After the Empty Box: Echoes of Maria and the Whereabouts of the Everyday - The Stopped Second Hand

March 28th. The spring break was nearly over, and on that mid-morning, Hoshino Kazuki sat in his second-floor room at home, opening and closing his desk drawers. It wasn't anything as grand as preparing for the new school term. Just a simple task—putting unused textbooks back on the shelf, checking the contents of his pencil case. Outside the window, the cherry trees planted along the embankment of the Minase River were beginning to take on a faint color, visible even from a distance. This regional city, Minase, nestled between the sea and the mountains, was a gentle place, and spring always arrived first along the riverside cherry blossoms. Kazuki leaned his elbow on the windowsill and gazed at the scenery for a while. The wind stirred the curtains, carrying the scent of earth and young leaves into the room. On his desk sat a freshly opened bag of Umaibo. Kazuki casually took one out and bit into the end. A light, crispy sound echoed through the room. The sweet-and-salty corn potage flavor spread across his tongue. Eating this flavor made everything feel normal. (This is fine. This kind of everyday life suits me best.) Kazuki muttered inwardly. His short black hair had its usual sleep-tousled look today, and he ran his right hand through it a few times, but it quickly reverted. His calm, dark brown eyes vaguely caught his own reflection in the window glass. The small old scar above his left eyebrow was from a fall he'd taken as a child. At 172 centimeters, he was average height, and in his white shirt and navy cardigan, he looked like any other second-year high school student. Kazuki loved the everyday. He didn't wish for anything special. Wake up in the morning, go to school, talk with friends, come home, eat Umaibo. That was enough. No—over the past year, he had learned painfully well that this was what mattered most. Special powers. A special existence. Special incidents. Kazuki had a past where he'd been caught up in such things and nearly lost something precious. That was precisely why he quietly savored the end of this peaceful spring break. And yet, deep in his chest, there was a sediment he simply couldn't wash away. Otonashi Maria. That name crossed his mind at the oddest moments. Looking at the cherry blossoms outside the window, her face suddenly surfaced. Straight silver hair that reached her waist. Pale blue eyes like ice. A girl with a beauty that made adults falter. His classmate, the one who had once slapped him with a declaration of war, and— (Maria came back.) The battle over the Box. During that battle, Maria had been imprisoned as the Empty Maria. Kazuki had fought to get her back, and he had won. But as the price, Maria had lost all her memories from the time she was imprisoned. The Maria of now called him "you." She no longer had the sharp hostility or declarations of war from before. She was simply aloof, resolute, curt—speaking only when necessary. She rarely showed emotion, and she stared at Kazuki with those ice-like eyes. Even so, the occasional smile that crossed her face carried traces of the Maria from before her memory loss. In those moments alone, Kazuki felt his chest tighten. (I don't want anything special. And yet, why—) Why did the distance between them ache so much? They should have been closer before. No—if asked whether their relationship had been close, that too was complicated. It began with a declaration of war, they faced the mystery of the Box together, neither enemies nor allies—an indescribable relationship. And yet, there had certainly been an unspoken connection between Kazuki and Maria. The Maria of now didn't remember that connection. Kazuki took out another Umaibo and closed the bag. As if to drown the loneliness in his chest with sweetness. (Should I go see her?) The thought crossed his mind, but he shook his head immediately. He didn't know what he would say if they met. For that matter, he didn't even know if she wanted to see him. Kazuki shoved his smartphone into his cardigan pocket and began tidying his desk. Today, he planned to go to school. Under the pretext of scouting out his new classroom. He wanted to confirm once during spring break where his classroom was. Second-year Class 3. Second floor of the three-story building, the classroom at the east end. He knew this perfectly well, and yet wanting to check—perhaps it was the restlessness peculiar to high school students on the eve of a new term. Before leaving his room, Kazuki looked out the window one more time. A single cherry blossom petal danced in the wind. He followed it with his eyes for a while. — Minase Prefectural High School was about three kilometers northeast of Minase's city center, near the foot of Mt. Karasuha. A public school celebrating its fiftieth year, with roughly seven hundred twenty students. Kazuki commuted by bicycle. The school gate was quiet during spring break, and passing through the tree-lined path where cherry buds were beginning to swell, the empty school building came into view. There were three buildings, and Kazuki's classroom was on the second floor of the central one. He changed into slippers at the shoe lockers and walked the deserted hallway. Only his footsteps echoed strangely loud. The edge of a poster on the wall flapped in the breeze from an open window. When he reached the second-year Class 3 room, Kazuki pulled the back door. It wasn't locked. The door slid open with a rattle, and the air inside the classroom flowed out. There was a faint smell of chalk dust. The classroom was orderly. Desks and chairs were arranged in neat rows, and the blackboard was cleanly erased. The previous term's schedule was still posted on the bulletin board. Kazuki found his seat—second row from the window, third from the back—and sat down. (So this is my seat.) Feeling the texture of the chair, Kazuki looked around the classroom. An empty classroom felt so much larger than usual. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor. The air was slightly cold, and the silence clung to his ears. Then, he noticed something off. The second hand of the analog clock on the back wall wasn't moving. Kazuki looked at the clock. 3:42 PM. The second hand was stopped at the twelve. No—it looked less like it was stopped and more like it was trying to move but couldn't. He could even feel it trembling faintly. (Dead battery?) Kazuki stood and approached the clock. The round wall clock was positioned where it could be seen from anywhere in the classroom. The second hand was definitely stopped. But if the battery were dead, the minute and hour hands shouldn't be moving either. Thirty seconds. That was roughly how long Kazuki stared at the clock. In that instant, the second hand began moving again. Tick, tick, tick—it started marking regular time as if nothing had happened. Kazuki instinctively held his breath. (Was it stopped just now? No, it was stopped. Definitely.) The hands pointed to 3:43, and after that they kept time accurately. Kazuki stood frozen in place for a while. Something stirred deep in his chest. It's just my imagination, he tried to tell himself. A loose battery contact, or just a mechanical glitch. But it was strange. During the time the clock was stopped, the air in the classroom had felt astonishingly cold for just a moment. The windows were closed. And yet, it felt as if a cold wind had brushed the back of his neck. And then it happened. Kazuki looked out the window. The large cherry tree standing in the corner of the schoolyard. Beneath it, someone was standing. The figure was facing him. The distance was over fifty meters. He couldn't see the face clearly. But someone was definitely standing there, looking up at the classroom window. Kazuki rushed to the window. He strained his eyes. There was no one there. The cherry tree swayed in the wind, its branches casting shadows on the ground. Kazuki stared at the schoolyard for a while, but the figure did not appear again. (It's my imagination.) Kazuki told himself. The quiet of spring break was just making him a little oversensitive. It had to be. Even so, until he left the classroom, the sensation of something clinging to his back did not fade. — On the way home, Kazuki walked pushing his bicycle. It was about fifteen minutes by bike from school to his house. When he reached the embankment along the Minase River that ran through the city center, the wind grew stronger. The smell of the river. A scent unique to this town—tide and mud, mingled with a faint fragrance of cherry blossoms. Kazuki took out his smartphone and casually opened his contacts. Usui Haruaki's name was there. Oomine Daiya's name too. Kirino Kokone's as well. His classmates' names were lined up in alphabetical order. But something was missing. One thing. Kazuki scrolled through the screen. He followed the names in order from the top. A-row, Ka-row, Sa-row, Ta-row, Na-row, Ha-row, Ma-row, Ya-row, Ra-row, Wa-row. (...What's missing?) It looked like everyone was there. And yet, something was definitely absent. Kazuki furrowed his brow and checked again from the beginning. He still couldn't figure it out. He couldn't recall the name or the face. But a single blank space sat hollow in his chest. (Spring break brain fog, huh.) Kazuki put his smartphone back in his pocket. Lately, he felt like he'd been forgetting things a lot. Once the new term started, he'd probably remember naturally. That was the conclusion he reached. But the unease in his chest, mingled with that odd feeling from the classroom, was slowly growing. — That night. Kazuki sat on the living room sofa, watching TV. Both his parents worked, so they weren't home yet at this hour. Only the sound of the television flowed through the quiet room. In his hand was the bag of Umaibo. He'd told himself just one before dinner, but before he knew it, his hand was reaching for a third. This afternoon, it was learned that a high school girl in the city has gone missing. Kazuki's hand stopped at the news coming from the TV. The screen showed a photo of a high school girl. In her school uniform, she looked like any ordinary girl. Shoulder-length black hair, smiling faintly. Kazuki stared at the photo, still holding the remote. (I know this face.) He couldn't remember the name. He couldn't remember where they'd met. But he definitely knew this face. Police are investigating on both criminal and accidental grounds. The missing person is— The announcer read out the name. It was a name he'd never heard. No—he should have heard it, but it wouldn't stick in his mind. As if that part alone had been painted over in black. Kazuki gripped the remote. His fingertips were cold. (I know her. I know this girl.) He had no basis for it. But he had only conviction. The girl in the photo existed somewhere in Kazuki's memory. Her name, their connection—everything had fallen out, and yet only her face was recognizable. It felt awful. Kazuki turned off the TV. Silence enveloped the living room. Only the low hum of the refrigerator droned on. (It's my imagination. Too much happened today.) The clock stopping. The figure beneath the cherry tree. The blank in his contacts. And the déjà vu at the photo on the news. He had a premonition that they were all connected by a single thread. Kazuki shook his head and dismissed the thought. (The Box was destroyed. It's already over.) That's right. The battle over the Box was finished. Kazuki had gotten Maria back, the Box was destroyed, and the everyday had returned. That should have been the end. And yet. — The night deepened, and Kazuki lay on his bed in his room. Staring at the ceiling, he replayed the day's events. The second hand that stopped in the classroom. Thirty seconds—a mere sliver of time. But during it, something in the world had definitely changed. (The remnants of the Box, huh.) Oomine Daiya's face surfaced. A man with the id

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Episode 1

Name: After the Empty Box: Echoes of Maria and the Whereabouts of the Everyday
Author: Novelia

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