The morning light shone through the blinds that were only half closed, drawing pale lines across the living room. Takeshi sat thinking while sat on an old, tattered couch, but it had character it felt homely in a place that didn't quite feel of home. He was surrounded by silence, silence heavier than any storm he'd faced. To fill the quiet, he let soft classical music play, the kind his father used to love. Outside, the city was starting to wake, footsteps, the distant rumble of trains, but it all felt far away, like he was standing on the very mountain where he used to live just hours before it opened to the public. He and his mother used to wake up bright and early and climb the mountain with nothing but skis on their backs and boots on their feet before skiing the way down after taking in the unforgettable view. It was as if it was burned into his mind now by the sheer number of times he experienced it, but it never got old to him. The view he thought was the best in the world, since he saw it almost explicitly with his mother. His fingers traced the chipped edge of the coffee cup Kaori had left next to him. It was cold now, untouched. The images from his dreams stuck with him, flashbacks of icy slopes, cheers from better days, and that unbearable silence that followed everything falling apart.
Kaori's footsteps came softly, disturbing his quiet, yet it came with a warmth that felt familiar. It felt as if it was his mother's footsteps ready to take him down the mountain to the village where he attended the local school as a child. She set down breakfast on the low table: a mere bowl of rice porridge, some pickles, and a cup of green tea. She didn't let her eyes linger for long on him, she thought how she could give him a bit of encouragement.
"You're going to need your strength today, Eat and give the day your best shot" she said quietly, trying to sound calm.
Takeshi nodded, swallowing hard. He didn't say anything back. The way she cared, so quietly, felt fragile but real. Like a thread between them that might hold.
She paused, then added, a little unsure, "You know… this place is yours too. I really mean that."
Her words hit harder than expected. There was just a little something in her voice, some sort of weird mix of hesitation and honesty, which made his chest tighten, not with pain, but with a kind of hope. It was small but there, it was comforting, it reminded him of his grandmother, his bachan.
"… Thanks," he finally said, voice low and rough. "I'll try to live up to that."
Kaori gave a small, brief smile, then stepped back before either of them could say more.
The quiet was suddenly broken by a burst of energy. Yuki, his six-year-old cousin, came running in, her eyes wide and bright.
"It's my first real day at school!" she said proudly. "Yesterday was just an intro or something, I'm not too sure, but it wasn't very fun, but I hope today is."
She shoved a little braided charm into his hand. "For luck. You'll need it."
Takeshi looked down at the rough little beads in his palm. For the first time in a long time, a smile, a true smile, not just a polite smile but a smile that can from the joy of receiving this gift from perhaps his biggest supporter crept onto his face. One that might not quite understand why he stopped skiing but accepted it for him, and pushed for him to take back what he loves, in her own sort of way. The charm felt warm, not because of the beads, but because of the kindness behind it.
"Thanks, Yuki. I'll keep it with me."
Outside, the city was beginning its daily rhythm. The morning train station buzzed with students, commuters, and the distant clatter of wheels on rails. Takeshi clutched his bag tighter as the train pulled into the station. The cool metal and hum of the carriage were oddly comforting, a steady pulse amid the chaos of his thoughts. Faces blurred past the window, strangers unaware of the battles playing out behind his calm exterior.
School was a cathedral of whispers and watchful eyes. Rumours about "Morin's return" flickered through the halls like sparks—some hopeful, some sceptical. Takeshi moved with quiet purpose, each step a measured attempt to reclaim a place he wasn't sure he still deserved.
Home room with Mr. Ishida set the tone. The teacher's voice was firm but fair, laying out expectations, discipline, and the importance of teamwork. Takeshi felt the weight of those words, heavy with meaning he wasn't yet ready to embrace fully.
Hana sat beside him, her presence a silent anchor. Her gentle smile was a soft challenge—not pushing, just inviting.
A boy named Daichi Fujimoto, who Takeshi had briefly remembered from the introductions that were made from the day previously, made some loud declarations and had a brash confidence which filled the room like a storm. "I'm the fastest in the school, when it comes to Alpine in the man, nobody has anything on me," he proclaimed as if he was some god. His posse rallied behind him, pushing his sentiment, but their disdainful glances toward Takeshi whispered a challenge, as if they knew Daichi wasn't the best but thought he should be. As if Takeshi was some washed up skier who thinks he can come in and take the top spot but should be severely wrong. Takeshi felt the old, familiar sting of rivalry, mixed now with a weariness that came from deeper wounds.
Riku, who Takeshi had become some sorts of friends, was the troublemaker since he continued to push Takeshi to talk throughout the day yesterday and even shared a friendly moment in art with Takeshi. Leaned back against the wall, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Fastest, huh? Maybe if you weren't so busy talking, you'd actually get ahead of someone once in a while." Takeshi noticed that his voice was light, but it cut, and carried a sharp edge beneath the chill and humorous tone. It was clear that the two didn't get a long, but why the two couldn't get a long was a mystery to Takeshi, but he really didn't care all that much. The room shifted for a moment, Daichi's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as the pride flickered, but he remained calm and didn't respond. The challenge hung in the air, bold and unyielding.
Laughter spread through the classroom, low chuckles growing into full voices as students exchanged amused glances. The tension had collapsed, replaced by a hum of chatter and teasing that circulated around the room. Even some of Daichi's posse snickered slightly behind his back, perhaps caught between loyalty and the truth of Riku's words.
Ren Kobayashi, another boy Takeshi remembered from the intros just the day before, was quiet, watching with calm, assessing. Takeshi recognized the steadiness of a ski jumper's discipline, balance, patience, precision. Without a word, Ren balled up a piece of paper and lobbed it across the room. It hit Daichi square in the forehead. The thwack turned heads. Daichi froze, his face flushing deep red as laughter erupted once more around the classroom. You could almost see the steam rising from his ears as he glared in Ren's direction, fists clenched but held back by the sheer embarrassment of being made a fool in front of everyone.
Ayumi Takeda, a short girl Takeshi noticed briefly sat apart, her notepad a shield. Her cool gaze met Takeshi's briefly, revealing a sharp intellect and quiet empathy beneath her composed exterior.
Japanese Literature was an unexpected battlefield. The teacher read a poem about loss—each word pricking the thin veil over Takeshi's memories. Every line echoed with the silence left behind by his family, every syllable another weight pressing down on his chest. His throat tightened, a knot of emotion he fought to hide. The characters on the page blurred, the classroom walls closing in like a narrowing tunnel.
His breath caught. He blinked rapidly, willing the rising storm back into its cage. The murmurs of the class became distant, the poem transforming into a requiem. He clenched his jaw, trying to stay present, to stay composed.
Then—a soft tap on his arm. Grounding. Real. He turned, startled, and found Hana's eyes on his. Steady. Understanding. Her gaze didn't press or pry—it simply saw. No words were needed. That quiet connection pulled him back from the edge, reminded him he wasn't entirely alone.
English class was a different kind of exposure. When Takeshi spoke with unexpected fluency, the room shifted. Curious glances and whispers followed his every word.
Science was a small, rare sanctuary. Paired with Hana, their fumbling hands and her laughter over spilled liquids cracked the ice around his heart. For a fleeting moment, Takeshi felt something like belonging.