Distant Hearts, Summer Tidings

Despite today being the last day of the school term before summer break, it felt indistinguishable from any other day.
     My mind, as usual, was preoccupied.
     Kamishirai still haunted the back of it like a half-finished sentence, and Chiyo—well, she’d only made things messier. One mystery had led to another, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading into the woods. Only, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow or turn back.
     At least the day had started with P.E.—one of those classes where it was socially acceptable to zone out, provided you moved your limbs in roughly the right order.
     I went through the warm-up drills on autopilot. Most of the class had already finished stretching, and people were sorting themselves into teams for whatever ball game we were about to play.
     As I straightened from the last of my reps, I spotted Kotoha.
     She was at the centre of a familiar scene—surrounded by classmates, all trying to claim a sliver of her attention. Her popularity operated like gravity—probably rivalling a black hole, if I were being honest.
     Must be exhausting.
     I couldn’t imagine how tiring it must be to be mobbed by people all the time.
     She caught my eye mid-laugh and threw me a bright smile, followed by a cheery wave.
     I offered a small one back, but my hand dropped fast, instinctively as the air bristled around me from the jealous stares, sharp as needles.
     Any longer and I might’ve needed to write my own obituary: Death by social proximity.
     As for Kamishirai, she hadn’t shown up all morning.
     I wasn’t sure if she was avoiding me or just... busy.
     Either way, the distance between us hadn’t changed. Hard to bridge a gap when the other person’s not even on the same field.
     Then again, I couldn’t recall a single instance she had shown up to P.E.
     By now, her absence was equivalent to something as trivial as background noise—just another unspoken fixture of the day, like the school bell.
     Nobody questioned it.

The thundering of sneakers and barked calls ricocheted across the school grounds as the game picked up speed. The ball zigzagged between players with more enthusiasm than coordination. 
     I tried my best to immerse myself in the routine of teamwork and sportsmanship, pretending, for a moment, that any of it mattered.
     It was easier to deal with chaos on the outside than the kind that lurked quietly in my head.     The sun was annoyingly dazzling that morning. Between rounds, I kept finding myself staring absently up at it, squinting like an idiot and momentarily blinding myself.
     What am I even doing…
     “—Kurokawa! Over here!”
     A voice snapped me back to reality. I shook it off just in time to see the ball flying at me, and reflexively passed it off.
     “Nice pass!”
     Someone called out with a thumbs-up. I gave a faint nod, followed by a weak smile that barely reached my eyes.
     Moments like that reminded me I still existed.
     I could play my part well enough—act like I belonged, maintaining the pretence of connection.
     But there was always a boundary.
     An invisible line between me and them, one I could see clearly but never cross.
     People crave connection.
     It’s baked into their biology—some primal instinct to gather, to belong.
     But I’d spent years training myself to ignore that instinct.
     What was the point in getting close, knowing how quickly people vanished once they heard the truth?
     One mistake. One secret dragged into the open.
     And suddenly you’re no longer a person—you’re a headline. Something to be judged from a safe distance.
     It was easier this way.
     It was safer this way.
     Who’d want to be friends with a murderer even if it was an accident?
     Only Kotoha knew.
     She never treated me any differently, which still didn’t make sense. That girl was a total nutcase in the best possible way.
     Someone as kind as her was more than I deserved.
     I was aware of the cliques around me, the unspoken bonds my classmates shared. They were ties I’d never be part of—not because I couldn’t, but because I chose not to.
     A little far-fetched but it is what it is.
     Being the ‘late-transfer student’ was a convenient excuse, but the truth was simpler.
     I didn’t want to give people the chance to turn away.
     Embarrassing, I know.
     But rejection hits deep.
     When the teacher called for a break, I took the chance to slip out of the crowd, mentioning something about needing a drink and made my way toward the vending machines.
     I wasn’t like Kotoha, the effortless social butterfly who wore charisma like it was stitched into her uniform.
     Some of us like yours truly, were handed invisibility cloaks instead.
     Not that I’d done anything to alienate myself either.
     It was more appropriate to accept that I was closer to a background décor.
     A class ornament.
     Present, but never the focus.
     And truthfully, I preferred it that way.
     One can never take for granted the peace in being overlooked.
