My vision blurs, and the room feels unsteady, like I'm trying to focus through a fog. I'm in a dream, caught in a dimly lit space where two figures stand. Their outlines are faint, hard to make out, like shadows in the dark. One figure extends a hand, fingers steady. The other hesitates, then grips it firmly. The handshake lingers, tight, intentional. When their hands part, the second figure stumbles, legs giving out, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud.
My breath catches, sharp and quick, but the scene fades into darkness.
I open my eyes. It's 5:48 a.m., the room lit faintly by the gray light of early morning. My heart pounds, and I sit up in bed, my blanket tangled around my legs. "What… the hell was that?" I mutter to myself, my voice quiet in the still room. Two figures standing? A handshake? Was that something from the past, or is it something that hasn't happened yet? I don't know. But I do know one thing—the things I see in my dreams feel real, too real, and they're not normal.
This isn't new. Dreams like this have been part of my life for three years, ever since the accident. They're jumbled, confusing, sometimes vivid enough to make me question what's real. My imagination has been different since that day—sharper, wilder, like my mind is running too fast. I don't know if it's because of the pain I felt back then or because something hit my head during the crash. All I know is that I'm not the same. The only things that keep me grounded are my talents: solving physics problems and playing shogi. Those are the things I'm good at, the things that pull me away from the dreams and hallucinations that creep into my head.
I stand up and walk to the window, my socks soft against the cold floor. Tokyo hums outside, steady rain falling on the streets below. Neon signs glow in the distance, their red and blue lights reflecting in puddles on the wet pavement. Cherry blossoms cling to branches along the sidewalks, pink petals dropping into the damp air. Skyscrapers rise through the mist, their lights blurry against the gray sky. The air smells of wet concrete and soy sauce, sharp and familiar. I notice a half-eaten yakitori skewer lying in the mud near the street, probably dropped by someone rushing through the rain. The city keeps moving, but today the air feels heavy, the rain soaking through everything.
The rain reminds me of that night three years ago—a spring evening on a quiet road outside Tokyo. I was fourteen, smaller, sitting in the backseat of our old car. My math workbook was open on my lap, pages filled with geometry sketches, pencil smudges on my fingers. Dad was driving, his hands steady on the wheel, his warm smile catching me in the rearview mirror. Mom sat beside him, humming softly, her voice calm and comforting against the sound of rain outside. We were just a family—ordinary, but together.
I leaned forward, excited, pointing at a sketch in my workbook. "It was tough. Everyone else gave up, but I solved it in ten minutes, maybe less!" My voice stumbled, and I blushed, hoping they didn't notice. Dad laughed, his voice deep and warm. "You're gonna outsmart us all, Rei," he said. Mom turned, her hair loose, her smile gentle as she ruffled my hair. "He already has," she teased, her hand warm on my cheek. I grinned, feeling safe, like nothing could break us.
Then it did.
Headlights flashed. A truck swerved into our lane, its horn blaring. Dad yanked the wheel. Tires screeched. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. My scream stopped short. My workbook flew, pages scattering. Everything went dark.
When I woke, pain burned through my body. Rain dripped through the shattered windshield, cold on my face. Blood stained my sleeve, a piece of glass stuck in my arm. My head pounded, each throb like a hammer. I looked at Dad. He was slumped over the wheel, his neck at a wrong angle, his eyes still. Gone. A sob caught in my throat, but then I felt a weight across my chest.
Mom.
She was draped over me, her arms wrapped tight, shielding me from the crushed roof inches above. Blood dripped from her hair onto my face. Her lips moved faintly. "Live… Rei…" Her voice faded, barely a whisper. She had saved me, taken the impact that would've killed me. Her arms still held me, her skin growing cold.
"Mom…" My voice broke, my hand trembling as I touched her face. I don't know how long I was trapped there, the rain falling, mixing with her blood. Sirens wailed in the distance. Headlights flashed. Boots crunched on gravel. As my eyes closed, I saw something—a figure, faint and shadowy, seeping into the ground like smoke. That was the first hallucination, the moment they started.
Rescuers pulled me from her arms. I was the only one breathing. They called it a miracle, but it felt like the end. Her blood stuck to me, warm and wet, as they carried me away. A paramedic wrapped a blanket around me, but I kept shivering. I noticed his watch, the second hand moving too fast, like it was mocking me.
The days after blurred into grief. My aunt Hana took me to her small apartment on the edge of Tokyo. It smelled of green tea and old books, a faint comfort I didn't feel I deserved. She didn't ask why I stared through meals or why I didn't talk, but every evening, she'd set a cup of tea beside me, her fingers brushing the handle like a quiet promise. School became my escape. I dove into equations, played shogi alone at night until my eyes burned. What used to be fun became a way to block out Mom's voice, Dad's laugh, and the hallucinations that followed me.
By fifteen, my test scores got me into Apex Academy, higher than anyone expected. Apex is a place for Japan's brightest students, where ambition either sharpens you or wears you down. Everyone knows its name. I arrived with a small bag and a weight no one could see. The other students—some rich, others sharp like me—watched me closely. I was a nobody from nowhere, but I didn't lose. Teachers talked, classmates challenged, and I met every test with focus.
The kid who loved puzzles was gone. Now I didn't just solve problems—I dominated them. My mind raced, seeing moves ten steps ahead, finding patterns where others saw only chaos. It's what kept me going.
Back to the present. I'm at the old Apex Academy, a small, worn-out building with creaky floors and peeling paint. Today's the last day here. Tomorrow, we move to the new Apex Academy, a bigger, modern place. I figure that's why they built it—the old one was too small, too old, falling apart. The new one's supposed to be better, but the thought of it twists something in my chest. It's change I didn't ask for, a place that'll feel too clean, too new, like it's trying to erase the past I'm still holding onto.
