Rise and Shine! It’s the Start of a New Term!

The youth doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there.

In brooding silence, he has stared at the dark grass for a while, his listless eyes hovering over those lusterless points swaying gently in the breeze. He watches them again and again, for some time he could not care to count... or rather, he does not want to.

Slowly, the blades turn a vivid green as light streams across the field, casting slanted, pin-like shadows behind them.

He raises his chin heavily, lifting his downcast eyes toward the horizon. The dark, thick fog behind the ridges, as if in agreement with the grass, also shifts from its dull state into a milky-white, fluffy mass.

Below, the outlines of the many buildings start to sharpen. Rays of light shafted through the saddles of the mountain peaks steadily move in a sweeping motion. They brush the dark, undefined landscape with the colors and clear strokes of a town surrounded by an almost unbroken line of mountains and hills.

Two larger rivers pour from the upper eastern heights and plateaus. They meander through the valley, with smaller tributaries feeding into each, cutting and dividing the town. The waters flow continuously down into the lower land to the southeast before vanishing through the passes.

Clusters of windmills appear in the distance. They perch on the lower points of the arching ridgelines like guardian monoliths, overlooking the many lives below.

Everywhere beyond, only the now-bright mass of fog stretches as far as the eye can see. 

Indeed. Everything now is clear and bright.

Too clear and bright.

The youth inhales deeply, feeling the cold breeze fill his lungs fully. When he exhales, it is comfort, not joy, that he is trying to gather in his mind.

The chirping birds, the cool breeze, the scenery, and the brightness create an exuberant atmosphere that many people would find heartening.

The youth dislikes it.

From the town, a distant, faint sound can be heard. Another loudspeaker stands close to him, where the proximity makes the crackling noise even more noticeable. A synchronous chiming of a melody resonates through the valley to signal the hour.

It is 6 a.m.

He can feel the wetness from the grass where he has been sitting seeping deeper through his trousers. The wetness and the breeze on his skin make him chill. Still, he would have liked to stay there for longer if he could.

The cold is on his skin, but at the same time, the pit of his stomach is burning. He really wishes time would have stopped... or at least paused back when everything was still dark, not yet illuminated and animated.

A drop trickles down his forehead. The sweat makes his shirt stick to his back, chilling him more, but the stoking flame remains inside him.

As he tries to find comfort in controlled breathing, steps can be heard from behind.

He will not look back. Just a little longer, he negotiates with himself.

The footfalls grow steadily, now interspersed with chatter and occasional laughter. Still, he keeps his eyes down in front of him, trying to prolong his lingering.

More and more steps follow, accompanied by the ringing of bicycle bells, shouts, and banter. The daily life is about to start, leaving the idle world behind.

I guess it would be weird if I sat by myself even longer here...

No longer able to delay the inevitable, he starts to get up. With leaden steps, he drags his own body to join the stream of people that he has been trying to pay no mind to for a while.

They are all boys and girls in their uniform—gakuran and sailor uniforms with red neckerchiefs. Both are the same raven-black color, making their way up an uphill road lined with plum trees. Some walk along the sidewalk, while others trudge along the paved road itself.

The youth prefers to stay on the proper pedestrian path, blending better with the crowd and ducking under the shadows of the plum trees as their long, branching limbs vault overhead. The sunlight sifts through the dense canopy of green foliage, creating puddle-like radiance on the pavement.

Beside him, the road feels too uncomfortably open and exposed under the sun. Though perhaps it would be nice to walk down in the middle of it... If it’s with a certainty that no one is around, he thinks, imagining the possibility.

He can hear some students grumbling nearby. The visible exertions of their movements are telling of the effort they have to put into going up the hill—definitely not something they want to do, especially at the start of a new term.

But he doesn’t dislike the climb.

By no means is he having a fun time, either. He takes it slow, trailing among his comrades-in-hardship. This will take him some time to reach the school. Somehow, every step and every second becomes so precious.

But in the end, time will run out—and reality catches.

***

Some students can be seen alongside adults in formal attire. The youth wonders if they are all excited. After all, it is a new day for them.

But not for him.

On one side of the arching gateway, a grand marble plaque of deep jade stands like a sentry. On the other, a white signboard reading "OPENING & ENTRANCE CEREMONY" in bold calligraphy poses like an old guard watching the young aspirants of the revered customs and traditions, heralding the significance of the establishment.

REIMEI PRIVATE INTEGRATED SCHOOL.
HIGH SCHOOL DIVISION.

From the frontage, one can sense the prominence and the display of its cherished, long-held high esteem for its history and foundation. The youth, though, regards such flaunting as a mere shadow of long-lost glory.

Many hands have kept it well-maintained for many years. But time—as he himself bitterly acknowledges—is a blind master; its decree absolute.

Its facade of deep reed bricks exudes warmth and harmonizes with the surrounding nature. Its Western Gothic architecture, with arched windows, stained glass, and a clock tower, evokes an impression of the established and classical.

Yet somehow, its structures loom like those of the haunted and the bygones.

Through the gateway and into the premises, sakura trees now dominate. Their full blooms overhead and the fluttering petals arouse a longing for the ephemeral. Below, the length of the hedges is accompanied by yet-to-bloom chrysanthemums.

Perhaps they mean to inspire and motivate for the changing times. A new beginning.

But why do I feel nostalgia instead? Do I long for the past? He contemplates. Somehow, his surroundings grow farther and smaller. Their realness is slipping away.

—No. I want it to stop, instead.

He shakes his head. He realizes he's slowed down and is now standing completely still. Pulling himself back, he continues to walk lest he start to draw attention—or at least, that’s what he feels.

***

The auditorium is packed with teachers, staff, students of all years, and the parents of the new arrivals, grouped in their respective designated settings. The opening ceremony is solemn. You can feel the stiff air around the rows of first-years in the front.

Behind them, the seniors are relaxed, just another pattern already clocked within their habit. Here, among all the students clad in black who meld closely together, the sight comforts the youth a little.

Once in it, no longer anticipating but moving in the flow, he finds some respite from his restlessness. His heart is at some ease even though his mind keeps rushing—a constant, swirling whirlpool of trailing thoughts with unfixed details.

He can barely remember the speeches from the stage.

“…on this auspicious day, we are welcoming the new students into…”

“…face the future with dignity, all of you, shall mark the seventh generation of admittance since this school's new beginning in this brave new frontier of our history…”

“...graduate with your head held high and don’t forget to…”

There is nothing new. Just the usual, expected pep talk: do your best and prepare to serve for the betterment of society.

After the opening ceremony ends, only the first-year students remain alongside their parents to proceed to their entrance ceremony, while the junior and senior years resume their homeroom as usual.

Walking away from the auditorium and cutting through the familiar hallways stirs up his agitation. Whatever calmness or shreds of the positive he has gathered are steadily fading.

He consciously heaves his feet, one after the other, until he stops in front of a door with a sign hung from its lintel: 3-B