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 - Absent attendance number
The morning staff room was filled with air more humid than usual.
The May rain tapped delicately against the window glass. The staff room of Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School was on the east side of the first floor, and on rainy days, the sounds from outside seemed strangely close. Mochizuki Mio sat at her desk, entering yesterday's support records into the Akari Database. On the screen, the names of the third-year class two students were lined up matter-of-factly in attendance number order.
(Another day begins.)
She paused her fingers on the keyboard for a moment.
There was a small sense of wrongness at the edge of the screen. No—rather than wrongness, it was a blank. In the middle of the attendance number column, there was a single field with nothing displayed. Mochizuki tried to remember what number that had been.
(Number five...?)
Yesterday morning, when Kuze Shizuma was doing the health check, he had called number six right after number four. Even then, she hadn't been able to remember who number five was.
Mochizuki pressed her fingers lightly to her temple.
(Am I just tired?)
It had been a month and a half since she was assigned here in April. The unfamiliar work and the many scenes she had witnessed in the classroom were slowly eating away at her sleep.
"Good morning."
A familiar, gentle voice.
When she looked up, Kuze Shizuma was standing at the entrance of the staff room. His black hair was neatly parted seven-to-three, and behind his thin-framed glasses, his dark brown eyes looked quietly in her direction as always. He carefully folded his wet umbrella and slid it into the umbrella stand. There was not a single wasted motion in the entire sequence.
"Good morning."
Mochizuki replied, speaking a little too quickly.
Kuze headed to his desk and took documents out of his bag. The top of his desk was always perfectly organized. Documents were placed with their angles aligned, pens all facing the same direction. A small black leather notebook sat quietly in the upper right corner of the desk.
Mochizuki stared at that notebook for a moment.
(He always carries that notebook around.)
She had seen Kuze open that notebook during class. He only ever opened it for an instant. As if confirming something, he would close it immediately.
"Ms. Mochizuki, you're assisting third-year class two from first period today, correct?"
Kuze said, without looking up.
"Yes. Thank you for having me."
"Likewise. Today's math is an introduction to fractions. Numbers eleven and nineteen might struggle a bit. I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye on them."
Number eleven. Number nineteen.
Mochizuki tried to picture the faces of those children. Number eleven was—a boy with glasses, if she remembered right. Number nineteen was a girl with braids. Their names were...
(I can't remember.)
Mochizuki let out a small breath.
(I'm starting to remember them by number, too.)
That fact spread something cold and slow through the depths of her chest.
"Are you all right? You don't look well."
Kuze looked up for the first time. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked straight at Mochizuki.
"Oh, no, I'm fine. Just a little short on sleep."
"Please don't push yourself too hard. If a support staff member like you were to collapse, the children would be the ones in trouble."
His voice sounded genuinely concerned.
But to Mochizuki, it felt as though something else showed through beneath those words.
(This person is always like this.)
(He always says the perfectly correct thing.)
(But that correctness is somehow cold.)
"Thank you."
Mochizuki answered briefly and turned her gaze back to the screen.
That was when it happened.
The staff room door flew open with force.
"Excuse me! Excuse me, someone...!"
A young woman's desperate voice.
Everyone in the staff room turned to look at once.
Standing in the doorway was a woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks, and the shoulders of her suit were darkened with rain. She had no umbrella. She must have run here. Her breathing was ragged, and there were deep dark circles under her eyes.
"Um, my son... Yuma...!"
The woman stepped several paces into the staff room, her voice trembling.
"Ma'am, please calm down. What happened?"
Kuze was the first to stand. His movement was so smooth it was almost unnerving, without a moment's hesitation.
"Mr. Kuze...! Yuma hasn't been to school for a week now. He won't answer the phone. My parents' house hasn't heard from him either...!"
The woman's voice echoed through the staff room, mingling with the sound of rain.
Mochizuki held her breath.
Yuma.
Osaka Yuma.
A student in third-year class two. His attendance number was, if she remembered correctly—
(What number was it?)
Numbers spun around and around in Mochizuki's head.
(I can't remember.)
(But Yuma-kun was definitely there.)
(He should have been in the classroom.)
"Ms. Osaka, please come this way first. We'll speak in the reception room."
Before she knew it, Vice Principal Iguchi Manabu had entered the staff room. His thinning hair was parted seven-to-three, and he held a white handkerchief in his right hand. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he spoke rapidly.
"Ms. Mochizuki, I'm sorry to ask, but could you sit in as well? I'd like you to take records from the support staff perspective."
"Y-yes."
Mochizuki stood up in a hurry.
Her heart was pounding like a drum.
(Osaka Yuma.)
(Hasn't been to school for a week?)
(But I didn't notice.)
(I couldn't notice.)
She felt her hands trembling.
The reception room was an eight-tatami room next to the staff room. A sofa for visitors and a small table. Several past graduation photos hung on the wall.
Osaka Yuma's mother perched on the edge of the sofa, gripping the hem of her skirt with both hands.
Mochizuki sat beside Iguchi and opened her notebook for records.
Kuze sat directly across from the mother, his back straight.
"Ms. Osaka, let me hear what you have to say first. Since when has Yuma-kun not been coming to school?"