I'm not tall or intimidating—just lean, with black hair falling over my forehead and eyes that people say seem to see too much. My uniform is neat but never perfect, a few wrinkles showing I don't care much for rules. My sneakers squeak on the polished floors as I walk through the crowded halls. Students glance at me, their voices low. "That's Rei," they whisper. "The genius. The one who always wins."
I don't say anything. My talent does the talking. But sometimes, when no one's looking, my fingers twitch in my pockets, restless, like I'm searching for something I can't name. It's not fear, not really—just a weight I carry, one nobody else notices.
The classroom smells of chalk dust and tension. The board is covered with quantum mechanics equations, dense and intimidating, designed to challenge even the best at Apex. Our teacher, a thin man with thinning hair and a sharp look, paces in front of us. I sit in the back, my pencil tapping lightly on the desk. The equations look complicated, but I turn them over in my head, spotting patterns. The solution comes together quickly. I write it out, my hand moving fast, and finish in five minutes. Standing, I walk to the teacher's desk, drop off my paper, and head for the door. My shoe catches on a scuff mark on the floor, and I stumble slightly, muttering, "Come on, Rei, pull it together." I catch myself before anyone notices. I hope so.
"Nice work, Tsukumo," the teacher calls, but I'm already out the door.
The courtyard is quieter, the rain a soft patter on the stone paths. Cherry blossom trees line the area, their branches wet, a few petals still holding on despite the season's end. I pull my jacket tighter, feeling the damp seep through, and notice a vending machine in the corner, its light flickering. I think about getting a coffee, but my coins are probably buried in my bag, and I don't feel like digging. It's a small, fleeting thought, but it sticks with me. I kick a pebble across the path, watching it roll into a puddle, and smile faintly. Small victories, I guess.
At a worn stone table, a shogi board is set up, the wooden pieces scratched from years of use. My opponent is Kaito, a third-year with broad shoulders and a confident grin. He's known for smart strategies and an attitude to match, placing his pieces slowly, trying to throw me off. His uniform tie is loose, one end swaying in the breeze, and I notice a faint stain—maybe ketchup—on his sleeve. It's a small detail, but it feels like a crack in his confidence.
"Heard you're good, Tsukumo," he says, his voice low, teasing. "Let's see if you live up to it."
I lean back, eyes on the board. No need for words. The game starts, and a crowd gathers—students in uniforms, some holding books, others whispering bets. "Ten thousand yen on Kaito," one says. "No way, Tsukumo's unbeatable," another replies. Kaito plays aggressively, his pieces moving with purpose. But every move has a weakness. I counter calmly, picking apart his strategy. A knight falls. Then a bishop. His grin fades, his forehead shiny with sweat, his fingers pausing.
A kid in the crowd drops his phone, the sound sharp enough to make me glance up. "Aw, crap," he mutters, bending to grab it. I almost smile—it's such a normal, clumsy moment in the middle of the tension. Another student nudges his friend, saying, "Bet his screen's cracked now." I focus back on the board, sliding my rook forward. Checkmate.
The crowd goes quiet, then buzzes with whispers. Kaito slams a fist on the table, his voice rough. "How?" he snaps, louder than he meant.
"You left an opening," I say simply, slipping my hand into my pocket to hide a slight tremor. No one notices. To them, it's just another win for the genius. They don't see the weight I carry, the one that presses harder when I'm alone. I'm not just playing shogi—I'm proving to the world that I'm still here, still sharp.
I stand, brushing my hair out of my eyes, and walk away from the table. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, the air cooler now. I pass a group of first-years huddled under a tree, sharing a bag of chips, their laughter loud and carefree. It stings, just a little, because I don't remember the last time I laughed like that.
Back in my room at Aunt Hana's apartment, I drop my bag on the floor and sit at my desk. The small space is cluttered—books on physics stacked unevenly, a shogi board with pieces still set from a game I played against myself last night. A photo of Mom and Dad sits on the shelf, their smiles frozen in time. I don't look at it for long. It hurts too much.
I pull out my notebook and start working on a physics problem, something about particle motion. The numbers and equations calm me, like a rhythm I can follow. My pencil moves steadily, the scratch of graphite against paper the only sound in the room. But as I work, my mind drifts back to the dream. The handshake. The figure falling. I shake my head, trying to focus, but the image lingers.
The clock ticks past 7:00 p.m. Aunt Hana knocks softly on my door. "Rei, dinner's ready," she says, her voice gentle, ending with that same small hum she always does, like a song she can't let go of. She's always gentle, like she's afraid I'll break if she pushes too hard.
"Coming," I say, closing my notebook. I stand, stretching my arms, and glance out the window again. The rain has stopped, but the streets are still wet, reflecting the city's lights.
I head to the kitchen, where Aunt Hana has set out bowls of rice and miso soup. The smell is warm, familiar, but it doesn't fill the emptiness inside me. We eat quietly, the clink of chopsticks and her soft hum the only sounds. She doesn't ask about my day, and I don't tell her about the dream or the shogi game. Some things are easier left unsaid.
After dinner, I return to my room and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The dream replays in my head, clearer now. The two figures, the handshake, the fall. I don't know what it means, but it feels important, like a warning or a memory I can't place. My fingers twitch, restless again, and I clench them into a fist.
The dreams, the hallucinations—they're part of me now, too. I don't know if they're a gift or a curse, but they're mine. And maybe, one day, I'll figure out what they mean.
For now, I close my eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep. But deep down, I know another vision is waiting.