     I loitered near the vending area, sipping cold barley tea as the sun baked the concrete around me.
     The brief reprieve felt like a stolen moment of peace, and I wasn’t in any hurry to give it up.
     Something about the lone white-haired girl sitting in the shade made me pause.
     Maybe it was the quiet apathy she radiated—like someone living on the fringes of reality, untouched by the world's noise.
     With a book in her lap and her gaze lost in its pages, Kamishirai looked like the embodiment of stepping out of sync with the world.
     I took another sip of my drink, the coolness sliding down my throat.
     By the time I realized what I was doing, my feet had already staged a rebellion against common sense and were headed toward her.
     Autopilot? Impulse? A momentary lapse in judgment?
     Probably all three, holding hands.
     I had no plan.
     No excuse. Just a pull.
     Something foolish, irrational, and impossible to ignore.
     Maybe it was the unspoken familiarity I imagined between us.
     The sense that she, too, knew what it was like to drift along the periphery while the rest of the world spun indifferently past.
     I didn’t know what I was going to say, but if Chiyo’s advice had taught me anything, it was to give her space.
     I wasn’t about to mess up a rare chance for a proper conversation by pushing too hard.
     “Kamishirai?” I called, just loud enough to reach her.
     Her fingers stilled, hovering above the page a beat longer.
     She looked up—those pale, glass-clear eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second, sharp enough to catch splinters.
    Then, a blink.
     A slow, measured blink.
     Like a curtain drawn between acts.
     Without a word, she returned to her book.
     A silent acknowledgement in the language of people who don't speak unless they have to.
     “Just Nozomi is fine,” she murmured with the tone of one discussing an expected change in the weather.
     “Isn’t that… a bit casual?” I asked, my brows twitching like they were trying to file for early retirement from my face before this conversation got any deeper. We weren’t exactly on a first-name basis, let alone friends.
     She didn’t look up. Just gave a one-shouldered shrug.
     “It doesn’t matter to me.”
     She said it with an indifference that hit harder than waking up to find my favourite manga axed with no resolution arc in sight.
     I wondered how many people had ever called her by her first name.
     Had she grown so used to being overlooked that even her own name felt inconsequential?
     “Alright then, Nozomi… mind if I sit here?”
     “You can sit wherever you want.”
     Her answer landed closer to a statement of fact than an invitation. Still, it wasn’t rejection—and from her, that might as well count as a green light.
     I eased down onto the bench, careful to leave a respectful buffer of space between us.
     Only the sound of rustling pages filled the space between us.
     I figured it was as good a time as any to try starting a conversation.
     “I guess this spot’s your sanctuary, huh? Seeing as you skip P.E. most of the time.”
     “It’s quieter here,” she replied, fingers gliding along the page’s edge before flipping it.
     “Can’t argue with that.”
     I let my gaze wander toward the field. Distant laughter and half-shouted names carried on the wind—too far to make out clearly.
     The contrast between here and there was… strangely stark.
     “What are you reading?”
     “A novel.”
     “Any good?”
     “I don’t know yet.”
     Her responses came short and dry. Almost like chewing on a rice cracker with no salt.
     “Fair enough. You seem to like books though. I always see you with one.”
     “I suppose.”
     Wasn’t much of an answer, but there was less chill in her tone this time.
     That had to count for something.
     “Is it just the books?” I asked. “Or do you come here to avoid crowds too?”
     Her fingers hovered at the tip of the page, fiddling slightly, perhaps stalling.
     “It’s easier to be alone,” she said at last, voice flat but practiced, like she was reciting something she'd accepted long ago.
     “I get that,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. “People group up fast in school. If you’re not part of one early on, it gets… hard to fit in.”
     She gave no real response—but I kept going anyway.
     “It’s like standing just outside the frame. You’re in the same picture as everyone else, technically, but more like a smudge in the corner—too faint to crop out, too vague to be noticed.”
     The words came out heavier than I intended. I didn’t want to turn this into a therapy session.
     But then, she set the book aside.
     “You sound like you know what that’s like.” Her tone wasn’t accusing—just... observational, like noting cloud patterns.
     A polite way of saying: Oh. So you’re broken too.
     “Familiar territory,” I admitted. “I don’t mind people. I just… don’t think they really see me.”
     “And you don’t like that?”
