"Uhm… why do you want to be my friend?"
Narasao's voice was small, barely a whisper against the backdrop of the city's hum.
He followed Trizha down the sun-bleached sidewalk, his legs feeling heavy and his mind still clouded by the gray fog of the previous night's rain.
He moved like a shadow tethered to her light, watching the way her blonde hair bounced with every skipping step.
Trizha didn't slow down.
She continued toward a nearby playground that sat nestled between two towering apartment blocks, her hands clasped behind her back.
"Because you look funny, like I said before!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with a cheerful, uncomplicated certainty. "I looked at you and I thought, 'Hey, that boy looks like he has a lot of stories.' And I wanted a new playmate! Someone different. Hehe!"
She hummed a quiet, melodic tune to herself, swinging her arms as she walked.
Suddenly, she spun on her heel, coming to a dead stop and forcing Narasao to stumble back to avoid a collision.
Her purple eyes sparkled with a mischievous, bright energy that made Narasao's own eyes sting.
"By the way, I forgot to ask! What's your name?"
The question hit him like a physical weight.
Narasao felt a sudden, sharp pang of embarrassment.
He looked down at his scuffed shoes, his fingers twisting together.
He had spent the last day being called a "demon," a "monster," and an "abomination."
To speak his real name felt like admitting to a crime he didn't remember committing.
He found introductions to be the most agonizing form of communication—a bridge he wasn't sure he was allowed to cross.
"Uhh… m-my name is N-Narasao…" he stammered, his voice cracking. "Narasao Tarosono."
He braced himself for the reaction.
He waited for her to ask why it was so strange, or for her to realize that the name "Tarosono" was the one being screamed by the news anchors and the radio hosts.
He expected her to pull away, to see the "weirdness" that everyone else saw in him.
But Trizha didn't look horrified.
She didn't look suspicious.
She just blinked, her head tilting to the side like a curious bird.
"Weird name! Change it!!"
The bluntness of it caught Narasao completely off guard.
He stared at her, his jaw dropping slightly.
She wasn't judging his character; she was critiquing his aesthetic.
To her, the name wasn't a mark of a demon—it was just a bad title for a hero.
She looked as though she wanted to take a red pen to his entire identity and rewrite the parts that didn't rhyme.
"How about… Nomoro!" she announced, her face lighting up with a wide, triumphant grin.
"Nomoro Ketatsuki!! The name sounds way different, and it's much cooler than your 'weird' name. It sounds like someone who can fly!"
Although, that name was bizarrely very specific.
Narasao just stared at her in a mix of shock and silent, burning embarrassment.
"Trizha… uhm…"
"Hm? Yeah? You like it, don't you?"
"That name is… also weird," he whispered, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.
The two of them stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, locked in an unintentional staring contest.
The silence stretched for ten long seconds—the sounds of distant traffic and birds filling the gap between them.
Trizha opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out; she looked briefly defeated by his logic, her cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Finally, she gathered her courage, pointing a finger at his chest with a look of mock-authority.
"S-still! From now on, your name is Nomoro Ketatsuki. Weird or not, you are who you are, and you're my friend!"
"B-but you just said—"
"Shush! Shush!!"
She waved her hands dismissively, already moving forward again as if the matter were settled by divine decree.
Narasao—or Nomoro, as he was now christened—shut his mouth.
He found the exchange baffling, yet strangely precious.
He remembered asking his mother once why he was named Narasao, and she had simply said it was because he was born to have a name.
It was a title given out of necessity.
But this?
This name was a gift.
It was a choice.
Trizha had looked at his broken self and decided he deserved a fresh start, a name that didn't carry the weight of "Tarosono."
He decided, in that moment, that he would keepsake this name.
It made him feel as if he had been born again, not in blood and fire, but in sunlight and blonde hair.
I... will keep that name.
Because it was the first thing I ever owned that wasn't covered in ash.
It took them a few more minutes to reach the playground.
The area was cozy and warm, a sanctuary of colorful plastic and soft sand.
Children their age were running around in a frantic game of tag, while their parents sat on nearby benches, watching with the kind of lazy, peaceful affection Nomoro used to know.
