I stare at my hands.
"…Guess it's my turn, huh."
Saiko looks up first. Genkei follows.
I exhale slowly.
"I don't… really do friends," I say. "Not because I don't like people. I just—"
My voice tightens. "I don't want to feel the effects of losing again."
They don't interrupt.
So I keep going.
---
We were eight.
The sun was already dipping low, painting the streets orange. Cicadas screamed from the trees like they always did in summer.
"Last round!" Yama shouted, already running ahead.
"Hey—wait!" I yelled, laughing as I chased him.
Yamashira Tsubasa was always faster than me. He always won when we played soccer. He waved his arms like he was flying when he ran.
"Take the ball if you can, slowpoke!"
He darted into an alleyway between two apartment buildings.
"Yama!" I followed without thinking.
He turned the corner.
I turned it too—
—and he was gone.
The alley stretched empty in both directions leaving just the ball he was kicking rolling.
"Yama…?"
No response.
My stomach dropped.
"Yama!" I shouted louder.
Nothing.
Panic crawled up my spine.
I ran home so fast my chest burned. I burst through the door, words tumbling over themselves.
"Mom—Dad—Yama—he—he went into an alley and he's not there—!"
They exchanged a look I didn't quite understand yet.
Adults started running. Phones came out. Yama's parents arrived, faces pale and tight.
The night stretched on.
Police lights filled the streets with red and blue.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
They told me he probably just ran away.
They told me not to worry.
Years later, I overheard it by accident.
"…They only found his hand," someone whispered.
"Severed. In a drainage canal."
"They never found the rest of him."
My ears rang.
My vision blurred.
After that I stopped caring. Stopped getting close. Stopped letting people matter.
Because if I didn't let them matter—
—I couldn't lose them.
---
The field snaps back into focus.
Saiko's eyes are wide. Genkei's fists are clenched at his sides.
"I told myself," I say quietly, "that friends make you weak. That if I stayed alone, I'd be stronger. Safer."
I laugh once, dry and humorless.
"So when I met you two… I thought I couldn't really get close to you."
Genkei steps closer.
"That's stupid." he says bluntly.
I blink.
He meets my eyes, expression steady.
"Strength that can't endure loss isn't strength, It's avoidance."
Saiko nods hard. "Yeah, and you don't get to decide that alone."
She moves before I can react.
Her arms wrap around me—tight, warm, sudden.
Then Genkei joins in, awkward but firm.
I stiffen—
Then slowly, I breathe.
My chest feels lighter. Like a knot I didn't know I was carrying finally loosens.
They let go.
The wind brushes past me.
I close my eyes.
Don't force it.
I don't think about strength.
I think about weight leaving my chest.
About pressure easing.
About standing—and letting the world hold me.
The ground slips away.
"…Huh?"
Saiko's jaw drops.
Genkei's eyes widen.
I open my eyes.
I'm floating.
Not high—but steady.
The grass drifts beneath my feet. The wind hums around me like it's pleased.
I laugh.
Saiko cheers. "HE DID IT!"
Genkei nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "You learn quick don't you?."
For the first time in years—
I don't feel alone.
And I don't feel weak for it.
---
A soft tap of wood against stone.
I turn just in time to see Arata stepping out from between two crimson pillars, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes pointed very deliberately at the sky.
"Ah," he says. "Perfect timing. I just got here."
Saiko squints at him. "You were gone for, like… five minutes."
Genkei folds his arms. "You came back too fast."
Arata hums, nodding sagely. "Mmm. Yes. Fascinating observation. Unfortunately, incorrect."
He gestures behind him with a lazy flick of his wrist.
"Each of those buildings you see in the Garden?" he says. "They're not just buildings. They're roots."
"…Roots?" I ask.
"Of the tree the founding fathers of the Onmyōji built this place around," Arata continues casually. "Each root leads somewhere different. And more importantly—"
He lifts one finger.
"—time flows differently in every single one."
Saiko blinks. "So you're saying—"
"I could spend hours inside one," Arata says, "and step out here having missed absolutely nothing."
Genkei exhales slowly. "That's… absurd."
Arata grins. "Correct. That's why it works for me."
He pauses, then adds with a shrug, "Personally, I come here to do paperwork."
We stare at him.
"…To literally pass time," he finishes.
Saiko groans. "I hate you."
"Understandable." Arata replies pleasantly.
Then—finally—he looks at me.
Really looks.
His eyes flick down.
Then up.
Then he smiles.
"Well," he says, clapping his hands once. "Would you look at that."
I realize I'm still hovering.
"Oh—right—uh—" I wobble slightly.
Arata raises a hand. "No, no. Don't think about it too much."
I steady myself.
He nods approvingly.
"Congratulations, Itsuki," he says. "You're flying."
Saiko beams like it's her achievement. Genkei gives a small nod of approval.
Arata continues, voice softer now.
"You can't fly if you're shackled by doubt," he says. "Fear drags you down. Guilt anchors you. Regret weighs a lot more than people think."
He tilts his head.
"To fly, you have to feel free. Not perfect. Not fearless."
"Just… unburdened."
I slowly lower myself back to the ground.
"…So," I say, "if I start doubting myself again—"
"You'll fall." Arata says immediately.
Saiko yelps. "HEY—"
Arata waves it off. "Briefly. Probably. The ground here is very forgiving."
Genkei sighs. "You really know how to motivate people."
Arata smiles, utterly unrepentant.
"I'm a professional."
Then, just for a split second—when he thinks I'm not looking—
I swear he looks… proud.