Mio Mochizuki, a new school support worker, is assigned to a local public elementary school. Shizuma Kuse, the homeroom teacher of Class 3-2, is the ideal educator—never raises his voice, adored by students, trusted absolutely by parents. But there is one strange child in his classroom: a girl whose face goes blank only in his presence.
His roll calls are always by number. "Number 5, answer." No one minds. But in the support records, the children's photos line up with expressionless faces—as if
Mr. Shizuma's Attendance Book - They disappear in order of attendance number.
The classroom before the start of the school day was filled with the body heat of those creatures called children. The sound of school bags being tossed onto desks, the smell of new textbooks not yet fully memorized, the creaking of indoor shoes running down the hallway at full speed. All of it mixed together to create a unique atmosphere inside the box called elementary school.
Mochizuki Mio, feeling slightly dizzy from that atmosphere, stopped in front of the Class 3-2 classroom on the south side of the second floor. Her shoulder-length brown hair still had a bit of bedhead from this morning. She had tied it up in the back, but the left and right sides bulged slightly differently. She now felt a small regret for leaving the house without taking the time to fix it in front of the mirror.
"Haah."
She let out a small breath. Her large, round, light-brown eyes clouded slightly, along with the area beneath them where her freckles were scattered. Starting today, this was her workplace. Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School. In this regional city of one hundred twenty thousand people, she worked as a learning support staff member. Part-time, with a monthly salary of one hundred eighty thousand yen. Not a full-time teacher. Even so, for her, it was finally the entrance to the place called education that she had managed to grasp.
She had a teaching license. However, the path to regular employment was narrow, and after continuing as a part-time instructor for years, she applied for the learning support position that the city's system had been recruiting for. She first learned about the "Akari Database"—a system that centrally manages attendance, grades, and support records for children nationwide—during her hiring orientation. It was explained as a system for child welfare. She thought it was a wonderful thing. But it was also true that she felt something like a suffocating sensation somewhere.
"Good morning."
When she called out, several children in the classroom turned around. Faces curious about an unfamiliar adult, faces that immediately returned to chatting with friends. The reactions varied.
"Ah, good morning. You must be Mochizuki-san."
The man standing near the teacher's podium slowly turned toward her. His black hair was neatly parted in a seven-to-three ratio, and he wore thin-framed glasses. A white shirt with a dark navy tie, gray slacks. Slim build, tall. Perhaps one hundred seventy-six centimeters. He was the homeroom teacher of Class 3-2, Kuze Shizuma.
"I'll be in your care starting today. I'm Mochizuki Mio, the learning support staff member."
She bowed her head. She desperately suppressed the urge to let her voice crack from nervousness, holding it down in the back of her throat.
"Likewise, please take care of me. I'm Kuze Shizuma. If there's anything you don't understand, please don't hesitate to ask."
Kuze's voice was surprisingly gentle. Not too low, not too high—a calculated softness, as if adjusted to reach children's ears just right. He smiled, turning his dark brown eyes behind his glasses toward Mochizuki. Those eyes hardly reflected light. And yet, there was no discomfort at all. Rather, she even felt a sense of reassurance.
(Ah, this person must be a good teacher.)
Mochizuki thought so honestly.
"Well then, shall we begin the morning meeting?"
When Kuze stood in front of the teacher's desk, the previously restless atmosphere of the classroom quieted as if a wave had receded. All twenty-eight children took their seats at once. Mochizuki was inwardly amazed at the speed of that switch.
"Good morning."
The children's voices joined together. Energetic voices, sleepy voices, voices still dragging on the continuation of conversations with friends. Even as they mixed together, the classroom as a whole managed to form a proper single greeting.
Kuze opened the attendance book placed on the teacher's desk. No—what he opened was not an attendance book. It was a thin tablet device. The screen displayed the attendance input form for the Akari Database.
"Now then, I'll do today's health observation. I'll call each of you by name."
Mochizuki stood at the back of the classroom, watching the children. In Kuze's hands, besides the tablet, there was also a paper class list. He called the children's names in order while looking at it.
"Aoki-san."
"Yes, I'm fine."
"That's a good response. Thank you."
Kuze always added something to each person. "You look well, that's good." "Your new hairstyle suits you." "You worked hard on yesterday's homework." All of it was natural, with no affectation. The children also seemed to look forward to being spoken to by Kuze.
(Amazing.)
Mochizuki was impressed. Was this what an ideal teacher was? Without ever raising his voice, carefully watching each individual, acknowledging them, wrapping the entire classroom in a warm atmosphere. It was no wonder parents trusted him.
The health observation ended, and the morning meeting progressed. Announcements, today's schedule, the school lunch menu. Kuze's progression was smooth, yet without any pressing sense of urgency.
"Now then, let's begin first period Japanese. Please open your textbooks."
The children opened their textbooks all at once. Mochizuki began moving slowly around the classroom to attend to children who needed support.
The Japanese class began with reading aloud from a narrative text. Kuze had several children read aloud in turn. That was when it happened.
"Next, number five. Please read."
Number five.
Mochizuki's feet stopped dead.
"Yes!"
A boy stood up with an energetic voice. He held his textbook with both hands and began reading aloud in a loud voice. The classroom's atmosphere flowed without any stagnation. No one minded anything.
(Number five...?)
Mochizuki repeated the words in her head. Kuze had certainly said "number five." Not the child's name. His attendance number.