Kuze's voice was gentle, as always.
"Um, let me think—since last Tuesday... so about a week and a bit ago. At first I thought he might have a fever. But there was no contact, and he wouldn't answer when I called... That child, I often come home late from work, so he would wake up on his own and go to school in the mornings. So at first I didn't notice...!"
The mother's voice was wet with tears.
"I was so busy with work that I wasn't even talking to him properly. In the mornings, I'd just check if he was awake and leave the house. That's why I didn't notice for a whole week... I'm a terrible mother..."
"That's not true. You've been working hard. Yuma-kun must have understood that."
Kuze shook his head quietly.
"But...!"
"It's all right. This is a family matter, so the school's position is to watch over the situation. First, please check once more whether he might be at home. There's also the possibility he's at a relative's or a friend's house."
As Mochizuki copied Kuze's words—"This is a family matter"—into her notebook, she felt a sense of wrongness.
(I've heard this way of speaking before.)
(That's right, during the home visits too.)
(Whenever something comes up, this person says "it's a family matter.")
"But, sir, how was Yuma at school? Was there anything different about him?"
The mother leaned forward.
"Yes. Yuma-kun was very calm at school. He worked seriously in class, and got along well with his friends. There was nothing particularly unusual about him."
Kuze answered without hesitation.
"I see..."
"I understand your worry. However, there are limits to what the school can do. For today, I'd recommend checking your home and consulting the police. The school will wait for the results and consider what support is necessary."
"The police... I don't want to make it into something that big. That child is shy, and he might be scared if he meets a police officer..."
"I understand how you feel. But your child's safety comes first. It's the same as filing a missing person report—it's not something to be exaggerated."
"...Yes."
The mother hung her head.
Iguchi immediately spoke up.
"Ms. Osaka, as a school, we will record today's meeting as a request from the family. Future correspondence will be handled with Mr. Kuze at the center, so please rest assured. If anything comes up, please contact the school at any time."
"Yes... thank you for your help."
The mother bowed deeply.
As Mochizuki moved her pen across the notebook, she felt something catching in her mind.
(What did Mr. Kuze just say?)
(Yuma-kun was calm at school?)
(But on the last day Yuma-kun came to school, what happened in the classroom?)
(I should have been in the classroom that day.)
(But I can't remember.)
At the edge of her notebook, she wrote in small letters: "Last day of attendance?"
The meeting ended, and the mother left the reception room.
The rain was still falling.
Kuze placed a single document on the table in the reception room.
"Mr. Iguchi, this is the record of the home visit. It documents my visit to the Osaka residence last Tuesday and my meeting with the guardian."
Mochizuki peered at the document.
It contained the date, visit time, details of the meeting, and even the guardian's signature, all written in flawless handwriting.
"Last Tuesday... that's the day Ms. Osaka realized he wasn't coming to school."
Iguchi picked up the document.
"Yes. I too was concerned about Yuma-kun's continued absences, so I conducted a home visit. His mother was not home, but I heard from a neighbor that the family had circumstances and he would be absent from school for a while, so I recorded that."
"I see. Then the school's response was thorough."
Iguchi nodded with satisfaction.
Staring at the document, Mochizuki heard something creaking in her mind.
(A home visit record?)
(Last Tuesday?)
(But Mr. Kuze was at school all day last Tuesday.)
(I saw him in the support room multiple times.)
(And besides, this record—the paper is new.)
Mochizuki felt a deep chasm opening between her memory and the document before her.
"Ms. Mochizuki, is something wrong?"
Kuze peered into Mochizuki's face.
"Oh, no... It's impressive, how thorough the records are."
Mochizuki spoke while suppressing the waver in her voice.
"Records are the foundation of education. Especially anything concerning a child's safety must be kept, no matter what."
Kuze smiled gently.
Seeing that smile, something cold ran down Mochizuki's spine.
(What is this person thinking right now?)
(How can he be so calm?)
(When a child has gone missing?)
"Well then, I'll be going. I need to finish entering the absence into the Akari Database and prepare the report to the board of education."
Kuze stood and picked up the document.
"Please do. With you around, Mr. Kuze, we truly have nothing to worry about."
Iguchi said, wiping his sweat.
"You're too kind. I'm only doing what I can, properly."
Kuze bowed and left the reception room.
Mochizuki stared at the closed door for a while.
"Mr. Iguchi."
"What is it?"
"Um... it's about Osaka Yuma-kun. I just can't remember the day he last came to school. Mr. Kuze's record says he did a home visit last Tuesday, but I feel like I saw Mr. Kuze at school that day..."
The expression vanished from Iguchi's face.
"Ms. Mochizuki."
Iguchi's voice suddenly dropped.
"Do you understand what you're trying to say right now?"
"What...?"
"Mr. Kuze is the most trusted teacher at this school. Saying something that casts doubt on his records will not do you any favors."
Iguchi turned his half-moon eyes toward Mochizuki. Those eyes were not smiling.
"But I'm just..."
"Ms. Mochizuki, I don't want to make this into something big. Neither do you. The matter with Osaka-kun is a family issue. The school did what it needed to do. The records are perfect. What more needs to be questioned?"
Iguchi's words were rapid, carrying a pre
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