.
Routine wasn't comforting.
It was protective.
Kaito learned to move within it carefully, like walking along the edge of something fragile. He woke before the bell most days, staring at the ceiling with his right eye, letting the minutes pass until the sound arrived.
His left eye never changed.
It remained empty.
Not dark.
Empty.
When he rolled out of bed, the familiar pressure stirred behind the scar—soft, patient, as if something inside him had noticed he was awake.
He ignored it.
Ignoring things had become a skill.
Morning passed without incident.
Breakfast was thin and tasteless. Conversations stayed low. Children glanced at Kaito when they thought he wasn't looking, then quickly looked away when he shifted his head.
No one sat beside him.
That suited him.
He finished eating slowly, not because he was hungry, but because finishing early meant waiting. Waiting meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering things he didn't understand.
When chores were assigned, Kaito was sent to the library.
Again.
He didn't question it.
The library was quiet, narrow, and filled with books no one cared about. Dust clung to the shelves like it had been there longer than the building itself. The air smelled old and still.
Kaito liked it.
No one stared here.
He worked methodically, stacking returned books, aligning spines, straightening shelves that leaned no matter how often they were fixed. His movements were careful, precise. He compensated instinctively for his blind side, turning his head just enough to keep everything in view.
Sometimes, when he moved too quickly, the scar on his face stung.
Not pain.
A reminder.
Rain began around midday.
Kaito noticed because it stopped sounding right.
At first, it was normal—soft tapping against the window, steady and distant. Then, gradually, the sound thinned, as if someone were turning it down.
Kaito paused, a book half-placed on the shelf.
The pressure behind his left eye shifted.
— …No, he whispered, not sure why.
He turned toward the window.
Rain streaked down the glass, droplets sliding and merging, leaving faint trails behind them. The world outside looked gray and blurred.
Without thinking, Kaito lifted his hand.
The scar burned.
Not sharply. Not violently.
Focused.
A raindrop stopped.
Not on the glass.
In the air.
It hung there, perfectly suspended between the window and his fingertips, trembling slightly as if unsure whether it was allowed to exist.
Kaito's breath caught.
For a heartbeat, the world felt thin—sound dulled, space compressed. The droplet reflected light in fractured colors, a tiny mirror of a world that didn't make sense.
Then it vanished.
Not evaporated.
Gone.
Kaito jerked his hand back, heart pounding. The pressure behind his eye flared, then settled, retreating deeper than before.
He stared at the empty space.
Nothing else changed.
The rain continued to fall.
The orphanage remained quiet.
No one came running. No one asked questions. Reality didn't react in any visible way.
Slowly, Kaito lowered his hand.
— …Coincidence, he whispered.
The word felt wrong.
That night, sleep came late.
When it did, the dream returned—but differently.
Kaito stood in a wide street he didn't recognize. Buildings rose on either side, tall and unfamiliar, their surfaces cracked and darkened as if scorched long ago. The sky above was wrong—not broken, not glowing—just heavy, like something waiting.
Rain fell.
Real rain.
It soaked into the ground at his feet, splashing against the pavement. The sound was loud, overwhelming, filling the air.
Someone walked past him.
Then another.
Their faces were blurred, indistinct, as if Kaito wasn't meant to see them clearly.
He turned slowly.
Far ahead, a single figure stood under a flickering streetlight.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Facing away.
Kaito's chest tightened.
— Ren…?
The name escaped him before he could stop it.
The figure didn't turn.
The streetlight flickered again.
A voice spoke from somewhere nearby—not loud, not threatening.
Tired.
— You weren't supposed to notice this one.
Kaito spun toward the sound.
— Who are you?
No answer came.
The pressure behind his left eye surged, stronger than before. The world trembled, edges blurring as if the dream itself were losing cohesion.
The figure ahead finally moved.
One step.
Then another.
Walking away.
— Wait! Kaito called.
The word didn't carry.
The street fractured, lines splitting across the pavement like cracks in glass. Darkness seeped through them—not shadow, not night, but the same emptiness his left eye saw.
The pressure spiked.
Too much.
Kaito woke gasping.
He sat upright in bed, lungs burning, sweat cold on his skin.
The room was dark. Quiet. Other children slept on, unaware.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Real rain.
Kaito pressed his palm against the scar on his face, grounding himself in the sensation.
— …I saw it, he whispered.
He didn't know what it was.
He only knew the dream hadn't felt like imagination.
It had felt like memory.
And for the first time since the fire, since the night that stayed with him, Kaito understood something with unsettling clarity:
Something had already happened.
And whatever it was, the world hadn't finished correcting it yet.