Classroom of Accomplices: The Honor Student Falls by Her Hand - Morning in a dark room, just the two of us

The rain had stopped before anyone noticed. Mid-August. The dawn over Kasumigahara City was eerily quiet, as if yesterday's downpour had been a lie. Puddles on the asphalt still blurred the outlines of the world. The city was asleep. No one was moving. Or rather, perhaps the only ones moving were these two. Haitsu Mikazuki. A thirty-eight-year-old wooden apartment building standing behind a mixed-use commercial building, six minutes on foot from the south exit of the central station. The cream-colored exterior walls were peeling, and the stairway railings were rusted. The corner unit on the first floor, Room 102. There was no nameplate on the door. Inside the room, there was no sound. No—there was. Just the faint sound of breathing. A single cheap futon was spread out on the six-tatami wooden floor. A blanket hung from the curtain rail as a substitute. It couldn't possibly block out light. Through the gaps in the thin blanket, the pale light of dawn cut across the room in thin, long lines. Against the wall, several paperback books were stacked. *The Woman in the Dunes*, *Kokoro*, *Kafka on the Shore*. All of them showed signs of having been read, their spines worn white. Uchiyama Sara had brought them from her old home. Other than those, she had no belongings. Murakami Hiroto woke up. (...Ah.) The hard floor pressing against his back. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His head was hazy. But his body remembered. That there was a cold presence beside him. He moved his neck, just slightly. Uchiyama Sara was sleeping, clinging to his left arm. Her long, glossy black hair spilled from his shoulder to his chest. Her bangs hid half her face, and beneath them, cheeks like white porcelain peeked out. She was hugging his arm with both hands. As if afraid someone would tear her away. Her fingertips touched his wrist, cool and faint. (...She's alive.) Hiroto looked at the ceiling. The stained ceiling of the dim room. It should have been an unfamiliar place, yet somehow, this was where he felt most at ease. Yesterday's memories slowly returned to his mind. His mother's slap. The blood that flowed from Uchiyama's lips. Running through the rain together. The warmth of their joined hands. *"I chose this. I'm not your doll anymore."* That shout still echoed deep in his ears. —That's right. He had chosen. This side. Hiroto slowly sat up. Uchiyama's warm weight slid from his arm, reluctant to let go. She opened her eyes thinly, then closed them again. Hiroto looked at the old mirror placed in the corner of the room. A full-length mirror with a wooden frame that the landlord had casually said "the previous tenant left behind." Fine scratches that couldn't be wiped away scattered the light across its surface. In the mirror stood Hiroto, barefoot. Navy blazer. Maroon tie. The uniform of Shūmon Private High School. They had fled here that rainy night, still in their uniforms. (*Why am I still wearing my uniform?*) Hiroto stared at his own reflection. Fine specks of mud were splattered on the shoulders of his blazer. The folded cuffs were still crumpled from the rain. His bangs clung to his forehead, making the eyes beneath look unusually sharp. Class representative. Soccer club. The teachers' trust. His classmates' smiles. So far away. All of it felt like clothes worn by a completely different person. As he stood there in a daze before the mirror, his lower half in slacks, his upper half in a dress shirt with the buttons still undone— "...Hey." A voice came from behind. He turned to find Uchiyama Sara sitting on the futon, looking up at him. Her eyes were still a little sleepy. But the light in her dark pupils flickered steadily in the morning dimness. "...Were you watching?" "...No. I just woke up." Uchiyama tilted her head slightly and gazed at Hiroto's back. "...We fell asleep in our uniforms, huh. ...All wrinkled." "...Yeah. I was too tired, just collapsed." "...I see." Uchiyama hugged her knees on the futon. Then she quietly stood and walked over to stand beside Hiroto. Their two figures lined up in the mirror. Uchiyama was also still in her uniform. Navy blazer, maroon ribbon. Countless wrinkles in her skirt. But as if none of that mattered, she was looking at Hiroto in the mirror. "...Weird." "What is?" "...Here we are, two high schoolers in uniform, alone in a run-down apartment. Until yesterday, we were in a classroom. ...It's weird." Uchiyama lifted the corner of her lips, just barely. Hiroto looked at himself in the mirror and let out a small laugh. "...Yeah, it really is weird. It's laughable. The class representative and the quiet transfer student—just two hours in the rain, and we ended up here." "...Right. We only meant to run away for two hours." "...It's not running away. This is the real thing." Hiroto shifted his gaze from his own reflection to Uchiyama. Two seventeen-year-olds in blazers. And yet, only the depths of their eyes looked terribly aged. Uchiyama tugged lightly at the left sleeve of Hiroto's blazer with her fingertips. "...Hey, Hiroto. ...This is our place." Her voice was close to a whisper. But it was a clear declaration. "...Whatever we do, or don't do, no one is watching. ...Not the classroom, not your mother, no one can interfere. ...A world with just me and Hiroto." Uchiyama wasn't looking at Hiroto in the mirror. She was staring intently at his real profile. Hiroto slowly straightened his back. (*This is our place.