There was no shape, no edge. Not black. Not even dark. Just white—so blinding it erased depth, erased distance, erased time. It wasn’t light, not really. It was emptiness that burned, a hollow glow pretending to be something more than void.

  Souta Minami stood in it. Or floated. Or knelt. He couldn't tell, and it didn’t seem to matter. Movement was a lie here. He lifted a foot and stepped forward, or maybe backward—either way, the whiteness remained unchanged. No floor beneath him. No ceiling above. No up, no down. Just the same endless, blinding nothing in every direction.

  His body felt unanchored—like something worn in a memory, limbs that responded without presence, breath that came too easily for lungs that might not exist. He tried again to move, but the motion was swallowed whole by the stillness, leaving no ripple, no sound, no trace.

  There was no warmth here. Only quiet. Only stillness. Only the weightless echo of a world that had let go of him.

  Then something inside him hitched. A breath caught in his throat—sharp, shallow, unfamiliar. It didn’t feel like his. And in that fragile inhale, the pain returned—not the immediate shock of dying, but the echo of it. Not fresh, not new, but remembered. Like a splinter forcing itself back beneath the skin.

  He gasped, clutching his head with both hands. His breath caught. No blood. No pain. No hole. His skull was intact. Whole. But his heart pounded as if it were still being crushed under the weight of that falling world. His fingers twitched. Thoughts running through his head. But then he realises that he’s thinking.

  Why am I still able to think? He thought.

  This… can’t be the afterlife… is it?

  Maybe this was the waiting room between life and whatever came next. Maybe it was the afterlife. Or perhaps just a glitch in the universe’s code. Maybe something had fractured—and he’d simply slipped through the cracks.

  Souta staggered back a step—or thought he did. There was no ground. No sky. Only white.

  “…What the hell is this?”

  His voice came out weaker than he intended. Less anger, more… exhaustion.

  And then—finally—a voice. Soft. Lilting. Female.

  “Took you long enough”

  It was teasing. Almost playful. But something about it made his skin crawl. Not threatening exactly—just in a way that tickled his spine.

  A figure appeared before him. Feminine in silhouette, but blurred around the edges like her form was only half-real. Shadow and light played across her body with no rhyme or reason, constantly shifting.

  “My, my… What a handsome young man you are,” she said, her tone half-mocking, half-wistful.

  “Wh—who are you? And why do you sound like you were waiting for me? Did you know I’ll be here?” He asked, overwhelmed by her shadowy appearance.

  “Of course I knew you’d come. I'm Mirith—Mirith Everglen. Most call me the Witch of Time. I see what was, what is, and what will be. That's how I knew you'd be here. I saw your death in a future that hadn't yet arrived, long before this moment.”She replied, her tone constant.

  “Wait… so, uh… is Mirith your last name or Everglen?” he asked, brows furrowed in confusion. Understandable—he was Japanese, after all.

  Mirith chuckled, amused by the question. “This is what you’re worried about right now? Also no, no—you’ve got it backwards. Everglen’s my last name. Mirith is my given name. Around here, we say our first names first.”

  “I see…” He paused for a moment, then asked in a low voice, “Are you the one responsible for this?”

  She blinked—or seemed to. It was hard to tell without a face.

  “Responsible? For what?”

  “My death.” He swallowed. “Or this… afterlife. Or limbo. Or whatever the hell this is.”

  She tilted her head, as if amused. “I suppose in a very distant, metaphysical sense, I could be. But not directly. I can see futures, I can’t alter them normally. You died because you were unlucky. Or maybe because fate needed you dead. Who’s to say?”

  He flinched at the word. Dead.

  “I—I’m not supposed to be here.” he muttered.

  “Well yeah, normally, when someone dies, their soul drifts to the realm beyond. But not long ago, I created a few new time spells—one of them let me peer into your world. From that moment on, I have been watching you, ever since the day you were born. Your life had barely begun before it was taken from you. You wanted to live more, right? That’s why you’re here. This place… it was always meant for you, Souta Minami.” She spoke. Her voice warm and quite understanding.

  A vein pulsed at Souta’s temple. His jaw tightened as he stepped forward, fists clenched so hard they trembled. “Pretty vague way of saying that you’ve been stalking me ever since I was born and still didn’t come to help. Also look, my dad and I—we’ve been through hell together. You probably know that already, don’t you? With that damn spell of yours. He’s got no one but me. Just me. Right now, he’s probably still at work… or maybe already heading home. And when he sees I’m not there, he’s gonna start worrying. Maybe he’ll think I missed the train. Maybe he’ll start pacing the hallway, checking his phone every five minutes and he won’t eat. Not a single bite until I walk through that door. Did you know that?...”