     “I’ve gotten used to it.” I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how thoroughly she was dissecting me with her silence. “Maybe it’s easier. Like you said.”
     She looked toward the field again, expression unreadable.
     “It’s not always easier,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now. She sounded sad for some reason.
     “What do you mean?”
     “Some people are just better off at a distance.”
     She let her head dip to one side, spilling strands of pale hair sliding over her shoulder. “It’s safer that way,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.
     “Safer?” I repeated.
     Conversations with Nozomi felt like walking in circles.
     Her words always seemed to loop back on themselves.
     She traced the bench with her fingers, drawing nothing in particular.
    “Ever wondered what it’d be like to disappear?”
     That’s new.
     It wasn’t said like a cry for help. More like a confession meant for no one in particular.
     The chill that traced down my spine wasn’t imaginary.
     “You mean like… being invisible?”
     “Not invisible,” she whispered. “Just… less.”
     I didn’t know what to say. I’d never once failed to notice her presence, and hearing her question made my skin crawl.
     “You talk like you’re a hazard or something,” I said, aiming for levity.
     “What, are you secretly radioactive? Should I be wearing a hazmat suit just to sit here?”
     “Forget it,” she said, sounding more dismissive than annoyed. A warning to back off.
     I took the hint.
     “So… do you come here every P.E. class?”
     “Most of the time. I don’t think I’m missing much.”
     “You’re not,” I responded with a small laugh. “Running laps and dodging volleyballs isn’t exactly life-changing.”
     Her lips twitched in the most minute motion possible.
     Not quite a smile—but close enough to feel like one.
     “Do you ever watch them? The people, I mean.” I asked, gesturing to the field.
     “Sometimes.” Her eyes lifted to where the sunlight filtered through the trees. “You learn things when you watch long enough. How people move. How they shift depending on who they’re with.”
     “I think people are more complicated than that.”
     “Maybe.”
     Her amber gaze tracked me with that strange mix of subtle kindness and intensity still in her expression.
     “I mean… we all wear masks sometimes, right?” I continued. “But that just means there’s something underneath worth hiding. Or protecting.”
     Something fleeting crossed her expression for a second. Then she looked down again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
     “Then I guess that’s for them to decide.”
     Silence settled between us again. I parted my lips, hesitated—then closed them when she beat me to it.
     “It doesn’t matter anyway. Not for someone like me.”
     There it was again.
     That self-erasure, slipped in as if it were punctuation.
     “That’s… a harsh way to see yourself,” I said, the words slipping out before I could rein them in.
     “It’s not harsh. It’s just the truth.”
     Brutal.
     I was suddenly hyper-aware of how loud my thoughts were going to sound out loud.
     “You’re a tough one to talk to, you know that?”
     “Then why are you trying?”
     Good question. Wish I had a good answer.
     “…I don’t know. Maybe I’m just curious.”
     Not the smartest admission, but in my defense, brain cells were in short supply around girls like her.
     “Curious about what?”
     “You.”
     That caught her.
     Even if her expression didn’t give much away, something in her posture did.
     “There’s… nothing to be curious about.”
     “I’ll be the judge of that.”
     She simply lowered her gaze back to the book without arguing.
     Before the silence stretched too far, I nodded at the book beside her.
     “You know, books are kind of weird. You get to step into someone else’s world, but once you’re done, you’re still stuck with your own thoughts.”
     Her fingers brushed the cover in a slow, thoughtful pass.
     “Maybe that’s why I like them.”
     “That’s not a bad thing,” I offered, hoping the tone in my voice sounded less like a guidance counsellor and more like a human being.
     I couldn’t tell if she agreed, but she no longer looked like she wanted the conversation to end immediately.
     Could the distance between us have shrunk?
     She always kept people at arm’s length, tucked behind a wall of cool detachment. And while she’d never admit it, this might’ve been the first time she let anyone close enough to see over it.
     “Kamishirai—” I started.
     “Nozomi,” she corrected.
     “…Right. Nozomi.” The name felt unfamiliar in my mouth. “Can I talk to you again—”
     “Hey, Kurokawa! We’re starting up again—are you coming?” a classmate called out from across the field.
     I turned toward the voice, then glanced back at her. She had already picked up her book, flipping to the page where she’d left off.
