Chapter 1 – The Kindergarten That Waited
Haruki Aoyama hummed softly as he arranged the tiny chairs in the sunlit classroom. Golden morning sunlight poured through the tall windows, forming long rectangles on the wooden floor, glinting off the crayons scattered across tables. He straightened a stack of picture books, then knelt to help a little girl tie her shoelaces.
"There you go," he whispered, smoothing her dark hair from her forehead. "All ready to go."
The girl giggled, clutching her stuffed rabbit, while the boy beside her bounced with excitement. His round cheeks glowed as he clutched a wooden block like it was the greatest treasure in the world. Haruki smiled, brushing his dark hair out of his amber eyes. Standing at an average height with a small, almost fragile frame, he often looked younger than he was, but his warmth filled the room like sunlight.
He could feel the soft weight of happiness in the room. Each child was small, fragile, and brimming with life. He had a strange, quiet thought: Maybe if I hold them close, the world won't hurt them.
It wasn't always this way.
He had grown up in a quiet apartment, the walls echoing with the absence of his mother. She had been a kindergarten teacher, and he had always assumed that was all. Always busy, always caring for other people's children. Haruki didn't resent her—he understood—but she had never had time for him.
His grandmother had filled the void, gently raising him with warmth, patience, and steady hands. She had been the one to teach him how to fold laundry neatly, to cook meals that tasted like comfort, and to soothe him when the world felt too big. Now she was gone too.
The apartment felt impossibly silent after her passing. Haruki often paused in the hallway, expecting to hear the soft hum of someone moving, someone alive. Only emptiness waited. The loneliness was familiar, but never easy.
Still, he had this classroom. He had the children. He had the comfort of routine, the soft joy of seeing little faces light up.
He glanced around the room. Tiny shoes lined the shelves, and backpacks hung like little soldiers waiting for their next adventure. The faint smell of crayons, paper, and morning snacks lingered in the air, comforting and familiar. The children's laughter was soft and musical, and Haruki bent down to scoop a chubby little boy into his arms, feeling the weight of his tiny, warm body.
"You're ready for storytime, aren't you?" he whispered. The boy nodded vigorously, smiling so wide that his dimples deepened, and he squealed with delight.
Haruki's chest tightened. These little victories were everything. They reminded him why he got up every morning. They reminded him that even if the world outside was harsh and cruel, here there was safety, laughter, and love.
A soft knock at the door startled him.
"Haruki Aoyama?"
He turned to see a tall man in a dark suit, briefcase in hand. A lawyer.
"Yes?" Haruki asked, his voice gentle. "Can I help you?"
The man's smile was hesitant, almost apologetic. "Mr. Aoyama, I'm here regarding your mother's estate."
Haruki's stomach tightened. His mother's estate had been something he rarely thought about. They hadn't been close—not in a traditional sense—but there was always that lingering curiosity, that quiet wondering if there was more behind her work, behind the life she led.
"I see," he murmured, gesturing to a chair.
The lawyer opened his briefcase and produced a thin envelope. "She left this to you. Along with instructions… and the key."
Haruki took it carefully. Silver, simple, yet strangely warm against his palm.
"…A key?" he whispered.
"Yes," the lawyer said. "Your mother wanted you to inherit her kindergarten. The location is… unusual. You'll understand when you see it."
Haruki's heart thumped. He had assumed the kindergarten she ran would close, be sold, or fade into memory. Yet here was a key. A promise. A mystery.
"Thank you," he said softly.
The lawyer nodded, then left. Haruki sat alone, the classroom silent save for the faint echoes of children's laughter. He turned the key over and over in his hands. It pulsed faintly, almost like it had a heartbeat of its own.
He imagined the children he hadn't met yet—the ones he didn't know were out there somewhere, crying in dark corners of broken worlds, curled into themselves, shivering, too weak to eat. They whispered his name in his mind, or maybe it was just a feeling, a tug in his chest that made him ache and want to move at the same time. I'll find you, he whispered silently. I'll make it right.
---
That evening, after the children had left, Haruki finally tested the key. The address from the documents led him to a small, abandoned building in the middle of town. Gray and quiet, forgotten by the world.
He stepped forward. The key slid smoothly into the lock. The door creaked open—and the world shifted.
White stretched endlessly before him. No walls. No floor. No ceiling. Only a kindergarten, small, colorful, and alive, floating in the infinite light.
Haruki blinked.
"…Ah."
A soft chime echoed through the space. Words shimmered in the air before him:
[Dimensional Kindergarten System Activated.]
[Energy Level: 0.]
[Welcome, Host.]
He stepped inside. Tiny chairs and cubbies awaited, as if the children had already been here. The air smelled of crayons, paper, and warm milk. He could hear the faint laughter of children in some corner of his mind, though the space was empty.
[Primary Function: Rescue children in danger.]
[World Access: Locked.]
[Energy Required.]
Haruki tilted his head. "World access?" he murmured, touching the interface. Warmth ran through his fingers, soft and inviting.
A small panel appeared nearby, displaying tools and items he could create:
Portable Classroom Kit – Teach anywhere
First Aid Kit – Heal minor injuries
Portable Food Dispenser – Simple meals for children
Child Locator – Sense children in danger
He crouched, staring at a small, empty cubby. "So… I can help children anywhere?"
[Yes.]
Haruki's chest tightened. He had always known his path. Caring for children, offering comfort, keeping them safe… it wasn't about recognition or power. It was about warmth, about being the hand they could hold when the world was harsh.
A pang of loneliness tugged at him. No grandmother to smile at him. No one else left in the world to check on him. Only him, and this floating kindergarten.
And then he thought of them—the children waiting somewhere beyond his reach, curled up in corners, shivering, crying silently. Tiny hands pressed to their mouths to stop themselves from crying. Small bodies curled in heaps, too weak to eat, too scared to move. Hunger and fear clung to them like a shadow, and Haruki felt a sharp tug in his chest.
I'll find you, he whispered again. I'll make it safe. I promise.
---
The next morning, Haruki returned to his apartment. Sleep had evaded him, thoughts of the floating kindergarten swirling through his mind. The strange system, the tools, the children waiting… it felt too much and yet completely right.
He brewed tea in silence, listening to the soft hum of the city outside. Somewhere beyond those streets, children were alone. Hungry, frightened, desperate for someone to care for them. He didn't know their names, or where they were, or how he would reach them—but he could feel them, as if they were pulling him toward them.
The key pulsed faintly in his hand. The kindergarten floated quietly in another dimension, waiting for him to step in and take action. He could hear the faintest sounds of laughter and cries mingling, as if the worlds themselves were whispering their need for him.
Haruki's chest ached, but it was a sweet ache. It was the kind that made him want to rise, to move, to be more than just a man who taught children in one small classroom. He was something bigger now—he could bring warmth to worlds that had none.
---
He returned to the floating kindergarten, heart pounding with anticipation. Tiny chairs, cubbies, and toys filled the room, yet it felt emptier than ever before. The first child, the first rescue… it was just waiting for him somewhere, in a world he had yet to see.
And somewhere beyond the city, beyond what he could imagine, a world waited. Broken. Lonely. Hungry. Children curled into corners, tears staining their cheeks, tiny hands reaching for warmth and safety they had never known.
Haruki's heart clenched at the thought. He didn't know their names, or where they were, but he could hear them calling. He would go to them. He would bring warmth back to their world.