The old wall clock, a relic of the school's shadowed history, began to tremble. The minute hand stood poised, a slender, hesitant blade, at 12:59. Then, with a muffled, impossible thunk that echoed in the marrow, it didn't advance to one. It slipped quietly to 13:00.
It was morning, a wretched, suffocating hour, but the sky pressing against Kurohane High looked like the absolute cessation of light. Outside, the air was a bruised, heavy purple, and the rain didn't fall so much as it was hurled, splattering the windows of Class 2-B like flung ink.
A sound that shouldn't exist. A moment that should never arrive.
The rain streaked across the classroom windows, turning the world outside into a sickening, green-tinged watercolor blur. Inside, the faint, cloying scent of wet wool uniforms, stale chalk dust, and aggressive disinfectant hung like a shroud. Desks, chairs, and even the air itself glistened with a clammy, oppressive humidity.
Everything looked normal. Except for the time. And the feeling that the room was holding its breath.
Then, the static.
The overhead speaker, a cheap plastic oval mounted above the door, crackled with a dry, electric malice.
"Students," came the principal's voice—a voice that was utterly, unnervingly distorted, as if filtered through water and bone. "Welcome back to Kurohane High. We are pleased you are all here. Attendance will be taken during homeroom."
The message ended not with a switch flipping, but with a faint, wet click—like teeth closing on something brittle.
Their teacher, the usually composed Ms. Kurose, entered a moment later, her movements strangely hurried. Her floral-print umbrella dripped a dark, staining puddle by the door. In her hand was a single, warm sheet of paper, impossibly fresh from the copier. The ink was still tacky.
"Alright," she said, her voice thin and unnaturally soft. It was the forced quiet of someone trying to ignore a loud sound. "Let's begin roll call."
Her voice echoed through the too-silent room.
"Haruto Aizawa."
Haruto shifted in his seat, his gaze locked on the clock—13:00—and mumbled, "Present."
"Ren Itou."
"Here."
"Shouya Minase."
"Present."
Ms. Kurose's index finger slid down the names, counting them. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Then she hesitated.
Her brows knitted together, a sharp crease forming between them. She held the paper closer, tilting her head as if trying to decipher a faded stamp. The final line of the list was drastically different from the rest—smudged, written in a heavy, insistent black ink that bled slightly into the fibers of the paper.
"Who… who added this name?" she murmured, her voice laced with sudden, genuine confusion.
The class looked up, a collective ripple of unease moving through the desks.
She read it out loud anyway, as if compelled by a force stronger than her own doubt.
"Asahi Kuze."
Silence. A cold, leaden weight dropped over Class 2-B. The rain outside seemed to quiet its roar, listening.
No one answered.
But from the back row—the third seat by the window—came a faint, distinct creak. It was the slow, drawn-out groan of an old wooden chair bearing weight.
Haruto's breath hitched in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs.
That seat. That precise, isolated seat. It had been empty since the term began. He knew because it used to belong to someone he—
No. That was impossible. That was a memory that had been put away.
When he snapped his eyes up, the seat was empty again. Only the faint, shimmering shadow of the rain played across the varnished wood.
Ms. Kurose blinked hard, a rapid, disbelieving flutter. She licked her lips. "Probably… a printing mistake," she murmured, the explanation sounding hollow and desperate even to her own ears. She folded the list against the crisp white fabric of her chest, as if trying to hide the offending name.
Her hands, Haruto noticed, trembled violently.
During break time, the air was electric, thick with frantic, curious whispers.
"There are supposed to be thirtystudents in Class 2-B."
"Now, there are thirty one "
Pinned beside the blackboard, replacing the old, familiar class list, was the new, horrifying attendance sheet. It was official, clean, and terrifyingly clear:
30.Shouya Minase(✔ Present)
31.Asahi Kuze(✔ Present)
"Never heard of him."
"Maybe a transfer? Did anyone see him?"
"But who checked him as present? Ms. Kurose didn't!"
Nobody had an answer. The mystery of the thirty-seventh student was a black hole of dread forming in the room.
And yet, Haruto couldn't shake the awful, nagging feeling that he did know that name—the angular, dangerous shape of it, the cold, resonant sound. It felt like a tooth he'd had pulled out and had instantly forgotten, only to find the empty, aching socket now.
He just couldn't remember from where.
As the afternoon approached, the sky darkened further, the rain deepening into a steady, suffocating deluge that washed the color from the day. Haruto was staring blankly at his notebook when the speaker above his head crackled again—this time not with official static, but with a low, insidious hiss.
It was a voice, a wet, intimate sound, hiding just underneath the static:
"Haruto-kun… you didn't wait for me."
Haruto froze, his hand locking mid-air. He spun his head around, his eyes wide and frantic, scanning the back row, scanning the empty, window seat. But there was nothing. Only the rain beating its relentless rhythm.
He lifted his gaze to the wall.
The clock hadn't moved. The hands were locked, fused, pointing eternally to 13:00.
The hour that should never be. The hour that was waiting for something to arrive.