Shards of a Gray World

The morning was foggy, and lazy droplets slid down the windows of class 3-C. The students were quieter today, lulled by the monotony of the sky. Another gray Monday, like any other.

Rioshi was the last to enter, his footsteps as discreet as ever. He sat in his usual seat, pulled out his notebook, aligned his pen. No one looked his way. His presence didn’t stir the world around him.

— “Takeda-kun,” called a firm voice.

He slowly raised his eyes. Mr. Tanaka, their homeroom teacher, stood at the blackboard, his glasses slipping down his square nose.

— “A word, please, after class.”

A few students murmured. Rioshi simply nodded.

The literature class unfolded like all the others. Bashō’s verses, dissected haiku, a heavy atmosphere. But this time, Rioshi wasn’t staring out the window. He was looking at the board — though not truly seeing it.

After the bell rang and the students slipped away, Mr. Tanaka approached him, hands clasped behind his back.

— “You didn’t turn in your assignment on Solitude in Japanese Poetry.”

— “…I’ll hand it in tomorrow,” Rioshi replied.

— “This isn’t the first time. And yet your grades remain excellent. But you seem… distant.”

Rioshi said nothing.

— “Is something wrong at home? You know, high school isn’t just a place to study. It’s also a place to… share the weight we carry. Even when it’s hard.”

A long silence followed. Then, slowly, Rioshi spoke:

— “The weight… I think I was born with it.”

Tanaka stood still, momentarily at a loss for words.

— “You know, Takeda, there’s no shame in being tired. In being broken. You’re doing more than many adults. And sometimes I wonder… if you’re trying to disappear completely.”

The words hit something. But Rioshi’s face remained expressionless.

— “Thank you for your concern,” he said politely. “But I’m fine.”

Then he stood up and walked out — without a sound.

That evening, he came home earlier than usual. The restaurant was closed for maintenance. He took the chance to clean up the apartment a little.

When he opened the closet where Kuro’s belongings were stored, a cardboard box slipped from his hands. It hit the floor with a dull thud and opened.

Inside: a worn collar, a rope ball, and an old sketchbook. He froze. Slowly, he picked up the sketchbook.

On the first page, a date: March 14.
Drawn in pencil, a clumsy sketch of a dog: light gray fur, sitting with its tongue out.

A smile.

A real one.

On the face of a young Rioshi, still just a teen, reflected faintly in the mirror of memory. That day, he had taught himself to draw — just to capture Kuro’s image.

FLASHBACK

The sky was blue that day. For once.

Kuro ran through the empty park, leaping through fallen leaves like a puppy, even though he was already six. Rioshi lay on the grass, hands behind his head, eyes closed.

— “Kuro… come here.”

The dog ran up, happy, his wet nose pressing against the boy’s cheek.

— “You’re really the only one who stays. Even when I say nothing. Even when I do nothing. You stay.”

The dog whined softly and rested his head on Rioshi’s chest.

The boy whispered:

— “I wish you could live forever. But I guess… that’s not how it works, huh?”

He laughed softly — a rare spark in an otherwise quiet voice.

Then he sat up, pulled out a little sketchbook and a pencil. Kuro sat, obedient.

— “Don’t move. I’m gonna draw you. Even if it sucks.”

Kuro tilted his head, curious.

— “That way… you’ll always exist somewhere. Even if one day, I really end up alone.”

END FLASHBACK

Rioshi closed the sketchbook. A single tear ran down his cheek — unnoticed. It wasn’t quite crying. It was more like something had overflowed.

He gently touched the sketchbook’s cover with his fingers.

Then, without a word, he packed everything up, placed the collar back where it belonged, and stood.

His phone buzzed. A notification from school.

Important: All class 3-C students must report to the main auditorium tomorrow for a special announcement. Attendance is mandatory.

He raised an eyebrow.

Tomorrow…
That’s when everything would change.

But he didn’t know that yet.