A sixteen-year-old boy sat quietly on a wooden chair, his presence calm yet heavy in a way that was hard to explain. Deep, gleaming black hair slipped out from beneath a simple black cap, casting faint shadows over his eyes whenever he tilted his head down. He wore a long black coat that fell past his knees, worn open over a plain white T-shirt. The contrast made him look both ordinary and strangely distant, as if he did not truly belong to the world around him.
His face was half-hidden by the brim of the cap, but what could be seen was youthful and sharp—still carrying traces of immaturity, yet already shaped by experiences far beyond his age.
Books surrounded him.
They were everywhere—stacked neatly against the walls, piled carelessly on the floor, spread across a wide desk like fallen leaves. Some were old and worn, their pages yellowed with time. Others looked newer, untouched, waiting for their stories to be read. This room was not just filled with books; it was filled with lives.
A room of stories.
The boy turned a page slowly, the faint sound of paper echoing in the quiet space.
"What are stories… really?" he asked himself.
His voice was low, thoughtful.
"Are they just words put together by someone's imagination? Or are they fragments of something that existed… or still exists somewhere?"
He paused, fingers resting on the page.
"If they're just words," he continued softly, "then why do we feel pain when someone we love in a story dies?"
His grip tightened slightly.
"Why do we cry? Why do we smile when they're happy, like their joy somehow becomes ours?"
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling beyond the shadow of his cap.
"What exactly is a story?"
He had asked himself that question more times than he could count.
Yet no matter how much he read, no matter how many endings he witnessed, the answer always slipped through his fingers.
"Is there another world inside every story," he murmured, "or is it all just nothing?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Can an ending change… the way a calm ocean changes when a single drop falls into it? Quiet at first—then waves… then something unstoppable?"
His gaze lowered again to the book in his hands.
"Why do some stories have to end in tragedy?" he asked quietly. "Why do some characters never get the ending they deserve?"
The room remained silent, filled only with the presence of countless unwritten answers—waiting, perhaps, for someone like him to pick up a pen and change them.
He lowered his gaze back to the book resting in his hands and let out a quiet breath.
"Is it too much to ask," he murmured, "for every story to have a happy ending?"
The boy closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if steadying himself, then opened the book again.
The pages rustled softly.
---
At the beginning of the twentieth century, somewhere in rural Japan, there was a small, peaceful village tucked between fields and low hills. Life there moved slowly, marked by the sound of wind through trees and the distant laughter of children walking home from school.
Among them was a girl named Fumiyo.
She was an ordinary schoolgirl—or at least, that was how everyone saw her. She had smooth, fair skin and long, straight black hair that flowed neatly down her back. Her eyes were dark and clear, always reflecting a gentle curiosity about the world around her. Tall for her age, with a slender figure and graceful movements, she stood out without ever trying to.
Fumiyo sat at her desk near the window, sunlight brushing against her cheek as she chatted quietly with her friends. Her laughter was light, unguarded, the kind that came easily to someone who believed the world was kind.
What she didn't notice was the gaze fixed on her from across the room.
The homeroom teacher, Inyo, stood near the teacher's desk, watching her in silence. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, giving him an unhealthy, almost lifeless appearance. To most students, he was just a quiet, unpleasant man—someone easy to forget.
The final bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor as students gathered their belongings and left the classroom, voices filling the hallway with life once more. Fumiyo lingered for a moment, packing her things carefully before stepping outside.
Behind the school, she stopped by the yard, kneeling beside the school dog. Smiling softly, she shared the remainder of her lunch, gently patting its head.
"Good girl," she whispered warmly. "You must've been hungry."
The dog wagged its tail, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful.
That evening passed like any other. Dinner at home. Quiet conversation. Sleep beneath a familiar roof.
But several days later, after classes ended, something changed.
As Fumiyo gathered her things to leave, a voice stopped her.
"Wait a moment," Inyo said flatly. "I need to speak with you about your recent remarks."
Fumiyo hesitated, then nodded politely.
The conversation began normally enough—about grades, behavior, routine things. Yet an uneasy feeling crept into her chest, growing heavier with every passing second.
"I'll be going home now, Sensei," she said finally, bowing slightly as she turned toward the door.
"You're not going anywhere," Inyo replied.
Her wrist was suddenly caught.
The world tilted.
Fear flooded her eyes as she struggled, her voice shaking. "Sensei… what are you doing?"
Her thoughts raced, heart pounding violently in her chest.
The teacher finally released her small, lifeless body. Silence filled the room, broken only by the soft whimpering of the school dog outside the window. When he dragged her remains to the backyard, the once vibrant girl was gone, reduced to fragments scattered near the well and, disturbingly, among the dog's food tray. The dog refused to eat, whining and trembling as if mourning her.
Back in the village, Fumiyo's parents grew frantic as night fell with no sign of their daughter. They searched endlessly, calling her name, panic gnawing at their hearts. By the time the police arrived, the scene in the backyard was horrific. Bits of clothing, traces of blood, and finally the remnants of her small body were discovered. The well held the final pieces, a grim confirmation of their worst fears.
The investigation turned quickly toward Inyo. Officers went to his home, expecting resistance or evasion, but instead found a sight that froze them in place. His body had been mutilated, hung from the ceiling, eyes missing, and limbs dismembered in a way that mirrored the cruelty he had inflicted. The village whispered, horrified, about the curse—or ghost—of the school well. Stories of a lingering spirit of Fumiyo spread, darkening every shadow.
Far away, in a room filled with books, the boy's fingers hovered over the ancient pen. Symbols carved into its black surface glimmered faintly. He began to write, the ink initially invisible, but with every stroke, the room shimmered, a soft light filling the space. The story itself began to unravel, the tragic path of Fumiyo vanishing from the pages.
The scene rewound. Fumiyo was again pinned down, her struggle mirrored in the page, but this time, the door burst open with a heavy crash. A boy in a school uniform appeared, blue eyes sharp and clear, his expression both determined and calm. His presence shifted the course of events.
Inyo froze, fury contorting his face as he realized the interference. Fumiyo's tears shone in the dim light, fear and hope mingling in her gaze. The boy moved quickly, keeping himself between her and the teacher, his movements precise, controlled, and almost effortless.
The confrontation was intense. Inyo lunged with a pocket knife, but the boy dodged and countered with measured force. Each strike and block demonstrated skill and precision, pushing Inyo back, keeping him off balance. Blood spattered with each contact, a grim testament to the battle, yet Fumiyo remained untouched, shielded behind the boy's jacket.
Every attempt Inyo made to harm them was countered. The boy's determination was absolute; his focus never wavered. Inyo fell, stunned and bleeding, unable to continue, his previous cruelty confronted and defeated by this sudden force.
Finally, with the threat neutralized, the boy ensured Fumiyo's safety. He covered her with his jacket, calming her panic, guiding her away from the danger. Words of reassurance and quiet protection flowed between them as she grasped his kindness and courage.
Once she was safe, the boy turned back to the fallen teacher. He ensured that Inyo could no longer harm anyone, leaving him incapacitated yet alive, the weight of his deeds reflected in every detail of the boy's precise actions.