However, that sense of discomfort was much smaller than she had thought. Kuze's voice was gentle as always, and the boy who had been called on was happily reading aloud. Everyone in the classroom accepted that way of calling as natural.
(There are certainly teachers who call students by attendance number. It's not particularly unusual.)
Mochizuki told herself that. When she was a student, there were also teachers who called students by attendance number. Some argued it was efficient. But in a third-grade elementary classroom, and moreover, Kuze, who had been so carefully calling each person by name, switching to numbers only during class. That switch caught in her chest like a small thorn.
The class proceeded calmly, yet warmly. Kuze occasionally walked between the children, gently instructing them on how to take notes. His movements were careful, and his fingertips were always neatly groomed. On his left wrist, there was a faint white tan line different from a watch mark. A mark as if something had been worn there for a long time. What it had been, Mochizuki couldn't tell.
Second period ended, and it was time for the mid-morning break.
The children burst out of the classroom. Some headed for the schoolyard, some for the library, some started origami in the classroom. At the center of it all, a particularly bright laugh echoed.
"And then, my grandma gave me a really big watermelon!"
Tsumura Yui. A girl with glossy black hair tied in two pigtails, sitting at the window-side seat. Small red hair ties swayed every time she moved. Her large, round black eyes always sparkled when she talked with friends. During break time, she was the sun of the class.
Mochizuki absentmindedly watched the circle of children gathered around Yui from the back of the classroom.
(She looks like she's having fun.)
Yui told her friends something funny, and the children around her laughed all at once. Drawn in by that laughter, Mochizuki's lips naturally loosened.
At that moment, the front door of the classroom opened.
"Oh, you're already back."
It was Kuze. He held several printouts in his hand and walked toward the teacher's desk. The children who noticed him called out "Kuze-sensei!" one after another. Kuze responded to each with a smile while placing the printouts on the desk.
Then, he began walking toward the window side.
Toward Yui's seat.
Mochizuki definitely saw it then.
The moment Kuze approached near Yui's seat and spoke to her, every emotion vanished from Yui's expression. That face, which had been laughing with friends just moments ago, went quiet as if water had been thrown on it. From her large, round black eyes, the light rapidly withdrew.
"Number twelve. Are you ready for the next class?"
Kuze's voice was gentle as always. However, the moment that voice reached Yui, her shoulders tensed slightly.
"...Yes."
Yui's reply was flat, like a completely different person from the bright voice of moments ago, with every color of emotion stripped away.
"I see. That's admirable."
Kuze smiled and lightly stroked Yui's head. Yui didn't move an inch. Even while being patted, her face remained expressionless like a noh mask.
A cold sensation ran down Mochizuki's spine.
(What...?)
What was that exchange just now? Kuze's actions were not strange at all. Rather, they were the actions of a good teacher concerned about a child's preparation. His voice was gentle. His gestures were natural.
And yet, why.
Why was Yui making that face?
Kuze moved away from Yui and walked toward the other children. Once he left, Yui's expression slowly returned, as if ice melting. When a friend called out "Yui-chan, let's continue talking!" she showed her bright smile once more.
As if that expressionless face from before had been a lie.
Mochizuki approached Yui's seat. Her heart was making an unpleasant sound.
"Tsumura-san."
She called out as gently as she could. Yui looked up and looked at Mochizuki. There was no expressionless face there. It was the face of an ordinary eight-year-old girl.
"Ah, Mochizuki-sensei."
Yui smiled brightly. A friendly, adorable smile.
"Um, I wanted to ask you something."
Mochizuki crouched down to match Yui's eye level.
"Did something happen with Kuze-sensei?"
Yui's smile froze for just a moment.
"...Nothing happened."
Her tone became flat again. The same voice with emotion stripped away as when Kuze had called her earlier.
"But earlier, when Kuze-sensei called you, you looked like you were in pain."
Mochizuki continued.
"If something happened, I can listen if you'd like. I won't force you."
Yui was silent for a while. She gripped both hands tightly on her lap, looking down. Her pigtails hung quietly, obeying gravity.
"...There's nothing."
It was a small voice.
"There's nothing. Kuze-sensei is kind."
Saying that, Yui smiled again. But that smile was different from the smile she showed when talking with friends. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were not. Mochizuki felt a sensation in that smile like her chest being tightly squeezed.
(This child is desperately running from something.)
It looked like the best defense mechanism an eight-year-old child could muster.
"...I see. Thank you."
Mochizuki couldn't ask anything more. She was afraid to ask. No—even if she asked, this child probably wouldn't say anything. She couldn't say anything. This child still didn't have the vocabulary to put the discomfort she was feeling into words.
Class resumed. Mochizuki continued to carefully observe Yui from the back of the classroom. When Kuze wasn't nearby, Yui was an ordinary, bright child. She talked with friends in a small voice, doodled in her notebook, and occasionally gazed out the window.
However, the moment Kuze entered her field of vision, her expression vanished again. Unconsciously, all the muscles of her expression would stop. As if lowering a shutter over her heart.
Mochizuki witnessed that change over and over again.
After school.
The classroom after the children had gone home was quiet and slightly lonely. Eraser crumbs lay on the desks,
Novelia is an AI-powered platform to read original light novels and fan fiction, create your own in just a few taps, and chat with the characters. New, illustrated episodes arrive daily — free to start.