Rain had fallen for so long that Sozuki Yamagaki no longer remembered what dry ground felt like beneath his bare feet.
He walked along the old stone road beside the riverbank, where moss crept like emerald veins through every crack. The sky above him was a dull sheet of muted silver, neither bright nor dark, as if the sun itself had forgotten how to rise. The river beside him whispered with the same rhythm it always had—gentle, uncaring, eternal.
Sozuki did not know how long he had been walking.
Not just now.
He truly didn't know how long he had been walking in general.
Days? Years? Decades?
All he knew was that he remained seven years old, no matter how many seasons passed around him.
He did not understand why.
Perhaps he had once tried to ask someone—tried to understand it. But no memory of that remained. His past was like fog on a window. He pressed his hands against it sometimes, trying to make out the shapes beyond. But the more pressure he applied, the more the condensation smeared beneath his palms, until even the faintest silhouettes disappeared completely.
He couldn't remember his parents' faces.
He couldn't remember if he had siblings.
He couldn't remember his home—or even if he still had one.
He knew his name. Sozuki Yamagaki. It floated at the front of his mind like driftwood on a river long after the boat had sunk.
Everything else had been claimed by the current.
He paused at the edge of the river and crouched beside a puddle. The reflection that greeted him was always the same—round face, pale skin, bright blue hair clinging to his forehead from the rain. Eyes too tired for a child. His loose white hoodie never clung to him despite being soaked through. His sneakers were always dirty, but never damaged or cut. He could walk across gravel or snow or burning summer sand, barefoot... and it never hurt.
He did not know what pain felt like.
But he knew what ache was.
It was the hollowness in his heart when he heard laughter that wasn't meant for him. It was the echo in his heart when he watched families walk past, holding hands. It was the sting in his throat whenever someone looked at him—not with recognition, but with that puzzled expression adults sometimes gave him, as if they sensed something was wrong but could not articulate what.
Like he was a familiar song whose lyrics they couldn't quite remember.
Sozuki cupped his hands beneath the rain. Water pooled in his palms but brought him no sensation. He tipped them toward his mouth anyway. The droplets fell through his lips, but there was no taste. No coolness. No warmth.
Just emptiness.
He stood and continued walking.
At the edge of the riverside path stood an old wooden playground. The paint had long since peeled from the swings, the colors faded into nothing but faint ghosts of their original hues—red turned pink turned white. The slide creaked softly as the wind pushed it. Puddles formed beneath the monkey bars, where children no longer played.
Sozuki approached it slowly, almost reverently, like one might approach a shrine. He climbed the ladder to the slide, each metal rung slick with rain. He didn't slip.
He never slipped.
At the top, he sat down and rested his chin on his knees. Children used to play here. He remembered that vaguely. He remembered laughter. Voices calling his name. But whose voices? Who had called to him? And why did no one call to him now?
He closed his eyes and tried to summon a memory.
Forcing himself to remember felt like trying to breathe underwater.
It came in short, frantic bursts, painful and incomplete.
—A hand holding his. Warm.
—A voice laughing. Deep.
—A promise whispered. Soft.
I'll… always…
Then silence.
He opened his eyes.
He was still alone.
Time passed without meaning. The rain became thinner—less like a downpour and more like mist, clinging without falling. A breeze stirred. The sky grew darker, then lighter again, then dark once more.
Sozuki was unsure if hours had passed. Or days.
Children came to play once.
He remembered that.
A group of kids in bright raincoats had approached the playground during one of his long sits atop the slide. They were laughing, kicking puddles, chasing one another. One child had pointed at Sozuki.
"Hey! Want to play tag?"
Sozuki had blinked. The invitation had stunned him more than any cold or fear ever could.
He had nodded.
He remembered smiling.
He remembered running with them, feet splashing through puddles he could not feel, laughter bubbling in his lungs like air finally entering lungs that had long been starved.
For a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—he had felt alive.
Then one of the kids had stopped abruptly and frowned at him.
"Hey… weren't you here last time we came?"
