The school bell rang loud and sharp, echoing across the courtyard like the signal of a prison break. Students flooded through the gates in a rush, their chatter loud, their steps eager. Everyone had somewhere to be. Someone to go home to.
Rin didn't rush. He never did.
He walked at his own pace, his bag slung over one shoulder, his steps quiet. There was no one waiting for him. No place he needed to hurry back to.
His parents were long gone. He didn't know why. No note, no explanation—just absence. One day, they vanished. No calls, no messages, no goodbye. It was as if they had decided he didn't exist anymore.
The only reason he still had a roof over his head was his grandfather. A stern, silent man who never said much but, in the end, left Rin the small apartment in his will. It wasn't much—just a faded place at the edge of the city—but it was his.
That day felt like every other.
Rin entered the quiet apartment, the door creaking shut behind him. The air inside was still, the kind of stillness that settled into your bones. He dropped his bag near the door and made his way to the tiny bedroom tucked away at the back.
He collapsed onto his bed, face down.
"Another day done," he murmured into the pillow. "I don't even know why I'm still doing this…"
There was no answer. Just the quiet hum of an old refrigerator in the next room.
After a short nap, his stomach reminded him it had been hours since lunch. He shuffled to the kitchen and opened the near-empty cabinet. A few protein bars sat on the shelf, dusty but still edible.
He ate one without thinking, chewing slowly, mechanically.
Then he returned to bed.
There wasn't anything else to do.
Morning came too fast. The alarm buzzed. Rin didn't move at first. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, mind drifting between sleep and waking.
The loop was beginning again.
He got dressed, grabbed his bag, and left for his part-time job at a nearby grocery store. His shift was quiet—stacking shelves, greeting customers, dealing with broken barcode scanners. Just like always.
After work, he walked toward school. The streets were crowded, the city alive in a way Rin never felt he was part of. People moved with purpose, talking, laughing, living.
And then… it happened.
There was no warning.
No dramatic sound. No flash of light.
Just a sudden, earth-shaking crack above him.
He barely had time to glance up before a massive billboard, loosened from its mountings, came crashing down.
Pain didn't register. Not really.
Just pressure. Crushing. Blinding.
Then… darkness.
In the seconds—or was it hours?—that followed, Rin's mind floated.
Thoughts came in fragments.
Is this it?
Was there something more I could've done?
If I had tried harder… would things have been different?
But those thoughts didn't bring regret.
Only emptiness.
He felt himself slipping away, piece by piece, into the void.
Then—light.
A warm, golden glow spread through the darkness.
He blinked.
The world came into view, but everything was wrong. The ceiling above him was wooden, old and creaky. The light was natural, pouring in through a window beside a fireplace.
Voices echoed around him—soft, cheerful, unfamiliar.
He turned his head, slowly, stiffly. His body didn't feel right. His limbs were tiny. Weak.
A group of small children sat in a circle, playing with wooden toys. Nearby, a woman knelt beside one of them, brushing their hair back with a gentle smile.
She looked up—and her eyes met his.
They were kind.
Her expression softened as she walked over and gently picked him up. He fit easily in her arms.
He looked down.
Tiny hands. Baby hands.
The weight in his chest tightened.
This wasn't a dream.
He was a baby.
And this… this was a daycare.
Or maybe something else entirely.
A second chance?
Or just another cruel joke?
He didn't know.
But as he stared up at the unfamiliar sky through the window, one thought echoed in his mind.
This time… will it be different?