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 - Those Who Turn Their Backs, Those Who Remain
At the end of May, the sky over Minamo City had been cloudy since morning. It wasn't raining. But the signs that it might start were settled at the bottom of the air. Passing through the gate of Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School, the usual morning greetings flew back and forth. Children running with their school bags bouncing. The teacher standing at the main gate for lifestyle guidance. The janitor watering the flower beds. Everything was the same morning as always.
Mochizuki Mio was walking through that "same as always" at a pace that only she moved at.
In her hand was a brown envelope. Inside it was a single sheet of white paper. Last night, at her desk at home, she had rewritten it over and over and finally made a clean copy.
A letter of resignation.
She stopped at the school building's entrance.
(Is this really all right?)
Something small trembled deep in her chest. Two weeks since the Board of Education's investigation. That day, she had told the investigator Kudo Satoshi everything she had seen. Tsumura Yui's expressionlessness. Kuze Shizuma, who called children only by number. Kosaka Yuma's photograph, erased from the Akari Database. The fact that seat number five in the classroom remained empty and no one cared.
But the result was that nothing changed.
Her complaint was not accepted. There was no evidence. There were no problems in the records. Rather, what surfaced during the investigation was the fact that a support staff member named Mochizuki was "excessively anxious." At the staff morning meeting, Vice Principal Iguchi Manabu reprimanded her by name. "Don't do unnecessary things." "You damaged the school's credibility." "You lack awareness as a support staff member." Since that day, her colleagues had stopped meeting Mochizuki's eyes. Even when they passed in the hallway, they didn't even greet her. As if she had never been there from the beginning.
(Maybe I was wrong.)
(But in that classroom, something was definitely happening.)
(I couldn't prove it.)
Mochizuki climbed the entrance steps, holding the envelope as if embracing it against her chest.
There were still only a few people in the staff room. Teachers making morning preparations. The sound of sipping coffee. The sound of turning a calendar page. The usual morning sounds. Mochizuki did not head to her own desk, but walked straight to the vice principal's seat.
Iguchi Manabu was already at his seat. His thinning hair was neatly parted seven-to-three, and sweat seeped at the collar of his white dress shirt. In his right hand was the usual white handkerchief. The large mole on the back of his left hand caught the fluorescent light and stood out strangely.
"Good morning."
Mochizuki's voice was so small it surprised even herself.
Iguchi raised his face. His half-moon-shaped eyes looked at Mochizuki for just a moment.
"Ah, good morning. What is it, so early in the morning?"
Fast-speaking, formal polite language. There was an air about him as if his habitual phrase, "I don't want to make a big deal of things," might leap out at any moment.
Mochizuki held out the envelope.
"Um, this is... my letter of resignation."
Iguchi's hand stopped for an instant. Still gripping the handkerchief, he looked back and forth between Mochizuki's face and the envelope.
"...A letter of resignation?"
"Yes. For personal reasons, I would like to retire at the end of this month."
Iguchi's eyes opened wide for just a moment. A look of surprise. But it really was only an instant. The next moment, they returned to the usual half-moon shape, and he accepted the envelope.
"I see. Understood. I'll confirm it."
Iguchi placed the envelope on his desk and immediately dropped his eyes to another document.
Mochizuki just stood there.
(Huh?)
(That's it?)
Iguchi was no longer looking at Mochizuki's face. His gaze was fixed on the documents on his desk, and he wiped his forehead with the handkerchief in his right hand. His left hand unconsciously straightened the edge of the envelope.
"Um... thank you for everything until now."
Mochizuki bowed deeply.
"Yes. Thank you for your hard work. I'll inform Kuze-sensei myself."
Iguchi's voice was already at the tone of administrative processing.
Mochizuki raised her head.
Iguchi kept his eyes on the documents and did not look up even once.
(Ah, I see.)
(So my sense of discomfort is processed as "problematic behavior" to the very end.)
(Nothing reached anyone.)
(Nothing changed.)
Mochizuki tightly gripped her right wrist with her left hand. Beneath her sleeve were three old scars. In high school, she had brushed off a classmate who became expressionless as "overthinking" and looked the other way. The guilt from that time had driven her all the way here. But that driving force had now been processed by the vice principal in front of her as nothing more than a document.
"...Excuse me."
Mochizuki turned her back and left the vice principal's seat.
The atmosphere in the staff room had not changed at all.
She headed to her own desk. Not the support staff room, but her seat in the corner of the staff room. She opened the drawer. Inside was one support journal. A thin blue notebook printed on the cover with "Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School Learning Support Record."
Mochizuki picked up the journal.
She turned the pages. Records from her appointment in April to today. The state of classes. Observations of the children. The contents of support. And the one sentence written almost every day.
"No particular problems today."
She traced those words with her finger.
(Were there really no problems?)
(Really, nothing?)
She closed the journal. Put it back in the drawer.
(No one will ever read this journal again.)
(My record ends here.)
Mochizuki closed the drawer.
The sound echoed faintly through the staff room.
Her last day of work was Friday, May 31st.
Since morning, the sky had been covered by thick clouds. It wasn't raining. But the air was humid and clung to the skin. It was that kind of morning, like the entrance to the rainy season.
In the staff room, Mochizuki greeted her colleagues.
"Thank you for everything until now."
Her voice was calmer than she had expected.
