Cleaning duty.
The most humble of school tasks.
No pressure. No grades. No magical side quests.
Just dustpans, buckets, and the collective sound of teenage grumbling.
I had signed up voluntarily because I figured it would be peaceful—an easy way to rack up good-student points and maybe get out of gym class.
What I did not expect…
Was to find a broom with my name on it.
And a handwritten warning note attached.
---
It started with the supply closet
I was helping tidy the second-floor hallway. Kento had already "accidentally" broken a mop and Naomi was negotiating peace between two buckets that had gotten stuck together like fighting crabs.
I volunteered to grab a new broom.
The supply closet was, as usual, chaotic. Buckets stacked like a game of Jenga. A single slipper no one claimed. Four types of soap, all unlabeled.
But wedged between a cracked window screen and a forgotten first-aid kit…
There it was.
An old wooden broom with smooth lacquer, worn in like someone had used it for years. I might've ignored it—except…
Carved into the handle were three neat letters:
R.E.I.
My initials.
I blinked.
Then I spotted the note stuck beneath the bristles, scrawled in faint green ink on a page torn from what looked like a lunch receipt.
> "Do not use during eclipse."
—Friendly warning from a semi-responsible future version of yourself.
P.S. Still allergic to fish? Don't eat the cafeteria croquettes Tuesday.
I stared.
First: There was no eclipse today. (I checked the sky just in case. Still boringly blue.)
Second: What kind of broom needed a celestial warning tag?
Third: Who the heck was leaving these notes?
(Okay, probably me. But also: what version of me thought this was the best way to communicate? Was post-it paper out of stock in the future?)
---
I took it anyway
Look. If someone—me—went through the trouble of hiding a mysterious broom in a closet and carving my name into it, I was at least going to sweep the floor once.
And you know what?
It worked… weirdly well.
Every single dust particle practically flew into the pan on their own. The broom glided across the floor like it had a vendetta against mess. I didn't even have to push hard—it almost pulled me forward.
Naomi noticed.
"Where'd you get that magic broom?"
I laughed too loud. "Magic? No way. Just... um, ergonomic design."
"Right," she said, squinting. "Totally normal. Let me know if it starts floating."
---
Later that afternoon
As we wrapped up and stacked everything back into the closet, I hesitated.
Should I keep it?
The broom was clearly not normal.
But I didn't sense anything dangerous. And there was no eclipse. And technically, no one said I couldn't borrow it.
So I leaned it gently against my locker and labeled it "DO NOT THROW OUT (Reika's)" in very bold letters.
Because honestly?
A future-aware, slightly magical broom is kind of useful when you're balancing school, secret powers, and snack-based treasure hunts.
Even if I have no idea what happens during an eclipse.
Yet.