He felt a pang of familiarity.
He started to smile, his heart lifting for a brief, beautiful second.
But then, the world flickered.
As his foot touched the sand of the playground, the sunlight seemed to turn a sickly, bruised orange.
The sound of children's laughter was replaced by the staccato pop-pop-pop of the "fireworks."
The colorful slides were suddenly dripping with "ketchup," and the sand beneath his feet felt like the wet, iron-scented blood of his mother.
He saw the bodies of the people he once knew—his classmates, his teachers—lying among the swings.
Nomoro jumped back, his breath hitching in a panicked sob.
He scrambled away from the equipment, his eyes wide and dilated, until he bumped into Trizha.
She turned, her playful expression softening into one of deep concern.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Nomoro couldn't answer.
He was panting, his chest heaving as he struggled to pull air into his lungs.
The trauma of the last twenty-four hours was clawing its way back to the surface.
Trizha watched him, her hand reaching out to pat his head softly.
"Don't worry!" she said, trying to regain her cheerful tone. "If you're scared of the slide, we don't have to go on it! You won't have to go to the hospital and get injected if you get a scratch. We can just hide it from my mom!"
She reached out and grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him toward the swings, but Nomoro resisted.
He dug his heels into the pavement, his face contorted in a mask of pure terror.
"N-n-no…!" he shrieked, ripping his arm away from her.
Trizha's smile faded instantly.
Her expression became unreadable—a mix of confusion and a strange, quiet sadness.
Nomoro backed away further, clutching his head with both hands.
He was sweating, his vision blurring as the playground kept transforming before his eyes.
Every glance at the children reminded him of his sister.
Every glance at the adults reminded him of the old man with the shotgun.
He was alone.
He was a monster.
He was a demon.
Suddenly, his field of vision was cut off. A wall of blue fabric replaced the terrifying world.
Trizha had stepped directly in front of him, closing the distance until her torso blocked his view of the playground.
Before he could react, he felt her arms wrap around him.
She held him in a tight, cozy embrace that smelled of laundry detergent and summer air.
"It's okay, it's okay… I'm sorry, Nomoro. I didn't mean to scare you about the needles."
She spoke softly, her voice a gentle anchor in the storm of his mind. She caressed the back of his head, feeling the frantic, hummingbird beat of his heart against her chest.
Nomoro didn't pull away.
He sank into her, his tears finally breaking free and soaking the front of her dress.
Trizha didn't mind. She held him closer, her chin resting on his shoulder.
"...Why are you this scared? Was getting injected really that scary for you?" she asked, her voice low and soothing. "Don't worry, I'm right here. Trust me. I'll make sure no needles touch you. I'll be your shield!"
They stayed like that for a long time—two children holding onto each other in the shadow of a world that didn't understand either of them.
Slowly, the images of the blood and the fire began to recede, replaced by the steady warmth of Trizha's heartbeat.
Minutes passed, and the intensity of the panic finally ebbed.
Trizha led him to a nearby wooden bench at the corner of the playground, far away from the noise of the other children.
Nomoro sat with his head down, staring at the scuff marks on his shoes, feeling the lingering exhaustion of his trauma.
"Sorry…" he whispered, his voice cracking with shame.
Trizha raised an eyebrow, swinging her legs back and forth. "For what?"
"I ruined it," he muttered. "We were supposed to play, and I just started crying and being sad for no reason. I'm a bad friend."
Trizha let out a bright, casual laugh that made him look up. "It's okay! We can just play later. Plus… you didn't do anything wrong! And even if you did, I would still forgive you because you apologized!"
She grinned at him, her eyes shining with an uncomplicated grace. Nomoro felt a glint of hope in his chest. "Really?"
Trizha nodded with absolute certainty. "Yes! My mom says every bad-doer is forgiven as long as they say sorry! And even if they don't say it, they can still be forgiven if they were trying to do the right thing."
"Doing it… for the right thing…"
Nomoro repeated the words under his breath.
He looked away from her, his mind drifting back to the explosion, to the old man, to the mob.