*) This narrow, dim, musty room. Outside the window, a concrete block wall and overgrown weeds. Even in the daytime, sunlight barely reached inside. And yet. Hiroto reached toward Uchiyama and grasped her hand from above. Cold. Ever since that day they were soaked in the rain, this temperature had belonged to her. "...Yeah. This is the whole world." Hiroto squeezed Uchiyama's hand tightly. He interlaced their fingers. He put strength into it. Uchiyama's fingers trembled faintly, as if responding. The world, soundlessly, was becoming theirs alone. Three days passed after that. No, to be precise, it was the morning of the third day. Hiroto was in the back room of Eight Mart, Central Station South Exit branch, opening cardboard boxes. Inside were boxes of instant noodles. A part-time job exclusively for night shifts, six days a week, with a late-night premium bringing the hourly wage to 1,280 yen. "Hiroto-kun, can you handle that side?" "I'm fine." The night shift clerk was a single male college student. Hiroto didn't know his name. He hadn't asked. The other man probably only knew Hiroto's name from the shift schedule. Stocking shelves. Receiving deliveries. Working the register. Checking expiration dates. Simple work. It didn't require thinking. No—rather, it let him empty his head, which was exactly what he needed. (*Today's sales, five thousand yen.*) (*This month's rent, thirty-two thousand yen.*) (*Uchiyama's savings, eighty thousand. My allowance, thirty thousand.*) (*Tuition—can't pay it.*) (*School—haven't gone.*) (*Already eleven days.*) Numbers and reality spun round and round in his head. Two in the morning. The road in front of the store was quiet. Streetlights illuminated the damp asphalt. Hiroto looked at his reflection in the window glass. Navy apron. A stretched-out, worn T-shirt. He hadn't cut his hair in two weeks. His bangs had grown long, casting shadows over his eyes. A faint stubble had appeared on his chin. It wasn't the face of a seventeen-year-old. No—it was the face of a seventeen-year-old who had been cornered. (*If they saw me like this, what would they think?*) The kids in his class. The soccer club guys. The teachers. (*Class rep Murakami, stocking shelves at a convenience store in the middle of the night.*) (*Ran away from home, living with a girl in a run-down apartment.*) It was laughable. Hiroto forced the corners of his mouth upward at his reflection in the window. —He couldn't smile properly. The class representative's smile had already vanished somewhere. His phone vibrated. It was Uchiyama. *"Welcome home, I'm waiting. Want something to eat?"* Short. No wasted words. Just like her. Hiroto typed a reply with his fingertips. *"No need. Want me to buy something?"* *"Then, a salmon rice ball. And tea."* *"Got it. Go to sleep."* Hiroto slipped his phone into his apron pocket. Then, in front of the register, he found himself staring into the distance beyond the store. Southward. If you went straight down this road, you'd pass under the Minase private railway overpass, and beyond that was Haitsu Mikazuki. He imagined the light in the corner room on the first floor. (*Uchiyama is in that room, with the light on.*) (*And she's waiting.*) Hiroto's steps quickened. He punched his time card. End of night shift, five in the morning. When he stepped outside, the sky was already growing light. He took a breath. The damp morning air. And the lingering, lukewarm humidity of August. The walk to the apartment. Six minutes. No—faster now. He walked quickly. He turned behind the mixed-use building. Weeds grew thick along the concrete block wall, forming something like a narrow path. In front of Room 102. He opened the door. The sound of the latch clicking. "...Welcome home." Just inside the entryway, on the raised floor above the earthen step. At the spot where you take off your shoes, Uchiyama was sitting, hugging her knees. Her eyes were clearly open. She wasn't asleep. She had been like this the whole time. In front of the door. Waiting for Hiroto to come home, just like this. When Uchiyama's face confirmed Hiroto's face, the corners of her eyes slowly narrowed. "...Were you there the whole time?" "...Yeah. Just because." "...It's cold, you know. Idiot." Hiroto took off his shoes and stepped up. The air in the entryway was stuffy with the day's trapped heat. But Uchiyama's body was cool. "...The breeze comes through here, so it's cool. ...And when I sit like this, time passes faster." "...There you go saying things like that again." Hiroto slowly stroked Uchiyama's hair. Black, glossy, smooth between his fingers. He swept her bangs back, tucking them behind her ear. Uchiyama leaned against him, pressing her forehead lightly against his leg. "...I'm home." Hiroto said those words for the first time, in this room, to Uchiyama. "...Yeah. Welcome home." Uchiyama's voice was muffled, coming from around his legs. "...Are you hungry? I bought rice balls. Salmon and tea." "...Yeah. Thank you. ...But let me stay like this a little longer." "...Okay." Hiroto set the bag on the floor. He reached out. He stroked Uchiyama's hair once more. Uchiyama's hand caught his from above. A cold hand. But today, her palm was just a little warm. Night came. Outside had grown even quieter. The two of them lay side by side on the single futon. The only light in the room was a small lamp. No—to be precise, a half-broken fluorescent bulb covered by a bare socket flickered faintly. The walls were thin. The low murmur of voices from the neighboring room could be heard, faint and constant. But between the two of them, there was only the even smaller sound of breathing. Hiroto stared at the ceiling. Uchiyama was looking at Hiroto, her cheek resting against his right arm. "...Hey, Hiroto." "...What." "...How many days has it been since you stopped going to school?" "...Four days since we came here. Twelve—no, about thirteen days since I stopped going to school. ...I'd been skipping on and off since the May holidays, so I don't know the exact number." "...Your homeroom teacher called. ...Many times." "...Yeah. I know. ...I don't answer. I've been ignoring all the calls." Hiroto moved his right arm, sliding it under Uchiyama's neck. He pulled her close. Uchiyama surrendered herself, burying her face in his chest. "...I'm not running away. ...I threw it away. ...The clas

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Episode 7

Name: Classroom of Accomplices: The Honor Student Falls by Her Hand
Author: Novelia

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