𝐂𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜 ʲᵘʲᵘˢᵗᵘ ᵏᵃⁱˢᵉⁿ

zero.

There is an elementary school on the way to your apartment.

The kids are usually already home when you pass through, especially now that you're taking college-preparatory classes.

Today, however, had been an exception, with the last bell ringing a quarter before one, which you soon find out also happens to be the time the children are dismissed.

The sight of them running around strikes a sense of longing and nostalgia to your heart, prompting you to slow down, basking in the cacophonous chaos you'd normally avoid.

The drumming of little feet against concrete.

Shrill laughter.

And the occasional high-pitched scream.

Movement catches your eye, prompting you to take one step to the side— just in time to avoid a head-on collision with one of the kids, who ran straight into the arms of the man behind you.

Your gaze lands at their retreating backs and jointed hands.

The scenery shifts, and all of a sudden, it's like you're seeing through gold tinted lenses.

Everything is more or less the same, except instead of the little boy and his father, it's a child wearing a [color] shirt, chattering animatedly to an older woman.

They bear an almost uncanny resemblance, and a fond smile could be seen on the latter's face—one that easily goes unnoticed by her offspring, too caught up in whatever it is they had been talking about.

Your eyes soften.

Okaa-san...

But then, the pair halted, heads turned towards the direction of the school, shattering the illusion.

Irked your trip down memory lane got interrupted, you follow their line of sight.

What you see quells any traces of your annoyance almost instantaneously.

It's a woman, her expression frantic as she cradles the head of an unconscious boy, his skin sickly pale, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead.

A few people turn away, while others murmur in concern.

Something tugs at your chest. You hardly know him, but he reminds you—perhaps a little too much—of another person you hold dear.

Your feet start moving before you know it.

As you approach, you notice a bandaid on his forearm.

You swallow harshly.

Miasma radiates off where the wound should be, tainting its surroundings a darker hue.

It's a sight all too familiar, and you can feel your energy responding to it, like an itch in your subconscious, urging you to take action.

Part of you doesn't want to.

You could just turn a blind eye and walk away like you've always done for the past 14 years of your life. You'd go back home in time and continue on with your daily schedule, convincing yourself that this was the path you chose: one that won't involve curses–or anything to do with them, for that matter.

Guilt is inevitable, but compared to giving up a long-established normalcy, it's a consequence you are willing to bear.

The woman holding the boy whispers something to her colleague. He nods, and she hands the boy over.

He's most likely gonna be carried to the nurse's office. You doubt anything in there could help.

It'll be a lot harder to reach him once he's inside.