     “You should go,” she said without sounding unkind, her eyes trained on the print. “That’s where you belong.”
     Oh—so that was her version of don’t get too close.
     At least it wasn’t packaged with another one of those looks that could ice someone out of the room.
     Yeah… maybe I needed that soft boundary spelled out before I mistook it for an invitation.
     “…Right. I guess I should.”
     I stood and stretched a little.
     Sitting for too long could be just as punishing as running laps. But I’m not complaining.
     Can’t skip warmups now—not if I was going back to playing pretend with the rest of the class.
     “Be right there!” I called, throwing a hand up. Then I turned back to her.
     “Well, see you around, Nozomi.”
    “Mhm.”
     She offered a brief nod, and quietly retreated into her own world.
     I jogged toward the gym, glancing back once—partly expecting, partly hoping she might’ve changed her mind.
     She hadn’t moved.
    …Bummer. What was I expecting?
     Still, today had been different.
     A page had turned, even if the chapter hadn’t.
     I hadn’t gotten answers—but maybe I didn’t need them.
     Yet.
     Maybe this is how parallel stories begin to intertwine.
     Not through epiphanies or explosions.
     Not rocket science, and definitely not some earth-shattering plot twist.
     But as the protagonist of a story I didn’t sign up for, I’d like to think I made progress.
     Tiny, awkward, emotionally constipated progress.

I wouldn’t say the conversation was life-changing, but Nozomi had this infuriating talent for taking up mental real estate without even trying.
     She hadn’t shown up for class since P.E., and it was already lunchtime.
     I wonder what she’s up to this time.
     Probably haunting a library. No way to find out for sure.
     “Mind if I join you?”
     I turned at the voice, and there she was—Kotoha, holding her bento and wearing the kind of look you give someone when you've been watching them zone out for a while and are just deciding whether to tease them for it. I hadn’t even heard her approach. Either she moonlighted as a stealth operative, or my brain had already clocked out for lunch.
     “Go ahead,” I said, scooting over to make space.
     “Don’t mind if I do~”
     She plopped down beside me, smoothing her skirt with the decorum of a seasoned lunchtime monarch.
     Honestly?
     Mildly impressive that she’d tracked me down here, of all places.
     The rooftop was off-limits and the stairwell just before it was prime real estate for antisocial brooding.
     Naturally, that made it my territory.
     Kotoha’s breezy energy wasn’t on the day’s forecast, but I wasn’t complaining.
     “What happened to your royal entourage?” I asked, because of course she’d show up like it was part of her afternoon conquest.
     “I ditched them,” she said, completely unrepentant.
     “Ditched them? What for?”
     “Are you questioning my noble decisions? Know your place, peasant,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder with the practiced flair of a second-rate anime villain.
     “To what do I owe the honour of your royal presence today? Surely, descending upon this commoner’s stairwell must come with great sacrifice.”
     “For the sake of lunch with my poor, lonely childhood friend,” she replied sweetly, leaning in with sparkly menace. “Obviously.”
     Very comical.
     I almost rolled my eyes.
     Almost, because I knew she’d take it as encouragement.
     “Now, now, don’t be like that,” she continued proudly, “I’ll have you know, it took a finely-crafted excuse and a borderline Oscar-worthy performance to shake them off.”
     “That’s a lot of effort just to avoid people.”
     “If you understand that much, maybe show some gratitude?”
     “Oh, I’m thankful,” I replied, deadpan. “Not that I can relate to the great burden of popularity.”
      She let out a theatrical sigh, like she could expel her entire social battery through sheer force of breath.
      “It can be exhausting… sometimes.”
      “You’re always welcome to join me,” I offered, tearing off a bite of my sandwich. “Unlike your ladyship, this peasant doesn’t get flooded with lunch invitations.”
      “Thanks,” she murmured, fiddling with her chopsticks. A moment was all she needed to recalibrate. With a single click, her playful personality reinstalled itself. “Anyway… how was it?”
     “How was what?”
     “You know…” She waggled her eyebrows like she’d caught me browsing something inappropriate. “Your little frolic with Nozomi. Got to spend some time with her, didn’t you, you little player~?”
     I nearly inhaled my sandwich.
     “It wasn’t anything like that! We just talked.”
