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
Mochizuki Mio was holding her breath alone in front of the computer in the support staff room.
The morning light was still thin, and outside the window, the cherry blossoms had begun to fall. Mid-April had passed, and the cherry tree at the corner of the schoolyard scattered petals with every gust of wind. The support staff room was on the north side of the first floor, and sunlight didn't reach it during the morning. Only the white light of the fluorescent lamps illuminated her face.
(What was that yesterday, I wonder.)
Mochizuki was replaying the scene she had witnessed in the classroom yesterday morning. The moment Kuze Shizuma entered the classroom, the expression vanished from one boy's face. The boy had been laughing with his friends until then, but the instant he saw Kuze, he stopped moving entirely. Like a doll with its switch turned off.
The same thing had happened with Tsumura Yui.
Mochizuki had told herself over and over again yesterday.
(It's just my imagination. He was probably just nervous. Just surprised that a new teacher came in.)
But something caught in the depths of her chest didn't disappear even after a night passed. Every time she turned over in bed, that expressionless face surfaced behind her eyelids.
That was why she was here now.
One of her duties as a support staff member was checking children's support records. In Minamo City, a system called the "Akari Database" was used to centrally manage attendance, grades, and support records for children across the country. When Mochizuki was hired as a learning support staff member for this city, this system was the first thing explained to her.
"All of the children's information is consolidated here. Attendance, grades, support records. With parental consent, photo data is registered as well."
The person in charge from the city's board of education had said this while operating the screen. On the display, the children's names, dates of birth, addresses, guardian names, and facial photographs were lined up.
At that moment, Mochizuki had felt a slight tightness in her chest.
(What a tremendous amount of management.)
But she told herself that this was how modern education worked. That it was a necessary system for watching over the children.
On the computer screen, the class roster for Class 2, Year 3 was displayed. Twenty-eight names were lined up in order of attendance number.
Mochizuki opened each student's support record one by one.
Number one, number two, number three...
Every child's photo was perfectly ordinary. A nervous face apparently taken on the day of the entrance ceremony, a beaming smile apparently taken on a field trip day, a serious profile taken during class. Below the photos, height, weight, health conditions, and matters requiring support were recorded in detail.
(This child has trouble with arithmetic, huh.)
Mochizuki carefully read through each record. As a support staff member, it was important to know about the children. What kind of support each child needed, what kind of home environment they had.
She was earnest.
Because her high school self had not been.
(If only I had watched properly back then.)
The old scars on her right wrist seemed to prickle beneath her sleeve. Three thin lines. Scars she had carved into herself in the winter of her second year of high school.
Back then, there had been a classmate in her class who became expressionless. She was being bullied. It started with small acts of ignoring, then her belongings were hidden, her desk was defaced, and eventually she became an existence that just sat still at the edge of the classroom like a doll.
Mochizuki had watched.
She had watched, and done nothing.
(If I had spoken to her, maybe something would have changed.)
That classmate stopped coming to school before the graduation ceremony. After that, no one knew what became of her.
Mochizuki still carried the helplessness of that day.
That was why she became a support staff member.
So that this time, she wouldn't look away.
(But yesterday, I couldn't do anything after all.)
Mochizuki bit her lip and moved the mouse.
Number twelve. Tsumura Yui.
She opened Yui's support record.
On the screen, Yui's photograph was displayed.
(Huh...?)
Mochizuki stopped the hand gripping the mouse.
What was shown on the screen was a smiling Yui. Glossy black hair tied in two pigtails, a dimple on her right cheek, large round black eyes. She had her arm around a friend's shoulder, laughing toward the camera. A natural smile, apparently taken during recess.
(So this is Tsumura-san...)
Mochizuki recalled the Yui she had seen in the classroom yesterday.
At that time, Yui hadn't been smiling.
But the Yui in the photograph was smiling brighter than anyone.
(So it really was just my imagination, after all.)
Mochizuki felt slightly relieved.
However, the next moment, her finger stopped.
Multiple photographs were registered in the record. They were arranged chronologically. Ones from the beginning of the school year, from summer, from autumn, from winter, and—from April of this year.
Mochizuki clicked on the most recent photograph.
The screen switched.
(...What?)
What was shown there was not the smiling Yui.
The light had vanished from her black eyes, the dimple on her cheek was gone, and her lips were pressed into a straight line. Only the two pigtails were the same, and she looked like a completely different person. No, rather than a different person—
(Like a doll.)
That was what Mochizuki thought.
The Yui in the photograph was looking at the camera. But those eyes saw nothing. Her gaze seemed to pass through to this side of the screen and be sucked into some distant void.
Mochizuki checked the date the photograph was taken.
October of the previous school year.
(October...)
She opened the other photographs in order as well.
April, at the beginning of the school year. A smile. A dimple. Sparkling eyes.
Summer. A smile. Playing in the pool with friends.
September. Her expression was slightly stiff. But she was still smiling.
October. Expressionless.
November. Expressionless.
December. Expressionless.
January. Expressionless.
