The station was cold, but Seita didn't feel the chill anymore. He leaned against the concrete pillar of Sannomiya Station, his breathing shallow, his ribs tracing sharp lines beneath a tattered shirt. Passersby—some in suits, others in rags—hurried past, their faces blurred like charcoal sketches.
To them, he was just another "stray." But in his mind, he was back in the firelight.
The Fire Above
The memory hit him with the heat of the incendiary bombs. The sky over Kobe hadn't been black; it had been a bruised, pulsing purple, raining canisters of fire that hissed like snakes as they pierced the paper roofs of their neighborhood.
"Seita! Hurry!" his mother's voice echoed. He remembered the frantic rush to bury the food in the yard—the jars of pickled plum and the precious tin of Sakuma drops. He remembered the weight of Setsuko on his back, her tiny hands gripping his shoulders, her breath warm against his neck.
"Mama?" Setsuko had whimpered as the sirens wailed, a sound that tore through the soul.
"She's going ahead to the shelter," Seita had lied, his voice trembling as he tightened the knot of the cloth holding his sister. "Don't let go, Setsuko. Keep your eyes shut."
The Black Rain
He vividly remembered the run. The world was a roar of wind and flame. The heat was so intense it felt like his skin was shrinking. People were screaming, diving into the canal, but the water offered no safety—only a reflection of the hell above.
Then came the black rain. Heavy, oily droplets that smeared the soot on their faces. Seita had crouched over Setsuko in a shallow trench, his own body a shield. He felt her small heart drumming against his spine—a frantic, rhythmic reminder of why he had to stay strong.
"Is it over?" she had whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of burning wood.
The Sight at the School
The most painful detail wasn't the fire; it was the silence afterward. Seita remembered walking through the remains of the school-turned-hospital. The smell of antiseptic and burnt flesh was suffocating.
He found her. A woman wrapped in blood-stained bandages, her face unrecognizable, the beautiful kimono cloth he knew so well peeking through the gauze. She didn't speak. She couldn't.
He had stood there, a boy of fourteen, holding a tin of fruit drops, realizing the world had ended. But when he stepped outside and saw Setsuko sitting on the steps, chasing a single, stray butterfly in the ruins, he knew he couldn't break. He tucked his mother's ring into his pocket and swallowed his tears.
The Turn of Fate
Back in the cold station, Seita's eyes fluttered. In the real story, this was where the light faded. But as his head lolled to the side, he didn't see the dark.
A hand—warm, solid, and smelling of real soap—rested on his shoulder.
"Hey," a voice said, not with disgust, but with a desperate kind of kindness. "Don't sleep yet, boy. I've been looking for someone to help me at the docks. I have bread. And I have medicine."
Seita blinked. The station floor stayed beneath him, but the shadow over him moved. For the first time since the bombs fell, someone looked at him and saw a human being instead of a ghost....