The words hit Hoshi like a sudden gust through the fragile warmth of the room, extinguishing the candle's soft glow in his mind as Kenji's confession echoed in the silence. "Shot?" Hoshi echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, the sound foreign even to his own ears. He stared at his uncle, the familiar lines of Kenji's face blurring through a haze of shock, the scent of sandalwood now mingling with the metallic tang of his own rising panic. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, the green hoodie suddenly feeling too tight, as if it were trying to hold him together against the weight of this new reality. Dayna, his closest friend, the one who had shared late-night sketches and quiet confessions over coffee, gone in an instant of violence at Game Haven. Hoshi's mind raced with fragmented memories—Dayna's warm brown eyes crinkling in a laugh, the faint click of their camera shutter—but all of it felt distant, like echoes from a dream he couldn't quite grasp. He wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness, but instead, a numb void settled in his chest, swallowing everything else.

Days blurred into a haze of mechanical routines as Hoshi served his week of suspension, the academy's stern decree feeling like an afterthought compared to the gaping wound of loss. When he finally returned, the campus funeral for Day unfolded under a somber gray sky, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and wilting flowers arranged around a simple photo of his friend, their shoulder-length dark hair pinned back just as Hoshi remembered. Students gathered in a loose circle on the green lawn, their murmurs a low backdrop to the occasional sob, and Hoshi stood at the edge, his frizzy hair tousled by a chill wind that mirrored the emptiness inside him. One by one, they approached him—peers from art classes, faces he barely knew—offering awkward pats on the shoulder and whispered condolences. "I'm so sorry, Hoshi," a classmate said, their voice thick with empathy, squeezing his arm gently. "Day was incredible; they lit up every room." Another, a tall figure from the photography club, handed him a folded note with trembling fingers. "If you need to talk, I'm here. Day always spoke so highly of you." Hoshi nodded mechanically, murmuring thanks that felt hollow on his tongue, his glasses slipping down his nose as he fought to keep his expression neutral. Inside, though, he felt nothing but a vast, echoing void, as if the sketches in his mysterious notebook had bled into his soul, turning his grief into something cold and untouchable.

Yet, amid the sea of sympathetic faces, Hoshi's thoughts drifted to the unspoken bond he and Day had shared, the subtle glances and the way Day's hand had lingered on his arm during their last hangout. It was a quiet undercurrent, a potential warmth that had never fully ignited, now forever lost in the shadows of what could have been. As the ceremony wound down, Hoshi slipped away from the crowd, the weight of their kindness pressing against him like an ill-fitting coat, leaving him to wander the empty paths alone, the autumn leaves crunching under his sneakers as he grappled with the darkness threatening to consume him, each step taking him further from the hollow condolences and closer to the sanctuary of his dorm room.

When he finally pushed the door open, the sight that greeted him made his breath catch—not in grief this time, but in a dull, resigned shock. His belongings were strewn across the floor like casualties of a storm: sketchbooks torn, clothes ripped from hangers, the contents of his desk drawers spilled in a chaotic mosaic. A faint, lingering scent of cheap cologne and malice hung in the air, unmistakably Darce’s signature. Hoshi’s jaw tightened, but the anger he expected never came; instead, a heavy, leaden numbness settled over him as he stepped over the wreckage without a second glance, his focus narrowing to the small island of his bed, miraculously untouched amidst the devastation.

He collapsed onto the mattress, the springs groaning softly under his weight, and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. His mind drifted back to Dayna—the way their laughter had always felt like a secret just for him, the unspoken understanding in their shared silences. He remembered the warmth of their hand on his arm, the hesitant way their eyes had sometimes lingered on his, and a sharp, aching regret pierced through the numbness. If only he had said something, done something, before it was too late. The thought was a fresh wound, raw and throbbing, and he turned his face into the pillow, breathing in the familiar scent of his own laundry detergent, trying to anchor himself in something that hadn’t been stolen or destroyed.

Outside, the sky deepened to a bruised purple, casting long shadows across the ruined room. Hoshi didn’t move, didn’t cry, didn’t rage. He simply lay there, letting the quiet envelop him, distant and cold, like memories of a warmth he would never feel again.

