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 - The Private Life of a Sick Teacher
The rain had been falling for three days straight.
Though it was only mid-May, the sky over Minamo City was blanketed in thick clouds, and even during the day, it was too dark to see your hands without turning on the classroom fluorescent lights. Raindrops formed ripples in the puddles on the schoolyard, and before those ripples could fade, the next drops fell. An endless, repeating cycle.
Mochizuki Mio gazed at those puddles from the window of the support staff room.
(The investigation is coming.)
Something deep in her chest felt heavy, slowly spreading.
About ten days had passed since Kosaka Yuma's mother had rushed into the school. That day, Kuze Shizuma had calmly said, "It's a family matter," and had perfectly prepared everything—the home visit records, the entries in the Akari Database, the report to the Board of Education. No one at the school could remember the last day they had seen Yuma.
But Mochizuki remembered.
That seat number five had been empty.
That during the health observation, Kuze had called "number six" right after "number four."
And that only that child's photo data had vanished from the system.
She had filed a complaint with the Board of Education. Anonymously. That there were unnatural gaps in the records of a student named Kosaka Yuma, that children in the classroom were called only by numbers, that there were anomalies in the photos in the support records. She had written down every sense of unease she could think of.
And today was the result.
"Ms. Mochizuki."
A voice came, and she turned around.
Iguchi Manabu was standing at the entrance of the support staff room. His thinning hair was neatly parted in a seven-to-three ratio, and sweat was seeping through the collar of his white dress shirt. In his right hand, the usual white handkerchief. The forty-eight-year-old vice principal was, as always, restlessly wiping his forehead.
"Good morning."
"Ah, good morning. Today, you see, investigators from the Board of Education are coming. Ms. Mochizuki, if they ask you anything, you're welcome to answer honestly. ...No, rather than honestly, I mean, you don't need to say anything unnecessary."
Iguchi's words sped up toward the end, becoming so quiet they were almost inaudible. Without waiting for Mochizuki's reply, he pressed his handkerchief to his forehead and walked down the hallway.
(Unnecessary things.)
Mochizuki repeated those words in her heart as she watched Iguchi's back recede.
She hadn't told anyone that she had filed the complaint. But the fact that the Board of Education was conducting an investigation meant that someone had reported something. Perhaps Iguchi was searching for that "someone."
(Or has he already noticed?)
Mochizuki unconsciously gripped the sleeve over her right wrist.
9:40 AM.
The Board of Education investigation team's car passed through the school gate.
A black van. White lettering on the side: "Minamo City Board of Education." The rain-soaked body of the vehicle glistened dully under the overcast sky.
Mochizuki watched the car from the staff room window. Her heart was pounding like a bell inside her chest. Her fingertips were cold.
Two men got out of the car.
One was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties with graying hair. The other was a slender man in his early forties wearing glasses. Both wore black suits and carried black leather briefcases. They held umbrellas to keep off the rain.
(Those are the ones.)
Mochizuki felt her breathing grow shallow.
The atmosphere in the staff room changed.
The teachers all looked outside at once. Someone said quietly, "They're here." Iguchi, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, hurried toward the staff room entrance.
"Good morning. Thank you for coming despite the poor weather..."
Iguchi's voice echoed down the hallway.
Mochizuki sat at her desk in the corner of the staff room, holding her breath.
(It's all right. I did the right thing.)
(But what if I was wrong?)
(What if it was all just my imagination?)
She clasped her hands on her lap, gripping her fingers until they turned white.
The investigation was to be conducted in the reception room.
A small room at the east end of the first floor, normally used for meetings with parents. From the window, the rain-soaked schoolyard was visible. Across the table, the two investigators, Iguchi, and Kuze Shizuma sat facing each other.
Mochizuki was watching from the hallway.
The reception room door was slightly ajar. She could faintly hear the voices inside.
"...Now then, we'd like to ask you about Kosaka Yuma."
The gray-haired investigator said in a low voice. His name was Kudo Satoshi. Chief investigator of the Board of Education investigation team. A man in his mid-fifties with abundant experience. His narrow eyes watched intently, as if determined not to miss any change in the other's expression.
"Yes. Please, ask me anything."
Kuze's voice was calm, as always.
Mochizuki pressed her back against the hallway wall and strained her ears.
"What was Kosaka Yuma's last day of attendance?"
"April 28th, Tuesday."
It was an immediate answer.
"How was he that day?"
"No different from usual. During the morning health observation, he responded energetically. He finished his school lunch completely."
"When was the home visit conducted?"
"May 2nd, Saturday, at 10:00 AM. I met with his mother and heard about Yuma-kun's poor health."
"And the details of that?"
"She said that due to family circumstances, she wanted to keep him home from school for a while. As for the specifics, they involve privacy, so I must refrain from discussing them."
Kuze answered dispassionately, his back straight. His expression was the usual gentle smile. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked directly at Kudo.
"When did you update the records in the Akari Database?"
"May 2nd, the same day I returned from the home visit, at 3:42 PM. I updated the absence entry and the home visit record simultaneously."
Kudo looked down at the documents in his hand.
Mochizuki held her breath in the hallway.
(Too precise.)
