SHARPER || Chishiya Alice in Boarderland

-38- what's your name?

The hospital halls feel different lately. Before the explosion, I was a volunteer. I had a purpose. I had Takeru and Mariko waiting for me at home. Now, I'm just... here. A body moving through familiar corridors, ghosting past people who don't know me, don't know that I lost everything in a second.

I push the thoughts down. They don't help.

Kenji steps into the Grief Group room, and Aiko, the therapist, gives me a kind smile. "Are you coming in today?"

I shake my head immediately. "No."

She doesn't push. Just nods like she expected it. Kenji glances at me, a quiet understanding in his gaze. "Three hours?"

"I'll wait in the car," I say.

"Thanks," he murmurs, then goes inside without another word.

Takumi and Kuina are already inside, both lounging in their chairs like they belong there. Takumi gives me a nod, Kuina flashes a quick grin. I nod back but don't linger. I turn and walk away before anyone else can look at me too long.

The halls haven't changed. The walls are still the same muted color, the floors still scuffed in places where stretchers and wheelchairs have left their mark. The air still smells like antiseptic and something faintly artificial, like the flowers people bring to patients.

It feels too normal.

Like the world should have stopped turning when my family died, but it didn't.

It just kept going.

Doctor Arata's office is at the end of the hallway. I stop outside the door, take a slow breath, and knock.

"Come in."

The voice is familiar. I push the door open.

Doctor Arata is exactly as I remember him—old, stern, with tired eyes that have seen too much. His face is lined with deep wrinkles, his hair is all grey now, but he still carries himself with authority.

He looks up, and for a second, his expression is blank. Then recognition flickers through his eyes. "Ah," he exhales. "You're alive."

It's not a question.

I step inside. "I am."

He nods, then looks at me for a long moment. "I heard about your siblings." His voice isn't gentle, but there's something weighty in it, something that says he understands loss. "I'm sorry."

I don't know what to say to that.

So I just say, "I want to volunteer again."

He leans back slightly, considering me. "On the children's station?"

I nod.

His gaze sharpens. "We have more than enough volunteers there."

The rejection stings more than it should. So I don't answer.

Instead, he sighs, rubbing his temple. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Doctor Arata doesn't believe me. It's obvious in the way he exhales through his nose, unimpressed. "Fine," he repeats, like he's testing the word. Then he straightens. "What about the bombing victims' ward?"

My stomach clenches.

No.

Gods, no.

But Doctor Arata keeps talking, like he doesn't notice—or maybe he does. Maybe that's the point. "A lot of them lost everything. Everyone." His gaze flicks to me, pointed. "Like you."