Friday, April 2nd, 1993; the banks of the Saigawa River, Kanazawa City, Ishikawa Prefecture, Japan.

  Tension swims in the air between Rokuro Tanaka and the so-called “Number One Punk” of Asahigawa High. He knows this guy well enough to take his threats seriously - in the sense that he's likely to jump straight to punching anything that threatens him. Ninomaru’s always had that insecure air about him; in fact, “surprised you're not celebratin',” Rocky smirks with a cocky grin on his face, “not like you were ever takin' top dog away from me any other way, right?”

  “I'm not taking that from a fucking traitor,” Nino mutters darkly. He's gotta think it's cool as hell to throw his jacket aside like that, a gesture with all the drama of a shitty yankii manga - all that effort, just to get grass-stains on your blazer at six in the morning… Rocky whistles. He'd put his hands in his pockets, if he wasn't fairly sure this was about to get physical.

  “Word sure travels fast,” he sighs aloud, cracking his neck and stretching his arms out, “not like I got expelled for the hell of it.”

  “Don’t matter. It's about the principle.” Ninomaru throws his wavy, ginger mane over his shoulder, glaring at him with steely, brown eyes. “It's about honour.”

  “Honour, huh?” Rocky casts a glance across the gathered company. Himself, this idiot, and three or four other guys from Asahigawa - the type of people you remember the faces of, but whose names just aren't important enough to call to mind. With a sigh, he slips his bandana over his head, and tightens it around his own long, unruly hair. “You're really going there?” Not like he's scared of these guys, but… “You sure you wanna say that when you're about to jump me?”

  “Who said this was a jumping?” With a gritted-teeth grin, Nino slides his left foot forward, and throws his fists up in front of his chest. “They ain't here to fight. They just wanted to watch me beat your ass.”

  Scoffing, Rokuro shakes his head. He'd pretend to be reluctant about finally shrugging off his jacket and mirroring Nino’s stance, but it'd do no good; “been wanting to put you in your place since last year, Mr. No. 2,” he grins, “come at me, then. Let's fucking go.”

  That finally goads him into it. The entourage roars to the shorter boy’s charge, and Rocky instinctively pulls his fist up to his face to block the first, bold punch. He knows Nino, and he's ready for his dirty tricks; a knee’s coming for his liver, but nothing stops your momentum dead like an elbow to the sternum, and that's a lesson he’s eager to teach to the tune of coughing, spluttering and gasps for air. He's not giving up yet, but that's fine; Nino grabs onto Rocky's shoulder, so Rocky slams a right hook into the side of his face, throwing him right back onto wobbling legs. It's a one-way ticket to the ground for Asahigawa’s wannabe boss, and a pathetically easy fight for the so-called “traitor”; fist still clenched, Rocky stands victorious, watching Nino try and fail as he flounders to get up. The poor guy looks like he's gonna throw up, hands shaking as they bury themselves in the grassy bank, staring into the distance with unfocused eyes - damn, did he really hit him that hard?

  “Give it up, man. You lost.” Rocky takes a couple of steps backwards, fetching his blazer from the ground. He’s half-expecting the rest of this motley crew to come at him, but they don't; he’s watching them like a hawk, but they don't even come to get their guy; all three of the stooges are as pale and shaky as the fallen leader. Rocky's pretty damn sure concussions aren't contagious, so-

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “It’s her,” Nino interrupts his train of thought. Apparently, he's given up on trying to stand, because he utters those words while scrambling back on his hands. “B-behind- the slit-mouthed woman- she's here.”

  “...That fuckin’ rumour?” Rocky finds himself grimacing, groaning out loud while he shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders. “What are you, a cartoon character? Who the fuck falls for that?”

  Insistently, Nino shakes his head. The other three idiots are helping him to his feet, and it's obvious how bad he’s shaking - that's the best excuse he could come up with, huh? “Whatever, man, I’m- I’m gone. You won, I don't- I wanna live!”

  They run off, limping into the distance like vanquished Sat-AM villains. Rocky’s hand falls to his hip, squinting into the morning light to watch them go.

  Friday, April 2nd, 1993; Oshirogaoka Highschool, Kanazawa City, Ishikawa Prefecture, Japan.

  Shiori doesn't really step, per se, but if she did, there would definitely be a spring to it today - today, and for the past two weeks. Something has shifted, and she can't quite place what, but it feels like it's a good thing. Every day since then has been filled with laughter like nothing ever happened, in a good way; she doesn't feel like such a…ghost, anymore.

  …Well, no, that's not quite true. She's definitely still a ghost. This school is filled with spirits, and every time she sees one, it's a reminder of her own mortality. Still, something about it just doesn't feel quite so grim anymore; the tiny, black-eyed ghost girl tugging on her skirt for attention just isn't filling her with despair like she used to.

  “Did you lose track of your mom again, Sayaka?”

  The little girl nods, fidgeting with her hands behind her back. She could be any normal kid, in her flowery dungarees and bright blue trainers, but the pitch-black gaze is a dead - oh, God, no pun intended - giveaway. Kneeling down with a sweet smile, Shiori gives the six-year-old her hand to hold. “Let's go find her, okay? Is she still wearing that pretty, purple mask?”

  She's not really six - not chronologically. Still, when you die at an age like that… Shiori’s lucky, in a way; most ghosts don't have people their age to “reflect” them as they grow, as one spirit she met put it. “It's all in the self-image,” she recalls him saying, and to her, that just makes Sayaka’s situation a little bit sadder. When she smiles innocently and nods her head, she can't help but wonder how long she's been like that.

  Taking her little hand, her fingers feel like ice.

  "Where did you last see her?"

  “Don’t know… Before, she said she had to go, and…”

  “...Did she say where?”

  The little girl shakes her head, pauses, and then hesitantly nods. “Yeah, but you can’t go there, I think,” she frowns. Shiori tilts her head. “Outside… She went to the big river. She went, and- and-...”

  “And she hasn’t come back,” she softly finishes for her. Kneeling down, Shiori smiles as comfortingly as she can, two hands on Sayaka’s tiny shoulders. “That’s okay. I’ll wait with you. She’ll be back soon.”

  On the verge of tears, the six-year-old shakes her head, vigorously enough that the little barrettes in her bob-cut hair start to come loose. “No,” she insists, “no, we need to find her!”

  “Wait- Sayaka, wait!”

  Before she knows it, the black-eyed child is running off down the corridor, too fast for Shiori to catch up. She’s heading to the ground floor, past the janitor, around the corner- by the time Shiori makes it to the stairwell, Sayaka’s gone, nowhere to be found. She looks behind her; around her; on the ceiling - nothing. Even the cleaner is gone, bucket and mop and all.

  “Sayaka…?”