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 - A new semester, vanishing expressions
The rainy season had ended.
The sky over Minamo City pushed aside the heavy clouds of days past, revealing a clarity that seemed to pierce straight through. Steam rising from the asphalt made the distant scenery waver faintly. A July morning. About two more weeks until summer vacation.
Children with school backpacks passed one after another through the gate of Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School. Short-sleeved shirts, straw hats, foreheads glistening with sweat. A teacher in charge of student guidance stood at the main gate, calling out "Good morning" to each child. The children's voices overlapped, bouncing cheerfully.
Among them was Tsumura Yui.
Her glossy black hair was tied in two pigtails, and the small red rubber bands caught the morning light. A white short-sleeved blouse and a navy blue skirt. On her left wrist, a small birthmark. She held hands with a friend, laughing as she ran toward the entrance hall. When she smiled, a dimple appeared on her right cheek.
"Today's swimming class, right!"
"Yep! Did you remember your swimsuit?"
"I'm fine! I got everything ready yesterday!"
Yui's voice was bright as the morning light.
More than a year had passed since Kuze Shizuma became her homeroom teacher in the third trimester of second grade. Two months since that man had left this school. Yui's smile had been returning, little by little but surely. During recess, she laughed at the center of her friends' circle; during lunch, she threw herself into rock-paper-scissors for seconds. It was the figure of an eight-year-old girl that she should have had all along.
The classroom was on the south side of the second floor. Class 2, Year 3.
When Yui entered the classroom, her eyes went to the blackboard.
On the blackboard, numbers written neatly in chalk were lined up.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28.
A column of attendance numbers.
The new homeroom teacher had written them for the morning assembly. The handwriting was neat, but different from Kuze Shizuma's. Kuze's writing had been uniform, as if printed, without a single disturbance. This new teacher's writing slanted slightly upward to the right, and there was an odd quirk in the way she wrote the number "3."
Yui gazed at that column of numbers, simply, absentmindedly.
(Ah, numbers again.)
That was what she thought. Nothing more.
"Good morning."
At the back of the classroom, a friend was calling her. Yui, still wearing her backpack, ran over.
At the back of the classroom, one new desk had been added.
Next to seat number five, where Kosaka Yuma had sat. No—to be precise, in the place where Yuma's desk had been, a different desk now stood. Yuma's desk had quietly disappeared from the classroom one day in May. No one knew who had carried it out. By the time anyone noticed, it was already gone.
In that spot, a new desk had been placed.
A new transfer student was coming, the children whispered.
From the hallway, Vice Principal Iguchi Manabu was looking into the classroom.
His thinning hair combed in a seven-to-three part, sweat slowly seeping into the collar of his white dress shirt. In his right hand, the usual white handkerchief. On the back of his left hand, a large mole. The forty-eight-year-old vice principal had been wiping his forehead repeatedly since morning.
At the end of his gaze was the column of attendance numbers on the blackboard.
And the children's desks, neatly arranged.
(This was for the best.)
Iguchi told himself that, in his heart.
Two months since Kuze Shizuma left this school. The transfer notice from the board of education had arrived in early June. The reason was "transfer at personal request." The paperwork was flawlessly in order. The handover documents, the support records, the entries into the Akari database—everything had been completed without a hitch.
When he left, Kuze had placed a thick file on Iguchi's desk.
"This is everything."
Kuze's voice at that time had been calm, as always.
Iguchi opened the file and checked its contents. Student attendance records, health observation results, home visit records, individual support plans. Every single one was impeccably, flawlessly organized.
(Mr. Kuze was truly a wonderful teacher.)
That was what Iguchi thought.
And he also remembered Mochizuki Mio.
(That person was a little too... consumed by her worries.)
Iguchi wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and began walking down the hallway.
Inside the classroom, the new homeroom teacher stood before the teacher's podium.
She was a young female teacher. Mid-twenties. Light brown hair trimmed at shoulder length, a white blouse, and a pale blue skirt. Her voice was loud and carried well.
"Alright, everyone, good morning!"
"Good morning!"
The children's voices echoed through the classroom.
"Starting today, I'm your homeroom teacher—Saeki Misaki. Nice to meet you all!"
The new homeroom teacher, Saeki Misaki, said this with a smile.
The children reacted with a buzz of murmurs.
"She's young!"
"She's cute!"
"Now, now, settle down. Um, there's something I need to tell everyone."
Saeki clapped her hands once to gather the children's attention.
"Mr. Kuze has been transferred."
At those words, the children's reaction was surprisingly subdued.
A few voices said "Ehh," and that was all.
"So starting today, I'm your homeroom teacher. If there's anything you don't understand, ask me anything, okay?"
Saeki said this in a cheerful voice.
The children all replied "Yeees" in unison.
At that reaction, Saeki was slightly puzzled.
(Huh? I thought the kids would be more sad, or more surprised.)
But she quickly pulled herself together.
"Alright, let's start the morning assembly. Health check—answer in attendance number order. Number one!"
"Yes."
"Number two!"
"Yes."
"Number three!"
"Yes."
Saeki called the attendance numbers, and the children responded.
That scene was so natural, with not a trace of discomfort.
The discomfort of not being called by name came from no one's mouth.
The children had grown completely accustomed to being called by number.
"Number four!"
"Yes."
"Number five!"