  She didn’t answer. Just listened.

  “...He always waits for me. Even when I’m out late with friends—even when I tell him not to.” Souta’s voice cracked, his eyes burning. “It doesn’t matter how tired he is after work. He still stays up. He waits until I walk through that door.” He took a shaky breath, voice growing quieter. “And now… he’s not going to get a text. He’s not even a call. He’s just going to see my face—” His throat tightened. “On the news… or worse, in person. Crushed. Unrecognizable.”

  Silence fell between them like snow.

  “You… You’re the witch of time, right?” he said at last. “You said something about being one. So… do me a favour... Let me see him. Just once. I just want to know if he’s okay.”

  She stood still. The teasing tone had vanished from her voice when she finally spoke again.

  “I can’t show you that.”

  “Why not?” His voice sharpened. “You said you see past, present, future—so show me.”

  “If I tell you what happens to your father,” she said, “then it won’t happen.”

  Souta froze.

  “W-what do you mean?”

  Her voice softened. “When I tell others about the future, it changes. You asked me for reassurance, but offering you that comfort would mean stealing his destiny. You care about him, don’t you? Then think of it this way—what if he will be okay? Maybe not right away, but in time. Would you really take that future from him just to ease your own fears?”

  He stared at her, jaw trembling. “So you’re just gonna tell me not to worry? Just forget it ever happened? Just forget him?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m telling you to hold on to the hope that one day, you’ll see him again. And to keep going, because of that hope.”

  “Will I ever get to see him again?”

  “Who knows… maybe if you’re lucky?”

  Souta looked down. His throat tightened. His knees gave out.

  He dropped, hands over his face, choking down sobs that clawed their way out of his chest.

  “I was just starting to live truly,” he whispered. “After we let go of the Katsuragi name… after we finally began piecing things together… I really thought maybe—just maybe—we could be happy. That maybe we actually deserved to be.”

  Tears spilled through his fingers.

  “He always blamed himself for everything—always apologizing, even when he didn’t say the words out loud. I could see it in his tired eyes. Clear as day. I wanted to tell him I forgave him. For all of it. Even though there was nothing to forgive. He always did what he thought was right. And now he’s alone. And I’m stuck here, in this hollow, pointless place… talking to some smug shadowy witch pretending to care.”

  Mirith didn’t move at first. Then, the shadows stirred and shaped into a tall, slender elf woman. She wore a light traveling cloak, its hem gently worn by distance, with a satchel of herbs at her hip and soft boots laced to the calf. A wool beret sat slightly askew, with a sprig of rosemary tucked behind her ear like a forgotten thought. Her long silver hair, slightly frizzy at the ends, was tied into a loose braid with a handmade ribbon. Soft bangs framed her face, and her gentle green eyes held the weary kindness of someone who’d spent many nights staying up for others.

  She knelt beside him.

  “Loss follows you like a shadow, doesn’t it, Souta Minami?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “It eats at you when the world is quiet. Makes you think you’re cursed. Makes you think the people you love are better off without you, just so it’ll hurt a little less when they disappear.”

  His breath caught.

  She touched his shoulder. Not warm. Not cold. Just… there.

  “But that’s not true,” she said gently. “And deep down, you know it.”

  Souta swallowed hard. The silence that followed wasn’t comforting—but it was shared. And for a moment, that was enough.

  Finally, he looked up at her—and blinked. “Wait… you’re an elf?”

  He stared for a moment, visibly thrown off. “Seriously? You just jumped out of a shadow, and yet you look like someone I’d run into at the edge of a quiet village—humming while watering flowers on her porch. Not really what I imagined a witch to be like. You actually seem… kind.”

  She chuckled softly. “Then let’s set the scene properly.”

  With a snap of her fingers, the ground shimmered, and a field of flowers began to bloom, spreading outward in every direction.

  His mouth fell open. “H-How did you do that? That wasn’t… time magic, was it?”

  She smiled, tilting her head. “I am the Witch of Time, but it doesn’t hurt to learn a little more than just time magic, right?”

  “This suits you more,” he muttered, still staring at the flowers. “Yeah… this feels more like you.”