A sharp, insistent knocking at the door shattered the fragile silence. Hoshi froze, the sound echoing through the ransacked room like gunshots. For a long moment he considered pretending he wasn't there, burying himself deeper in the pillow, but the knocking came again—firm, professional, unavoidable. With a weary sigh that felt like it came from the very bottom of his soul, he pushed himself up and crossed the debris-strewn floor.

Opening the door revealed Dr. Cocoa Maureen standing in the dim hallway, her expression a careful blend of professional concern and gentle persistence. The faint scent of her jasmine perfume cut through the lingering odor of Darce's cologne. "Hoshi," she said softly, her eyes already taking in the chaos behind him with a clinical sweep. "May I come in?" He wanted to refuse, to shut the door on her sympathy and the world it represented, but his body moved on autopilot, stepping aside with a grudging nod as she entered his ruined sanctuary.

Dr. Maureen's gaze traveled over the torn sketches and scattered belongings, her lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval that wasn't directed at him. "I heard about what happened," she said, her voice low and measured. "And about Dayna. I'm so sorry, Hoshi." She moved a shredded sketchbook from the room's only chair with careful fingers before sitting, her posture poised yet open. "The academy takes this vandalism very seriously. But more importantly—how are you holding up?" Her eyes held his, seeing past the mess, past the defensive hunch of his shoulders, and for a terrifying moment he felt transparent, all his grief and fear laid bare before this woman who smelled of jasmine and carried the weight of other people's pain in her briefcase.

Hoshi’s gaze dropped to his hands, fingers twisting in the worn fabric of his hoodie. “Fine,” he mumbled, the word tasting like dust. “I’m fine.”

Dr. Maureen didn’t push, didn’t lean in closer. She simply waited, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm of his room. “It’s okay not to be fine, Hoshi. What happened to Dayna—what’s happening to you here—it’s a lot for anyone to carry.” She paused, her eyes softening as they drifted over a half-torn sketch of a monster he’d drawn weeks ago, back when the world still made a kind of sense. “They were very special, weren’t they? Dayna had a way of seeing people—really seeing them. I remember they once showed me a photograph they’d taken of you down by the riverbank. You were laughing, completely unguarded. They caught something in your expression that…” She trailed off, shaking her head gently. “It was like they’d captured a secret part of you, something quiet and beautiful.”

A hot, sharp ache flared behind Hoshi’s ribs. His throat tightened, and the careful numbness he’d wrapped around himself began to crack. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough, unfamiliar. “Don’t talk about them like that.” He could see it suddenly—the golden hour light, the way Day’s fingers had brushed his when they handed him the printed photo, the unspoken words hanging between them that he’d been too afraid to acknowledge. The memory was a live wire, searing through the cold emptiness. His vision blurred, and he turned away sharply, shoulders tensing as a single, traitorous tear traced a path down his cheek, falling onto the star embroidered on his sleeve. He swiped at it angrily, but the dam had broken, and a quiet, shuddering breath escaped him—the first real feeling he’d allowed himself since Kenji’s words had shattered his world.

Dr. Maureen watched the tear soak into the star on his sleeve, her own expression softening with a sorrow that felt genuine, not clinical. “I know you blame yourself,” she said, her voice barely louder than the rustle of a turned page. “It’s a natural reaction, Hoshi. To search for a reason, for something you could have done differently. But what happened at Game Haven was not your fault.”

The words, meant to be a balm, acted like acid. A bitter, hysterical laugh ripped from Hoshi’s throat, startling them both. “Not my fault?” he repeated, his voice cracking under the strain. He finally looked at her, his eyes blazing with a pain so raw it seemed to scorch the air between them. “It was my birthday! They were there for *me*! If I hadn’t wanted to go, if I’d just stayed in my room like I usually do…” His words tumbled out, frantic and sharp-edged. “It’s always my birthday! Don’t you get it? My parents… they died coming home from my party. Rainy night, stupid kid who wanted a specific cake from across town.” The confession hung in the air, ugly and final. He wrapped his arms around himself, his fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as if he could physically hold the shattered pieces of himself together. “And now Day… It’s a curse. Everyone I… everyone who gets close to me on that day…” He couldn’t finish, his body wracked by silent, shuddering sobs that stole his breath and bent him double.