Kuze's answers—dates, times, everything—came out without hesitation. As if he had memorized them in advance. No, rather than memorized, it was as though all the records were stored perfectly in his mind.
"Can we verify the home visit records here?"
"Yes. I have prepared copies of the support journal and the home visit record forms here."
Kuze took a clear plastic file from the black briefcase beside him. Inside were neatly arranged documents. Copies of the support journal, home visit record forms, paper printed with the timestamp of the absence entry, copies of the report to the Board of Education.
Everything was perfectly organized.
Kudo carefully examined each document one by one.
"...I see."
Kudo's voice changed, carrying a faint note of admiration.
"I can find no deficiencies in the records. Rather, it's rare to find a teacher who keeps such meticulous records."
"Thank you. Records exist to protect the children."
Kuze smiled gently.
Mochizuki felt a cold sensation run down her spine as she saw that smile.
(To protect the children.)
(Those words, from that man.)
She placed a hand against the hallway wall. Her fingertips were trembling.
The investigation was nearing its end, a full hour earlier than scheduled.
"One last thing."
Kudo leaned forward slightly.
"May I ask about your home, Mr. Kuze?"
In that instant, the air in the reception room tensed, just slightly.
Mochizuki caught her breath.
"Yes."
Kuze's voice was unchanged.
"During the course of our investigation, we received information that no family currently resides at your home. You've told your colleagues that you're living alone due to a work transfer, is that correct?"
Silence.
Only the sound of rain flowed into the reception room.
"...Yes. That is correct."
Kuze nodded slowly.
"I have a wife and daughter, but they left the house half a year ago. I currently live alone."
Mochizuki's eyes widened.
(Half a year ago?)
(So that's what it was—why there was no family in that house?)
She remembered visiting Kuze's home for a home visit some time ago. A house devoid of any sense of daily life. No family photos, no women's shoes, no children's toys—a silent, still house.
"If you don't mind, could you tell us the reason?"
Kudo's voice was cautious.
"...It was due to my work circumstances. When I was assigned to this school, I chose to live alone. I caused trouble for my family."
Kuze lowered his gaze slightly.
His appearance was, by any measure, that of a tragic teacher who had sacrificed his family to devote himself to his duties.
"I see."
Kudo nodded deeply.
"That must be difficult for you. Has it affected your work?"
"No. Rather, I have more time to face the children, and I feel a sense of purpose."
Kuze raised his head and smiled gently.
That smile was too perfect.
Too tragic.
Mochizuki felt something close to nausea as she saw that smile.
(No.)
(That man isn't grieving.)
(I know what lies beneath that smile.)
But her conviction could not become words.
There was no proof.
"I understand. I won't intrude further into your personal life. We will formally contact you with the investigation results at a later date."
Kudo began putting the documents into his briefcase.
"Thank you for your time."
Kuze bowed deeply.
The investigation was over.
In the hallway, Mochizuki could not stop her hands from trembling.
(Is this the end?)
(That man isn't suspected of anything.)
(Rather, he's being pitied.)
She leaned against the wall and slowly sank down.
Her knees were shaking.
"Ms. Mochizuki."
A voice came, and she looked up.
Iguchi was walking toward her from down the hallway. His face was somehow red. Whether from excitement or not, he was sweating more than usual.
"The investigation is over. Mr. Kuze was perfect, as expected. My, the way those records were organized was truly splendid. The people from the Board of Education were impressed too."
Iguchi spoke rapidly while wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"...Yes."
Mochizuki answered in a hoarse voice.
"Oh, and also, the investigator, Mr. Kudo, says he'd like to speak with you, Ms. Mochizuki. Do you have time?"
Mochizuki's heart leaped.
"...Me?"
"Yes. He says he wants to hear your opinion as a support staff member. It should be quick."
Iguchi said that and walked toward the reception room.
Mochizuki took a deep breath.
(Stay calm.)
(This time, I'll speak properly.)
(Even without proof, everything I saw.)
She stood up on trembling legs and headed for the reception room.
Kudo Satoshi was sitting alone in the reception room.
Gray-streaked hair, narrow eyes, black suit. He bowed quietly as Mochizuki entered.
"Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule. You're Ms. Mochizuki, correct? I'm Kudo from the Board of Education investigation team."
"I'm Mochizuki. Pleased to meet you."
Mochizuki sat down in the indicated chair.
Her heart was pounding.
(I have to say it.)
(I have to say it now.)
"I'll ask you directly. Ms. Mochizuki, do you know anything regarding this complaint?"
Kudo's eyes fixed on Mochizuki.
Mochizuki clasped her fingers on her lap.
"...I filed the complaint."
Her voice was surprisingly small, even to herself.
Kudo's eyebrows moved slightly.
"I see. Then let me hear what you have to say."
Mochizuki took a deep breath.
And she began to speak.
"There is a student named Tsumura Yui. She's in Class 2 of the third grade, attendance number twelve. That child's expression disappears only in front of Mr. Kuze. When she's talking with friends, she laughs normally, but when Mr. Kuze comes near, her face suddenly goes blank. In the photo records too, her smile disappears starting from last October."
Kudo listened in silence.
"In the classroom, Mr. Kuze doesn't call the children by name. He calls them by attendance number. 'Number five, answer.' 'Number seventeen, what do you thi
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