  Her smile lingered for a moment before softening. “There’s a bit of a story behind this whole ‘Witch’ title of mine. I wasn’t always called that, you know.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hmm… you don’t really give off that ‘witch’ vibe. So, what’s the story?”

  She let out a quiet sigh. “I was actually one of the Legendary Mages that were chosen to defeat a powerful enemy that once terrorized the lands of the world I’m about to send you to. Our mana pools are among the largest anyone has ever had. They’re so immense that our mana presence pretty easily overwhelms normal people.”

  Her gaze drifted as if reaching into memories laced with pain and glory.

  “Long, long ago, we were sent to kill Vael'tharon, the Hollow King—a being born from the remnants of a forgotten god, wrapped in shadow and grief. He ruled over silence and despair, a blight that spread across the continent like a disease. We did kill him… but not without consequence.”

  “Two cruel curses were placed upon us—one that made the people forget we ever existed, and another that made us immortal. Everyone forgot us… everyone but ourselves. We were meant to return as heroes, but instead, when we came back, no one recognized us. It was as if we’d never been.”

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  She gave a bitter smile, eyes distant with the weight of memory. “We knew that this might happen. Still, we tried… We suppressed our mana presence as best we could, hoping it would make people less uneasy around us. But it was never enough—we couldn’t keep it hidden for long without wearing ourselves down to the bone. Some people still believed in us. We even managed to make a few friends again.” Her voice faltered, a trace of warmth flickering before vanishing. “But most looked at us with fear in their eyes. They whispered behind closed doors, avoided our gaze. And soon, they gave us a name soaked in suspicion—‘Witches.’”

  Her hands curled slightly, knuckles white. “Then the king sent his forces to trap and kill us, and anyone who still stood by our side. We barely escaped. We fled, deep into the uninhabited lands at the eastern-most edge of the eastern-most continent, where no one dared live. There, we built a village with our own hands… and to keep ourselves safe, we raised a barrier—one only we could cross. We’ve been hidden ever since.”

  “The… immortality part doesn’t really sound like a curse though, people in my world are finding ways to turn immortal.” he said, his voice unsure.

  “It is a curse.” she murmured, her gaze falling to the floor. “We’ve watched those who stood by us—those who still believed, their children, and their children’s children—grow old and die, while we remained the same. It’s not a sharp pain, not something loud or sudden. It’s slow… quiet… a constant ache that lingers in the silence. And it never fades.”

  Souta didn’t know what to say. He was the kind of person who never quite had the right words for situations like this. Still, he said something anyway.

  “You know… you could’ve just introduced yourself as a Legendary Mage instead of the Witch. Would’ve been a lot less stressful for me. You’re way more comforting like this than in that shadowy form.”

  She blinked a few times, then offered a faint smile. “They called us witches, so I was just playing along. Honestly, if you hadn’t started crying like that, I probably wouldn’t have told you about it.”

  He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Then I’m glad I cried”

  Silence settled between them again, soft and lingering.

  “…So… what now?”

  She let out a relieving sigh. “Now,” she said, her voice brightening again, “you get to live again.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You’re being sent to our world. Yeah, straight out of those ‘isekai’ stories you’ve read, I know.”He shot her an annoyed look at the mention of ‘isekai stories.’

  She raised a finger with a faint smirk. “But here’s the twist—you get a gift.”

  Souta eyed her warily. “A ‘gift.’ From the witch or the mage?”

  She chuckled. “Does it matter? My personality doesn’t change, whether I’m a witch or a mage.”

  He let out a slow breath, something between a sigh and a dry laugh. “I see… well that’s good.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly. “So, what kind of gift?”

  “An ability, you can rewind time every time you die. Back to the moment where things started to go wrong, giving you the chance to change the outcome. Think of it as… a second chance that keeps on giving. Until you get it right. It drains a lot of mana but it drains it from my mana pool so you don’t have to worry about lack of mana.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  “Sounds pretty OP… what’s the catch?”

  “You’ll feel every ounce of pain from the moment you died—every blade that pierced you, every spell that tore through you, even the agony of your own beheading. You’ll feel it all again. Momentarily. Also, you’ll remember everything that happened before you died but others won’t.” she said, cheerfully unbothered.

  Souta stepped back. “T-that’s… scary.”

  She shrugged. “Depends on how you use it. I’ve got to stop you from triggering it over every minor inconvenience, because it drains mana from my pool. I won’t die, sure—but I’ll be left exhausted and in pain, and honestly, that’s just as bad.”