Dr. Maureen didn’t move from her chair, but her stillness became an active presence, a safe harbor in the storm of his grief. She let him cry, the only sounds in the room the ragged pull of his breath and the distant hum of campus life continuing obliviously outside. After a long moment, she spoke again, her tone gentle but firm. “Hoshi, listen to me. You are not cursed. You are a young man who has experienced profound and tragic loss. Connecting those losses to your birthday is your heart’s way of trying to make sense of a world that often makes no sense at all.” She leaned forward slightly, her jasmine scent cutting through the salt of his tears. “Dayna made a choice to celebrate you. That was their gift. Honoring their memory means refusing to let this tragedy poison the love that brought them there.” Her words settled over him, not as an immediate comfort, but as a seed of truth planted in poisoned soil. The anger drained from him as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind only a hollowed-out exhaustion and the phantom warmth of Day’s hand on his arm—a memory that now felt less like a curse and more like a precious, heartbreaking treasure he had been entrusted to carry.

Hoshi wiped his face roughly with his sleeve, the star emblem damp and cold against his skin. "How am I supposed to heal from this?" he asked, the question a raw, somber exhale that seemed to shrink him further into his hoodie. Dr. Maureen's expression softened, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Healing isn't a switch you flip, Hoshi. It's a process, like tending a garden in poor soil. It's slow. It's messy. Some days you'll just be pulling weeds of anger or watering seeds of sadness. But the capacity to heal is in everyone," she explained, her voice calm and measured. "It's in the choice to get out of bed, to pick up a pencil again, to remember the good without letting the pain erase it. It's in letting people like your uncle, and even me, help you carry the weight." She paused, letting the silence stretch, filled only by the settling of the old dorm building. "And it's in honoring what was real. The connection you had with Dayna was real. That doesn't disappear. It becomes part of the foundation you build on, even when it feels like everything has collapsed." Hoshi looked down at his hands, imagining the ghost of a charcoal smudge from a sketch he'd never finish with Day, and for the first time, the thought didn't feel like a shard of glass in his heart, but a fragile, aching beginning.

Dr. Maureen watched him for a long moment, the quiet punctuated only by the ragged remnants of his breathing. "I think," she said carefully, her gaze sweeping once more over the wreckage of his room before returning to him, "that a good place to start is by creating a space where you can breathe. Where you feel safe. This," she gestured delicately at the chaos, "is not that space. But we can work on that, too. Hoshi, I'd like you to start seeing me regularly. Let's make it Mondays, Thursdays, and Sundays. We can talk, or not talk. It's a dedicated time just for you to sort through this."

Hoshi nodded slowly, the motion feeling heavy but necessary. The structure of it, the promise of a container for all this spiraling chaos, felt like a faint lifeline thrown into churning water. "Okay," he agreed, his voice hoarse. "Thank you, Dr. Maureen. For... for coming."

She gave a small, acknowledging smile that didn't quite reach her weary eyes, then rose from the chair, her movements graceful and deliberate. "I'll see you on Thursday, Hoshi. Lock your door tonight." With a final, lingering look that was more assessment than judgment, she slipped out, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

The silence she left behind was different now—no longer a suffocating blanket, but a space he had to consciously fill. He stood there for a long time, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat slow to a steadier rhythm. His gaze drifted from the torn sketch of the monster on the floor to the blank, inviting page of the mysterious sketchbook peeking out from under his bed. The urge to draw, to exorcise the images haunting him, was a dull throb in his fingers. But first, the mess. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't possibly contemplate the ghost of Day's smile or the unsettling power of the sketchbook while surrounded by Darce's violent signature. Taking a deep breath that expanded his lungs fully for the first time all day, Hoshi bent down and picked up a fallen textbook, the simple, physical act feeling like the first deliberate stroke on a new, uncertain canvas.

He picked up a torn sketchbook, its pages fluttering like wounded birds, and began the slow, methodical work of restoring order. Each item he touched felt heavy with memory—a crumpled receipt from a coffee run with Day, a splintered pencil they’d once sharpened for him—but he didn’t pause, didn’t let the weight pull him under. He folded clothes, stacked books, and swept away the debris of Darce’s cruelty until the floorboards showed again, clean and bare. The act felt like a quiet rebellion, a reclamation of space and self. When his phone buzzed on the freshly made bed, the sound was startling in the new stillness. The screen glowed with an unknown number, and for a moment, Hoshi considered letting it go to voicemail, but something—a faint, stubborn thread of hope—made him answer.