February. Expressionless.
March. Expressionless.
And April of this year. Expressionless.
(What... is this...)
Mochizuki felt cold sweat seeping down her back.
The Yui in the photographs had stopped smiling entirely, starting from October.
Kuze Shizuma had begun serving as homeroom teacher for Class 2, Year 3 starting from the previous school year. As confirmed in the worldview setting materials, Kuze had been assigned to this school last year.
(Since Kuze-sensei arrived, Tsumura-san's expressions began to disappear...?)
No, wait.
Mochizuki shook her head.
(I'm overthinking this. Expressions in photographs change depending on the mood that day. She might have just happened to have that kind of face.)
But would someone happen to be photographed expressionless for over half a year?
Mochizuki checked the other children's records as well.
Every child had varying expressions across their photographs. Some days they were smiling, other days they had serious faces. But no child other than Yui stopped smiling entirely from a certain point onward.
(Only Tsumura-san.)
Mochizuki enlarged the photographs.
She compared the smiling Yui and the expressionless Yui side by side.
The left photograph. Smiling. Her eyes curved into arcs, her cheeks were lifted, and white teeth peeked from her lips. A clear dimple on her right cheek.
The right photograph. Not smiling. Her eyes were open wide, yet there was no light in them. The muscles of her cheeks were slack, and the corners of her mouth drooped loosely. The dimple was nowhere to be found.
(The same child, yet so different.)
Mochizuki felt something cold spreading in the depths of her chest.
It was fear.
A vague, nameless fear.
(Something is wrong.)
She opened the remarks column of the support record.
There, comments written by previous support staff and homeroom teachers were lined up.
"Bright and active. Good relationships with friends."
"During recess, always at the center of her friend group."
"High learning motivation, actively participates in presentations."
All of them were comments that confirmed Yui's cheerful personality.
But the most recent record said this:
"Recently, her expression during class appears stiff. Whether due to poor health or changes in her home environment, she needs to be watched over with attention."
Mochizuki checked who had written that record.
The name of the recorder was Kuze Shizuma.
(Kuze-sensei noticed too...?)
No, it was probably because he noticed that he left it in the record.
(Maybe I really am overthinking this.)
Mochizuki told herself once again.
But the expressionless Yui in the photograph was burned into her eyes and wouldn't leave.
A method of verification available to her as a support staff member did not exist within the system. There was no function to judge whether a photograph's expression was unnatural, nor a function to analyze a child's psychological state. There were only records. Photographs, numbers, and short comments.
Mochizuki closed the terminal with her brow still furrowed.
The screen went dark.
Only the white light of the fluorescent lamps illuminated the quiet support staff room.
Outside the window, cherry blossom petals danced in the wind.
The next day.
Mochizuki was observing Class 2, Year 3's lesson from the back.
A support staff member's job was not just assisting the homeroom teacher. Observing the children's state during class and watching over whether any child needed support or was struggling was also an important role.
First period was Japanese language.
Kuze Shizuma stood in front of the teacher's desk, textbook in hand. Today as well, he wore a clean outfit: a white shirt, dark navy tie, and gray slacks. His black hair was neatly parted seven-to-three, and behind thin-framed glasses, his dark brown eyes slowly surveyed the entire classroom.
"Now, let's continue from yesterday. We'll be thinking about the feelings of the characters in the story."
Kuze's voice was gentle today as well.
Not too low, not too high—a voice adjusted to resonate pleasantly in the children's ears.
"First, I'll read the opening scene. After that, I'll ask someone."
Kuze began reading the textbook aloud. Not overly dramatic, but not monotone either—just the right way of reading. The children listened to his voice.
Mochizuki stood by the wall at the back of the classroom, gazing at the children's backs.
Twenty-eight small backs.
Among them was Tsumura Yui's back.
(What kind of face is she making today, I wonder.)
Mochizuki stole a glance at Yui's profile.
Yui had her textbook open and was listening to Kuze's reading. Her expression was serious. But it wasn't the expressionless face from yesterday. She was simply attending class normally.
(So it really was just my imagination, after all.)
Mochizuki felt slightly relieved.
The reading ended, and Kuze looked up.
"Now, what do you think the protagonist was feeling in the opening scene?"
The children's hands shot up all at once.
"Yes, lots of hands went up."
Kuze looked around the classroom with a smile.
Then he said:
"Number five, answer."
For a moment, Mochizuki didn't understand what had been said.
Number five?
The child with number five stood up briskly.
"I think the protagonist was feeling sad!"
"Why did you think so?"
"Because they got separated from their friend!"
"I see. You're reading well. Please sit down."
Kuze nodded with satisfaction.
(Just now, number five...?)
Mochizuki murmured in her heart.
(He didn't call her by name?)
Was it her imagination?
No, he definitely said "number five."
Not "Aoki-san" or "Satou-kun," but "number five."
Mochizuki tilted her head.
(Some teachers do call students by their attendance numbers. It's not particularly strange.)
Yes, it wasn't strange. Teachers who call stu
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