"Ah, thank you for your hard work."
"Thank you for your hard work."
Her colleagues responded formally. But no one asked why. No one tried to meet her eyes. One middle-aged female teacher looked at Mochizuki for just a moment, then immediately returned her gaze to her computer screen. A young male teacher only gave a bow and quickly left the staff room.
(I'm someone who shouldn't be at this school anymore.)
Mochizuki quietly accepted that atmosphere.
Her gaze naturally turned toward the seat at the back of the staff room.
Kuze Shizuma was sitting there.
His black hair was neatly parted seven-to-three, and he wore thin-framed glasses. His dark brown eyes were directed at the documents in his hands. The top of his desk was perfectly organized as always. Documents were placed with their angles aligned, and all pens faced the same direction. A small black leather notebook rested quietly at the upper right of the desk.
Mochizuki looked at that notebook.
(In that notebook, the numbers are.)
(In that notebook, the children's numbers are.)
She stepped forward.
Toward Kuze's seat.
The atmosphere in the staff room changed just slightly. The teachers around glanced at Mochizuki. But no one stopped her. No one spoke to her.
Mochizuki stood in front of Kuze's desk.
"Kuze-sensei."
Kuze raised his face. The eyes behind his glasses looked straight at Mochizuki.
"Mochizuki-sensei. Good morning."
A calm voice. His volume was constant from beginning to end, with no emotion riding on it. The usual voice.
"Good morning. Um... today is my last day. I thought I should greet you."
Mochizuki spoke consciously so her voice would not become small.
Kuze quietly stood up.
He straightened his back and faced Mochizuki. There was not a single wasted movement in the action.
"I see. Mochizuki-sensei, it was a short time, but thank you for everything."
Kuze said that and extended his right hand.
A beautiful hand with neatly trimmed nails. On his left wrist, a faint white tan line remained, showing signs that something had been removed.
Mochizuki looked at that hand.
(This hand.)
(Writes the numbers.)
(This hand erases those children's names.)
She slowly lifted her own right hand.
And grasped Kuze's hand.
It was cold.
Even though summer was near, Kuze's hand was cold.
"Thank you for your hard work."
Kuze's voice reached her ear.
That was when it happened.
Kuze's mouth slowly drew an arc.
He smiled.
Mochizuki stopped breathing.
Kuze's mouth was certainly smiling. A calm, gentle-looking, perfect smile. But his eyes did not move at all. His eyelids did not twitch in the slightest. The dark brown eyes behind his glasses were reflecting Mochizuki, yet held no emotion whatsoever. Only his mouth was smiling. His eyes were dead.
(What is)
(This smile?)
(What does it mean?)
Mochizuki's fingertips trembled.
She could not look directly at that smile.
"...Thank you very much."
Mochizuki averted her gaze and let go of his hand.
Kuze's smile was still continuing.
A long, long smile.
Mochizuki could say nothing more. She had no words to ask the meaning of Kuze's smile. No, she did not have the courage to ask. Even if she asked, nothing would change. There was no evidence. The records were perfect. And to anyone's eyes, this smile would appear only as "the smile of a calm farewell."
(I can't do anything.)
Mochizuki turned her back.
She began walking toward the staff room door.
One step. Another step.
She felt Kuze's gaze on her back.
He was still smiling.
Mochizuki did not turn around.
She left the staff room.
The hallway was quiet.
The brief silence before first period began. From the classrooms, the voices of children could be faintly heard.
As Mochizuki walked down the hallway, she looked at her right hand.
The coldness of Kuze's hand still remained.
(That smile was)
(Seeing me off.)
(Or else)
(Was it confirming that I would "disappear"?)
She shook her head.
(No. I'm quitting of my own will.)
(I'm not running away.)
(I just can't do anything anymore.)
From the hallway window, the cloudy sky was visible.
It was still not raining.
At almost the same time Mochizuki left the school building.
In the Class 3-2 classroom, the morning meeting had begun.
The classroom's atmosphere was quiet and uniform.
On the blackboard, attendance numbers were lined up in neat handwriting.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12...
Beside the number five, there was no mark of any kind.
Seat number five was empty.
Nothing was placed on the desk.
On the back wall of the classroom was a display for the class goal. Beneath it, the children's strips of paper were lined up.
"Treasure your friends."
"Spend every day with a smile."
"Help those in trouble."
Colorful letters.
Among them, there was just one pure white strip.
A white strip with nothing written on it.
Kuze Shizuma stood in front of the teacher's podium.
In his hand was a tablet device.
"Now then, we'll do the health check. Please respond in number order."
A calm voice.
The children straightened their backs.
"Number one."
"Yes."
"Number two."
"Yes."
"Number three."
"Yes."
"Number four."
"Yes."
Kuze's voice stopped for an instant.
The classroom's atmosphere pulled taut.
"Number six."
"Yes."
Number five was not called.
Seat number five remained empty.
No one noticed.
No one thought anything of number five being absent.
The numbers continued.
Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven...
"Number twelve."
Tsumura Yui stood up.
Black hair tied in two bunches. Small red hair ties. Large, round black eyes.
"...Yes."
A flat voice.
Still standing, Yui looked for a moment toward the classroom entrance.
Beyond the door.
The hallway.
The direction Mochizuki had gone.
Yui's eyes moved for just an instan
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