The voice on the other end was brisk but not unkind, a woman’s tone he vaguely recognized as the manager of Game Haven. “Hoshi Baker? It’s about this pre-order—Haako Jagan 2 that came in under your name. We’ve been holding it, since the incident last week and were wondering if you were going to come pick it up.” His breath caught, the game he and Day had eagerly awaited for months now a relic of a life that felt centuries old, of course Day pre-ordered it for him, he could almost hear Day’s excited chatter about the limited edition cover art, their shoulder nudging his as they debated which character to play first. The memory was a fresh ache, sharp and sweet. “I… I’ll come by,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t suppress. Hanging up, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, holding back the tears that threatened to undo all his careful composure. This small, mundane errand felt like stepping back into a world that had irrevocably shifted, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the ghost of their shared excitement alone.

Yet, as he slipped his feet into his worn sneakers and pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, Hoshi felt a strange, fragile resolve settle in his chest. This was for Day, in a way—a quiet homage to the things they loved together. The autumn air was crisp and carried the scent of distant rain as he stepped outside, the campus paths familiar yet strangely hollow. Each step toward Game Haven felt like moving through a dream, the world both vivid and distant, and he focused on the rhythm of his breathing, the weight of the key in his pocket, anything to keep from drowning in the swell of grief and the bittersweet pull of what might have been.

The game store's familiar neon sign flickered overhead, casting sickly green light across the pavement where Hoshi stood frozen. Through the glass door, he could see it—the fractured spiderweb of impact near the handle, the dull brownish stains smeared across the tile floor just inside the entrance. His stomach clenched, the pre-dawn toast Kenji had insisted he eat turning to lead. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic underneath, something that made the hair on his arms stand up.

He pushed the door open, the bell chiming with grotesque cheerfulness. The manager—a tired-looking woman with kind eyes shadowed by dark circles—looked up from behind the counter. "Hoshi?" she asked softly, already reaching beneath the register. She placed the game on the counter, its limited edition artwork gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "Thank you..." His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted toward the stained floor, then back to her with profound sadness.

Hoshi's voice was barely a whisper, heavy with emotion he could no longer contain. "What happened here that day?" The manager's expression crumpled, her eyes dropping to the stained floor between them. "Oh, honey," she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron as if trying to clean away the memory. "I wasn't working that shift. They called me after... after everything happened." Her gaze drifted to the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking like a silent witness. "The police have all the footage. They said it was quick. That they didn't..." She trailed off, swallowing hard as her eyes met his again, filled with a sorrow that felt too familiar.

The limited edition game case felt cold and heavy in Hoshi's hands, its shiny artwork suddenly meaningless.

Hoshi's fingers tightened around the plastic case, the manager's kindness washing over him like a wave he wasn't sure he deserved. "Thank you," he managed, his voice thick with emotions he couldn't name, before turning to leave the store that had taken so much from him.

She nodded, her own eyes glistening as she watched him go, clutching the game to his chest like a shield. "Be careful out there, Hoshi," she called softly after him, the words a gentle plea carried on the sterile store air. "And for what it's worth... I hope they catch whoever did this." Stepping back into the pale afternoon light, her words followed him, mingling with the whisper of fallen leaves skittering across the pavement—a fragile wish for justice that settled deep in his bones, fueling the quiet, resolute fire that had begun to smolder where his grief had once been an icy void.

"Are you saying that the criminal who broke in that day was never caught?" The words hung in the air, colder than the conditioned store atmosphere. The manager’s gaze drifted back to the stained tiles, her voice dropping to a confidential hush. “The police took the footage, but the face was masked, and the license plate was muddied. It was like a ghost did it.” The hope she had offered curdled in Hoshi’s stomach, leaving behind the bitter dregs of a truth he now had to carry alone: Day’s killer was still out there, walking free under the same pale sun that illuminated his own hollowed-out grief.

"Did anyone see anything?" he asked, his voice steadier than he felt. "Anything at all?"

The manager shook her head slowly, her attention drifting to the damaged door. "The police took statements from everyone working that night, like Gary and Vanessa but..." She hesitated, her fingers tapping nervously on the counter. "There was a boy who came in right after it happened—tall, red hair. He seemed pretty shaken up, kept asking if everyone was alright before the paramedics arrived." Her description sent a cold shiver down Hoshi's spine, the image of Darce's smug face flashing in his mind.

Rough Sketch