  He closed his eyes. For a moment, he was back in that heartbeat of helplessness before the sky fell on him.

  He opened them again. “I already died once. I’m not eager to repeat it.”

  She tilted her head. “Then make sure you don’t.”

  He scowled. “Do I get a say in what this ability’s called?”

  “Of course.”

  He crossed his arms and thought for a moment. The Latin lessons Katsuragi had drilled into him floated back into his mind.

  “…Mors Revixio,” he said quietly.

  Her voice grew curious. “I—don't remember having heard of any word like that before, what does it mean?”

  “Latin for ‘Death Revival.’ Fitting, right?”

  “Latin, huh?...”She paused for a moment, then she giggled again. “Oh yeah, I remember now, watching your tutor drill it into you. The Witch of Void will be curious—he adores random bits of knowledge. But be careful around him—he’s barmy.”

  Souta blinked, then gave her a flat look. “Right. Because casually admitting you’ve been stalking me my whole life wasn’t weird enough—now you’re throwing around words like bar—?”

  Suddenly, a loud deep voice echoed through the space, sharp and furious. “YOU’RE the one who’s barmy, old hag! And I’m not a witch, I'm a wizard.”

  Souta flinched, glancing around in alarm. “What the hell—where did that come from?”

  Mirith stayed perfectly calm, her smile unwavering. Then she pointed behind him. “There he is.”

  Souta turned to look and saw another shadowy figure approaching—its form dense and tall, yet not as overpowering as Mirith’s. The figure moved silently and stopped beside him. Then, without warning, the shadow flared outward in a swirl of dark mist, coalescing into a man. He wore layered robes etched with void-like patterns, his long silver-blue hair falling over sharp features. His eyes, a striking amber-gold, glowed faintly as if reflecting distant stars—an eerie, composed presence, like the void itself—calm, vast, and quietly watching. But as he took shape, his brow furrowed, lips curling in faint offense.

  Then she giggled. “Knew that would get a reaction out of you.”

  “Who’s this guy?...” Souta stiffened because the shadow flaring and forming into a man, the sudden transformation had caught him off guard.

  The man adjusted the cuffs of his robe with quiet precision, then placed a hand on his chest with ceremonial flair.

  “I’m Eiren. The Wizard of Void,” he said plainly. “One of the Legendary Mages. I maintain the balance of this dimension—and I was the one who intercepted your death. Mirith told me to.”

  Souta blinked, processing that. “Wait… Wizard? But Everglen-san said—everyone called you all witches.”

  Mirith chuckled. “That’s just what people ended up calling us. Has a better ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Eiren frowned. “It’s inaccurate.”

  Souta gave her a confused look. “So you’re not all witches?”

  She shrugged, grinning. “He’s the only male among us. I don’t really think of him as a ‘dude,’ anyway—he’s more family than a dude. He’s a witch. End of story.”

  Quite a harem you’re getting, Eiren-san, Souta mused silently, smirking to himself.

  “Oi, I heard that,” Eiren snapped, narrowing his eyes.

  Souta nearly choked on air. “Wait—what?! You can hear thoughts?”

  Eiren crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow. “Only of the people in this dimension.”

  Souta flinched. “Scary.”

  Mirith grinned. “Well, would you look at that. You two are getting along so well already.”

  Souta shot her a deadpan look. “Is this your idea of perfect?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, delighted. “You’re snarky, he’s prickly—it’s practically destiny.”

  “Don’t tell me that you read my mind too.” Souta said flatly. He was starting to get uncomfortably used to having his privacy invaded.

  She gave him a cheeky smile, and raised a finger. “Spell contracts are a wonderful thing, you know.” she said with a wink.

  Eiren sighed, rubbing his temples, the fatigue pressing in around his eyes. “Whatever. Just get it over with Mirith.”

  She looked at Eiren. “Alright, yes.” Then turned to Souta. “You’ll understand the language of your new world—you must’ve realized it already, talking to us like this,” she added, her tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact. “A little gift from our charming male witch here. You won’t even notice the difference—just like you haven’t so far.”

  Just the words ‘male witch’ made Eiren turn his head slowly, fixing Mirith with a look so flat and venomous it could’ve curdled starlight. No words—just the kind of death stare that conveyed a thousand silent complaints, most of them involving cosmic law violations, and possibly homicide.

  Souta blinked, his mouth parting slightly.