     “Sounds like progress to me,” she said, chin propped on her hand, wearing a smug grin that should’ve been illegal on school property.
     “I guess you could call it that,” I muttered, already regretting opening my mouth.
     “Oho, is that so…” she purred, but her voice lost some of its sharpness.
     I squinted at her.
     “Alright. What’s on your mind?”
     She set down her chopsticks gently this time.
     “It’s just… I can’t shake the feeling that you’re dipping your toes into something deeper than quicksand. That girl… Nozomi—there’s certainly something more to her. Something sinister…?”
     This should’ve been the part where I scoffed at her and call her dramatic.
     Instead, I froze.
     Because the worst part wasn’t that I’d had the same thought.
     It was that I hadn’t been scared by it. Not one bit.
     “You’re just overreacting now.”
     “Maybe. But you’ve been seeing weird things lately, haven’t you?” Her voice was casual, but her eyes weren’t. “I can’t help but feel it’s all connected somehow.”
     “Funny you’d say that,” I replied, sweeping crumbs off my lap with the casualness of someone about to drop a bomb. “I actually visited your aunt’s place the other day.”
     Kotoha’s head snapped up like it had been spring-loaded.
     “You what?!”
     “I met Chiyo,” I added quickly. “It wasn’t planned. It just sort of… happened.”
     She groaned, dragging a hand down her face like I’d confessed to joining a cult—which was rich, considering she was the one who tried to set me up in the first place.
     “First Nozomi, now my aunt… Is this the start of another disaster arc?”
     “I’m not cursed if that’s what you’re thinking.”
     “Somebody call the exorcist,” she muttered. “What would Azusa do if you got into trouble again?”
     I couldn’t help but let out a snort.
     “What do you mean ‘again?’ You make it sound way more serious than it is.”
     “…Just promise me you won’t go looking for trouble,” she said, and for once, the mischief drained from her tone.
     “What do you take me for?” I asked, holding her gaze. “Some kind of danger magnet?”
     “You’re a Kaoru magnet,” she said dryly, pinning me with a look that didn’t need translation. “And that’s basically a cosmic hazard sign.”
     “Ouch. Harsh.”
     She leaned in, her voice sharpening as she levelled her chopsticks at me.
     An improvised threat.
     “If I catch even a whiff of trouble—”
     “I get it, I get it,” I cut in, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”
     Her expression eased. She picked at her lunch again, chewing slowly before tossing me a side glance.
     “So… any plans for summer break?”
     “Not really.”
     “Is that so?” she said, snapping her bento lid shut with a crisp motion.
     “Well… Azusa has her checkup soon. I’ll be with her for that. That’s about it.”
     “I see… What about the summer festival?”
     “The summer festival?” I echoed like she’d just asked me to attend a ritual summoning.
     “Yeah! The one we used to go to when we were kids. It’s gotten more exciting over the years.”
     “You’re still into that stuff?”
     “Of course! Besides, your very own Fujimiya Shrine poster girl is performing the Kagura dance again this year.”
     “Wait, seriously?”
     “Yes, seriously,” she declared, puffing out her chest like she was about to save the world.
     If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was about one transformation sequence short of a full magical girl debut. All she was missing was some ambient sparkles and a decent voice line.
     “I’ve been practicing for weeks. You and Azusa have to come,” she added with zero shame. “I demand your praise and admiration.”
     “Very humble of you.”
     “I’m not pressuring you,” she added quickly, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “But it’d mean a lot if you came. Who knows, it could turn out to be a pleasant experience.”
     Crowds. Noise. Lights. Awkward small talk masquerading as fun.
     Yeah—real relaxing. It was enough to make an introvert like me think twice.
     “…I’ll think about it.”
     “Good enough,” she said, standing. Whatever passed through her mind, she masked it with the same breezy confidence she always wore like armour. “Anyway, I’ve got to go—the end-of-school address isn’t going to run itself.”
     “You’re in charge of that too?”
     “Someone has to keep things running,” she said with a wink.
     “Right. Good luck with your benevolent dictatorship.”
     She waved over her shoulder, disappearing down the stairs—leaving behind a few crumbs of amusement and a sentimental lump I refused to acknowledge.
     Being around Kotoha always lightened the mood—even if she had a habit of dropping emotional bombs in the middle of her punchlines.
