Last Class

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when I opened my eyes, everything felt… different.

My body didn’t ache. My skin wasn’t hot. No dizziness, no fuzz in my head—just clarity, weightless and clean, like stepping out of a long fever and into fresh air.

The infirmary looked the same, but somehow too still. Too quiet. The lantern was off. Light was coming from somewhere behind the curtains—white, clouded daylight.

I sat up easily. No soreness. No protest from my limbs. The blanket slipped off my shoulders and I blinked at it. For a second, I almost laughed. This was either a miracle recovery… or a dream.

Ryoji wasn’t there.

His coat was still on the chair. The thermos and tin cup were where he’d left them. The sealed laundry pouch sat near the duffel. All of it untouched, arranged exactly as I remembered.

But he was gone.

I stood, slow but steady, bare feet meeting cold linoleum. The place felt colder than before. Not by temperature, but… texture. Like a vacuum.

And then—

“Natsumi.”

His voice. Clear, calm. Just outside the room, down the corridor.

“You awake?”

I startled and turned to the doorway.

“Ryo?” I called instinctively, using the name I’d said just before sleep. It came out easier this time. Like it belonged.

No answer.

I crossed the infirmary and eased the door open. The hinges creaked.

The hallway stretched ahead—longer than I remembered.

Pale green walls, dulled with age. Chipped linoleum. Vines slipping through broken windows, dust thick in the corners. One door sagged half-open, groaning in the faint, sourceless wind.

The same voice again.

“How are you feeling?”

I turned to the sound.

It came from the corridor—but not from one place. More like… from the walls.

Still his voice. Exactly the same tone.

“How are you feeling?”

As if repeating itself. As if caught in a loop.

I stepped out. One foot into the hallway. Then another.

I took one more step down the corridor.

Then his voice again—closer this time. From the left.

A door cracked open down the hall.

“Ryoji?” I called out, louder now.

No answer.

Only a flicker—movement behind the glass of the door.

I moved toward it, heartbeat just starting to tick upward, hand brushing the peeling wall as if it could ground me.

Another few steps. My hand touched the doorframe.

It opened on its own.

Not all the way—just a slice. Just enough for me to see inside.

A classroom.

Impossibly clean.

Sunlight filtered through spotless glass, catching the shimmer of new chalk on the board. The desks were arranged in perfect rows, untouched, like the bell had just rung.

A paper calendar hung neatly on the far wall with dates and months that made little to no sense to her.

E8-7701-III-14

Written across the board in thick, pale strokes:

𒀭𒊺𒉈𒆰

Below it, in faded roman letters scrawled on a yellowed sign:

eš-ak eš

“What is this?” I whispered.

I turned around, suddenly unsure if I was alone. “Ryo?” I called again, sharper now. “Ryo?”

No one.

And then something shifted.

A deep vibration rolled through the floor.

I turned toward the windows.

And stopped breathing.

Outside the glass, the lush tree line was gone.

No forest. No hills.

Only ruin.

A valley of dust and wreckage, grey and endless, littered with the husks of buildings long collapsed. Fires streaked across the sky like falling stars in reverse—screaming down from above, striking the horizon.

The world was ending.

No—not ending. It had already ended.

And this place, this classroom, didn’t belong here.

I stumbled back out into the corridor. The lights above flickered. The air had turned thick, suffocating.

And then I saw it.

A shape.

Standing at the far end of the hallway.

Not moving. Not breathing.

Just watching.

A shadow where no person should be.

I backed up. My throat closed. My knees buckled.

“Ryo—!”

The scream tore out of me—raw, full.

And then I was upright, gasping, soaked in sweat.

His arms were around me.

His voice was in my ear.

“Easy. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The infirmary.

The real one.

Dusty, dim. My blanket half-tangled around me.

His chest against my shoulder, steady and warm. One hand cradling the back of my head.

I didn’t care what the dream was anymore. I didn’t care if he’d seen me break.

I just clutched the front of his shirt.

And breathed.