  He hadn’t realized it. Not until now. He glanced between them, feeling the delayed weight of the revelation settle in.

  “…Huh.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of every word he’d spoken since ending up here. None of it had felt foreign. No stumbles, no confusion. It had just… worked.

  “That’s kind of disturbing,” he muttered. “Cool, but still disturbing.”

  Eiren nodded, as if he’d expected that reaction. “It’s a basic attunement spell. I made it because Mirith told me to. She couldn’t understand anything in your world without it. Then she learned your language, your culture… everything. I cast it on you when you arrived.”

  Souta raised an eyebrow. “So like—a translator.”

  “Precisely. It binds the local language to your perception,” Eiren said, as matter-of-fact as ever. “Costs barely any mana. It runs off my pool, not yours. You won’t notice it, unless I drop it.”

  Mirith gave Souta a sideways glance. “Which he won’t. Unless he forgets you exist.”

  “I won’t,” Eiren said, immediately.

  Souta stared. “…Should I be reassured or more worried?”

  Mirith beamed at Eiren, completely unfazed. “Don’t worry—he’s got a great memory and he loves helping out. He’s a total sweetheart.”

  “He seems like… someone who could break the whole world if he felt like it,” Souta said, still surprised.

  Mirith let out a sigh.“His abilities are beyond anyone’s comprehension,” Mirith replied with a calm smile. “Even ours.”

  Souta glanced at Eiren, then back at Mirith. “Honestly? He looks more like someone you’d mistake for a wit—...wizard. The way he looks, the way he carries himself… it just fits. You, on the other hand—Everglen-san—you really don’t seem like a witch to me. I don’t get why anyone would call you one.”

  Mirith chuckled, clearly amused. “We’ve got mana racism here, lad. Also, don’t go calling people by their last names out there—they’ll think you’ve lost it.” She clapped her hands once, the sound light and crisp. “Anyway! I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. Any last questions?”

  "Yeah—can I get a refund if this reincarnation thing sucks?”

  That earned a genuine laugh from Mirith, bright and unrestrained. Even Eiren, the Wizard, despite himself, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch into the faintest smile—just for a moment.

  “Too late to back out now, besides I doubt it’ll suck.” Mirith said, still grinning. Then she let out a soft sigh. “Alright, Eiren. Transfer him to the world.”

  “As you wish,” the Wizard—Eiren—replied, then looked to Souta with a rare softness in his voice. “And… visit us sometime, Souta. We’re not as frightening as our titles make us sound.”

  Souta blinked at Eiren’s words, caught off guard by the unexpected gentleness.

  “…Right. I’ll keep that in mind,” he muttered, awkwardly scratching his cheek.

  Mirith gave a satisfied hum, and she and Eiren stepped back, their silhouettes beginning to shimmer like a heat haze. “Then it’s settled. Off you go, little wayfarer,” she said at last.

  The moment stretched—silent, weightless.

  Then Eiren raised a hand. The void around them pulsed.

  Souta felt it before he saw it: a pull, like invisible fingers reaching into his chest. The ground beneath him—if it ever existed—dropped away. Light bled into shadow. Shadow turned to stars. And the stars—

  They rushed past him.

  The stars exploded and everything became dark.

  △▼△▼△▼△

  Darkness gave way to sensation.

  First, the chill—soft, damp earth pressing against his back. Then the scent—loam and greenery, tinged with unfamiliar floral sweetness and the faint bite of incense-like smoke. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, their calls sharp and alien. Wind rustled leaves above him, and sunlight filtered through, flickering behind closed eyelids.

  His hands clutched the soil instinctively. Real. Cool. Grainy. His nails dug into it as if grounding himself in the certainty that he was here—that he still was.

  I’m not dead, he thought. I made it.

  He opened his eyes and blinked furiously, his vision adjusting to the light. He was in a garden—or what resembled one. A small patch of green surrounded by tall stone walls, ancient and ivy-covered. A pond shimmered nearby, ringed with polished stones, and curious pink-leafed trees swayed above him, their petals dancing like feathers.

  It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

  Souta’s eyes darted to his body, and his breath caught.

  His school uniform. Blue blazer, white shirt—still buttoned to the collar—stripped tie—grey slacks, and his shoes.

  He was still wearing everything from his last moment in his world.

  He turns his head around.

  His bag lay crumpled beside him, one strap tangled in a nearby bush. He reached for it, hands trembling, as if touching it might make it vanish. But no—it was there. Real.