"Yes."
The new transfer student was sitting in seat number five.
Number five, which had been Kosaka Yuma's number.
That number had already been assigned to a different child.
"Number six!"
"Yes."
"Number seven!"
"Yes."
Saeki's voice echoed through the classroom.
The children's responses continued in orderly succession.
Yui watched that scene intently from her seat.
A seat by the window. The morning light streaming in from outside illuminated her black hair.
(Mr. Kuze is gone.)
Yui thought that, in her heart.
(I won't be called by that voice anymore.)
(I won't be called by number anymore.)
Deep inside her heart, something loosened, just a tiny bit.
"Number twelve!"
"...Yes."
Yui's response had a slight pause.
But Saeki didn't mind.
"Number thirteen!"
"Yes."
The morning assembly proceeded without interruption.
That day after school.
Yui was playing with friends in the schoolyard.
She was practicing her back hip circle in front of the horizontal bar.
"Yui-chan, amazing! You're almost there!"
"Ehehe, watch me!"
Yui grabbed the bar and swung her body around vigorously.
A spin.
"I did it!"
"Amazing!"
Yui jumped down from the bar and high-fived her friend.
A dimple formed on her right cheek.
That smile was something she had never shown in Kuze Shizuma's classroom.
(Huh? Am I... smiling right now?)
Yui touched her own cheek.
(Somehow, this is really fun.)
She pulled her friend's hand and ran toward the swings this time.
Evening.
Yui parted ways with her friends and walked home alone.
Wearing her backpack, walking along the school route.
The sky was dyed madder red.
A cool breeze blew from the direction of the Minamo River.
Yui narrowed her eyes slightly at that breeze.
(Today was fun.)
She skipped as she walked the road home.
Early August.
One evening, just before summer vacation began.
The staff room of Minamo Municipal Third Elementary School.
Iguchi Manabu found a notebook left behind on his desk.
A navy blue cover. The corners were slightly worn.
(What's this?)
Iguchi picked up the notebook.
He opened the cover.
Inside, dates and records were written in meticulous handwriting.
"July 10th (Wed) Class 2, Year 3 Morning assembly Attendance check No issues"
"July 11th (Thu) Class 2, Year 3 Math Individual support Tsumura Yui Calculation drill No issues"
(This is... a support journal.)
Iguchi turned the pages.
The owner was Mochizuki Mio.
It belonged to that support staff member who had resigned.
(She forgot it, huh.)
Iguchi sighed.
(That person could never keep things organized, right to the end.)
He was about to close the notebook.
At that moment, he felt something off on a certain page.
A page from around the end of April.
"April 28th (Tue) Kosaka Yuma Absent. Confirmed with Mr. Kuze. Family circumstances. Gap in records"
The part that said "Gap in records."
Those characters were written in pencil, with traces of having been erased with an eraser many times.
The surface of the paper was rubbed thin.
(A gap in... the records...?)
Iguchi stared at those characters.
His brow furrowed for just an instant.
(What was Mochizuki-san trying to write?)
The events of that day crossed Iguchi's mind.
The board of education's investigation. Mochizuki's complaint. Kuze's flawless response. And Mochizuki's resignation.
(No, it's already over.)
Iguchi shook his head.
(I don't want to make it a big deal. I don't want to make it a big deal.)
He closed the notebook.
Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside, several old files were shoved in carelessly.
Among them was one file.
On its spine, handwritten characters read:
"Minamo Third Elementary Missing Person Case Progress Record"
It was the file from that incident five years ago.
Iguchi stared at the file's spine.
He reached out his hand.
His fingers touched the spine of the file.
(No.)
Iguchi withdrew his hand.
(Let's leave it.)
He gently pushed Mochizuki's support journal in next to that file.
Then he closed the drawer without making a sound.
"I don't want to make it a big deal."
Iguchi muttered that to no one in particular.
His voice was swallowed into the silence of the staff room.
From the schoolyard, the cheers of children could be heard.
Summer vacation was almost here.
The children, having finished their swimming class, went home in high spirits.
That scene was as orderly as ever, as if nothing had happened.
Late July.
Mochizuki Mio's home.
A room in a twenty-year-old apartment building, a little ways from the city center.
In a six-tatami Japanese room, a small table and a foldable bed. On the wall, a calendar and a few photographs.
Mochizuki Mio sat in front of the table.
Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied back in a single bundle. Round, large, light brown eyes. Freckles scattered beneath her eyes.
She was staring at her computer screen.
It was between job searches.
Nearly two months had passed since she resigned.
The first month, she couldn't bring herself to do anything.
Wake up in the morning, open the curtains, gaze absently outside.
Days like that continued for many days.
(What was I doing?)
(In that classroom, what was I seeing?)
She asked herself that, over and over.
But no answer came.
There was no evidence. Nothing.
In the board of education's investigation, Kuze Shizuma was evaluated as a perfect teacher.
Mochizuki's complaint was not accepted.
Everything she had seen was dismissed as "overthinking."
(Maybe I was the one who was crazy.)
She had begun to think that way.
But.
(But that one blank tanzaku...)
She remembered.
The class goal tanzaku strips posted on the back wall of the classroom.
A pure white tanzaku with nothing written on it.
(Whose tanzaku was that?)
(Why was nothing written on it?)
She touched her rig
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