Did they think they were doing the right thing?
He wondered.
Did they hurt me because they thought I was the bad-doer?
He tried to remember if he had actually hurt Miss Idila.
He remembered the red liquid on his hands, but he didn't remember the act.
He only remembered the fear.
In his mind, he began to weave a tragic narrative: that everything he had done—every death he had caused—must have been his fault, even if he didn't remember it.
He sat there, lost in a labyrinth of guilt, until Trizha leaned in close, a mischievous smirk returning to her face.
"By the way," she whispered, her voice still quite loud. "If we play later, can you bring some of your friends over? Then we can all play a big game of hide-and-seek!"
Nomoro's eyes widened. The word "friends" felt like a physical blow.
The last time he had seen his friends, they were silent, their colorful shirts stained dark red, their laughter replaced by the smell of smoke.
"I don't have friends."
His tone was flat, carry a weight that Trizha couldn't possibly understand.
He didn't just lack social connections; his social world had been systematically eradicated.
"Oh…" Trizha leaned back, a look of realization crossing her face.
She seemed to think he was just a lonely, shy boy who had never been popular.
She tapped her chin, her eyes lighting up again. "Oh! I know! How about we—"
"I'm alone, Trizha."
The words cut her off like a blade.
Nomoro turned his head to look at her, and for the first time, she saw the full depth of his vulnerability.
His eyes were ancient, filled with a sorrow that no seven-year-old should possess.
"I don't have anyone. I don't have anybody left. I'm... I'm all by myself."
He had stopped expecting help.
He had stopped expecting anyone to look at him without a shotgun in their hands.
In his heart, he believed he was undeserving of a place in the world.
He believed the people who called him a monster were right, because monsters are always alone.
.
.
.
"You're not alone."
.
.
.
The words were so quiet, so firm, that they seemed to stop the wind.
"Huh…?" Nomoro blinked, his eyes widening in genuine surprise.
"Look over there!" Trizha shouted, her voice breaking the spell.
She pointed a finger toward the edge of the park.
Nomoro followed her gaze.
He saw a woman walking a small, scruffy dog on a leash.
The dog was sniffing a fire hydrant, and the woman was checking her watch.
"Do you see them?" Trizha asked.
Nomoro nodded slowly, confused. "Yeah… I see them."
"Look over there too!" Trizha pointed toward the street.
Two businessmen in suits were standing by an ice cream truck, arguing over which flavor to buy while laughing at a joke.
"And there!" She pointed at a group of toddlers in the sandbox.
"And there!" She pointed at a line of ants carrying a crumb across the pavement.
"There!" She pointed at the pigeons nesting on a nearby roof.
"Over there! There! There! And there!!"
She was spinning around now, pointing at the cars, the buildings, the trees, and every single person within her line of sight.
Nomoro followed her finger, his head whipping back and forth.
He heard the sound of footsteps, the hum of engines, the distant bark of the dog, the slurp of the ice cream.
Suddenly, the world felt… full.
Trizha stopped spinning and pointed her finger directly at her own chest.
She stared at him with a ridiculous, beautiful smile—a smile that seemed to fill the hollow ache in his chest.
"And here. You're not alone, Nomoro. You never were. You never will be. Not until everyone in the whole world is gone. Not until I'm gone."
Nomoro was speechless.
His mind went blank, the darkness of his thoughts being pushed back by the sheer, stubborn light of her presence.
He realized that even if his family was gone, the world was still turning, and this girl was standing right in the middle of it, holding his hand.
He began to cry again, but this time, the tears felt different.
They didn't feel like "ketchup." They felt like water.
Trizha snickered, reaching out to pat his head again.
"Don't worry, Nomoro! Your world might try to make you lonely, but in my world? I'll make sure you're not! No one is alone in my world!"
Those words became the foundation of his new life.
They were the hope that allowed him to keep moving, the belief that he wasn't just an empty shell.
But as the sun began to set, a final, quiet thought entered his mind—a thought that would haunt him for years to come.
What is it to her?
Why does she care about a monster like me?