  He unzipped it with frantic urgency. Inside were his textbooks, his notebook with the edge chewed from nerves during class, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich. His pencil case. His phone. Even—

  He patted his blazer pocket. There was Hayasaka’s note.

  “Don’t forget to smile today. You look better when you’re not overthinking the oxygen you breathe.”

  A flicker of sadness passed through him. Then he sighed and gave his cheeks a quick slap. They really brought all this with me. But I'm glad they did.

  He pulled out his phone. The screen flickered to life—battery just under 50%. No signal. Time shown was 20:48.

  “Right. Other world,” he muttered. “No LTE in fantasyland.”

  He looks up at the sun right above him, squinting his eyes.

  “Definitely doesn't look like it's about 9 p.m. to me, more like— 12:00 p.m.”

  He changes the time in his phone manually, turns it off, and kept it in his bag again. A piece of home. But it seemed like it’ll die soon. Turning it off seemed like a good idea. His breathing slowly began to settle.

  A whisper of sound behind him.

  He jerked his head up.

  Voices. Footsteps. People were gathering.

  Souta’s eyes widened. They looked… human. Mostly. Some with robes, others in simple tunics, coats or dresses. Most of them young. Their eyes were wide, curious. A few whispered among themselves. One pointed at him.

  One girl tilted her head at him and said something in a melodic, foreign tongue. Souta couldn’t understand the words, but her honey-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her wide, violet eyes studied him intently.

  Then he did.

  The sentence twisted, midair, and rearranged itself in his mind, like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

  “Your clothes are… strange.”

  Mirith and Eiren weren't bluffing. The language barrier really has vanished.

  Souta stared at her, at the crowd, his breath stuck in his throat.

  “I—I…” he stammered. Slowly standing up at his place.

  A silver-haired boy with gray eyes asked, “Is he a foreigner?”

  His older sister, a girl standing beside him, giggled. “He’s kinda cute, though.”

  Souta’s eyes darted around, heart racing.

  They were studying him. Like he was an artifact. An exhibit. Just like when he was still a Katsuragi. The floor beneath him tilted—not literally, but in his head. His body flushed hot with panic. The garden, the voices, the unfamiliar stares—they were too much.

  This isn’t good. None of this is good.

  His body moved before thought caught up. He grabbed his bag, stumbled to his feet, and ran.

  He didn’t know where he was running, but he was running.

  Branches slapped past, stone paths blurred underfoot, and petals kicked up like confetti torn from a forgotten parade. His lungs burned. The kind that said you’re alive. The kind that felt earned.

  Just keep running. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just move.

  He darted around a hedge wall and finally staggered to a stop beside an old building, nestled in a shaded glade where ivy curled along its weathered stone. A clean stone path ran alongside it, turning sharply just past the corner. Souta slumped against the wall and slid down until the cool stone pressed against his back. His knees shook.

  His hand instinctively reached into his bag. Still there. Everything was still there.

  His phone. His notebooks. Pencil case. He pulled his phone out and stared at the screen. No bars. No Wi-Fi. No missed calls.

  It might as well have been a brick.

  He opened the gallery.

  A blurry shot of his desk. That dumb packet of convenience store instant curry. His father’s face, mid-yawn, caught in the background of a selfie. A group photo of him, Sugimura, and Hayasaka—taken when Sugimura came back to join them after junior high. His hair was neat then, unlike in elementary school.

  His throat tightened. The faces on the screen blurred as his vision swam. They were laughing—carefree, like nothing could ever go wrong. He looked awkward among them, never quite photogenic. But they were all there.

  He clenched his jaw, hard. One sharp breath. Then he shut the screen off, thumb trembling. Not now. Not yet.

  Footsteps—rapid, uneven.

  He barely had time to look up before—

  WHUMP.

  End of Chapter 1,

  A Second Chance That Keeps on Giving.

  To be continued…

  Fun fact: Mirith was so hooked on the Japanese culture that she ended up transforming the village she and the other 'witches' built for their followers into the most Japanese-looking place you’d find in that world. They had tea ceremonies, practiced calligraphy, even followed bento etiquette. The houses were totally traditional too. And yeah, she definitely roped the other witches into helping her whether they wanted to help her or not.

  Also, I’ve tweaked my writing style a little ?? let me know what you think! And although it's pretty early for it but if you're enjoying it so far, don’t forget to follow or add it to your favorites!)