Sozuki had tilted his head. "Last time?"
"Yeah," she said, squinting at him. "Like… last summer."
Last summer?
Sozuki remembered playing tag. He remembered falling and laughing. He remembered climbing trees. He remembered their names.
Didn't he?
Didn't he?
Before he could answer, one of the children tugged the kids arm. "C'mon, let's go."
The child hesitated.
Then she followed.
Sozuki had reached out.
"Wait—"
They didn't look back.
The next day, he returned to the playground.
They did not.
The next week. The next month. The next year.
He waited.
None of them ever came back.
He walked along the edge of town now. Past shuttered shops and vending machines that glowed with soft blue light against the damp air. He passed by a bakery. Warm light spilled from its windows like honey onto the wet street. Inside, an adult in an apron was handing a bag of melon bread to a little kid no older than he was.
The kid turned.
She saw him.
Her eyes widened, curious, unafraid.
She raised her hand and waved cheerfully.
Sozuki stared at her, frozen.
After a few seconds, he lifted his hand slowly.
But before he could finish the motion—
She was already gone. Tugged along by her mother, laughing into the rain.
His hand remained raised long after they disappeared.
Then he lowered it.
His heart stung with a pain he did not know how to name.
"Why…" he whispered.
His voice was dry.
"Why does everyone leave?"
He wandered further.
Streetlights flickered on, casting long golden pools of light onto the glistening asphalt. Cars passed occasionally, their headlights sweeping across him like flashlights searching for something they'd never find. Sometimes, the drivers glanced his way. Their eyes widened for a moment, then flicked away. They never slowed. Never stopped.
Once, an old granny had approached him outside a convenience store.
"Child," she had said softly, "are you lost?"
He had stared at her.
A question formed on his lips.
Are you going to stay?
But before he could speak, the strangers expression changed. Her brows furrowed. She squinted at him, as though suddenly unsure of what she was seeing.
"Ah," she murmured, stepping back. "Forgive me. I… must be mistaken."
She walked away quickly.
Sozuki had stood there in silence.
He never asked for help after that.
The festival lights appeared before he heard the music.
He blinked in surprise.
Ahead, across the river, lanterns flickered in shades of amber and crimson. Cotton candy stalls stood beneath sakura trees whose blossoms had long since fallen. Wind chimes tinkled softly. Fireworks burst above in muted colors blurred by mist.
Sozuki crossed the old stone bridge toward the glow.
People bustled everywhere—families in yukata, couples holding hands, children licking candy apples. Laughter bounced between the lanterns like warm echoes.
Sozuki stepped into the crowd.
No one bumped into him.
No one brushed his sleeve.
It was as though their bodies instinctively avoided him, parting without noticing.
He stood before a goldfish scooping stand. Red and orange fish flickered beneath the water's surface like sparks. He stared at them carefully.
He remembered having one once.
He thought.
Did he?
He knelt beside the tank. The vendor, a middle-aged adult with a towel tied around his forehead, looked directly at him.
Sozuki's heart leapt.
The stranger opened his mouth.
Sozuki waited.
The person closed his mouth again and looked away.
Sozuki stayed kneeling there for a long time.
The goldfish swam.
The fireworks burst.
The laughter flowed.
And he remained unseen.
He wandered to the quiet edge of the festival, where lanterns grew sparse and shadows grew long. He sat beneath a cherry tree, its petals long gone, leaving only branches that swayed like tired arms.
He drew his knees to himself.
The ache in his heart returned—not sharp, but dull and deep, like a bruise that never healed.
"I'm still here," he whispered to no one.
"I'm still here, but… I don't know why."
He rested his forehead against his arms.
"I don't know who I am. I don't know where I'm supposed to go. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
His voice trembled.
"I'm tired of being alone."
A breeze swept past him, tugging at his hair like a gentle hand.
For a moment, he let himself believe someone was there.
Someone listening.
Someone staying.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in so long he could not measure it—
—Sozuki Yamagaki began to cry.
End of Chapter One