     Festivals though… They hadn’t been my thing for years.
     Too much chaos.
     Too many people.
     Too many expectations disguised as fun.
     Somewhere along the way, I’d just stopped wanting to show up.
     Kotoha’s invitation wasn’t something I could easily turn down. The thought of letting her down complicated what should’ve been a simple decision.
     Dodging the question had been a wise move.
     A classic side-step.
     One might even say… masterful.
     There was still time to decide.
     Kotoha was probably right—
     Between Nozomi, Chiyo, and the festival, this summer was shaping up to be more than just long.
     It was going to be loud.
     And if I didn’t brace myself soon, I’d be dragged along for the ride—willing or not.

*          *          *

Behind the drawn shutters of his cramped office, Yamada slouched deeper into his chair, cigarette smouldering between his fingers. The air reeked of stale tobacco and aging paper, dense enough to settle in the lungs like dust.
     Stillness clung to the walls, but it brought him no peace.
     Sleep had become elusive ever since his latest meeting with the woman named Chiyo.
     Not that she had made any overt threats.
     Nothing so explicit.
     But there was something about her presence.
     Something in the rhythm of her speech—the precise pauses, the calculated way she watched—it all felt engineered to unsettle.
     He didn’t like the way her words lingered: around him, through him, beyond him.
     It wasn’t their first encounter.
     Chiyo Fujimiya was a name that carried notoriety—on the streets, in the boardrooms, and everywhere in between.
     To some, she was an infamous soothsayer. To others, a business oracle.
     Either way, anyone with real aspirations—whether to claw upward or cling to power—knew better than to write her off.
     Her predictions went beyond mere forecasts—landing closer to declarations.
     Rumor had it entire syndicates had risen or collapsed at her whim, nudged off the board like pawns decided by a lazy game of darts.
     Sure, half of it was probably urban legend.
     But that didn’t make her any less of a force to be reckoned with.
     Yamada wasn’t one to romanticize her reputation, but even he afforded Chiyo a degree of caution far beyond what he’d show any ordinary fortune teller.
     Something about her set off the instincts he trusted most.
     She wasn’t someone you cornered.
     And she certainly wasn’t someone you threatened.
     Still, her riddles grated on him.
     Ambiguity was a luxury he had little patience for.
     If it had been anyone else speaking in circles, he’d have wrung the answers out of them.
     But with Chiyo, that kind of recklessness would only invite disaster.
     “Damn that woman and her riddles…” he muttered, dragging on his cigarette before grinding it out in the ashtray with a sharp, irritated twist. “‘Calm before the storm’... To hell with that bullshit.”
     Whatever game Chiyo had started this time, Yamada had a creeping suspicion he’d been on the board long before he knew the players.
     He lit another cigarette without even realizing.
     Thud.
     The sound jolted him. Something had struck the window.
     He moved with cautious deliberation, parting the slats with two fingers.
     A pale blur sat perched on the ledge.
     A cat.
     Its fur was ghost-white in the moonlight. Its amber eyes—sharp and unblinking—glowed like embers stoked by something ancient.
     “What the hell—?!” Yamada stepped back reflexively, shoulder hitting the wall. “Damned cat…” he hissed, trying to calm the racing pulse in his throat.
     Oblivious to his irritation, the cat continued to challenge him with its unnatural focus. Almost like a predator.
     “Get lost!” he barked, slamming his fist against the window in an attempt to drive away the unwelcome visitor.
     Only then did it leap away, vanishing like fog into the shadows.
     He was still catching his breath when a knock rattled the door.
     One of his men peered inside, sounding wary.
     “Boss? Everything alright?”
     “It’s nothing,” Yamada snapped. “Tell the others to stay alert. Something’s off.”
     His subordinate gave a sharp nod and retreated quickly.
     Alone again, Yamada sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on the shutters with a scowl etched deep.
     Was that an omen?
     It wasn’t a black cat, sure—but still.
     Yamada was not one for superstition.
     But this wasn’t about belief.
     It was instinct.
     And instinct told him something was coming.
     Something was watching.
     Waiting.
     Creeping just beyond reach, coiled in the dark.
     A storm was brewing on the horizon.
     And this time, he had a gut feeling—he wasn’t ready for what was to come.

*          *          *