Haru had learned how to stay quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of silence.
The kind built from waiting.
Waiting for voices to lower.
Waiting for footsteps to fade.
Waiting for the house to feel safe again.
That day, it didn't.
The argument began small.
It always did.
His mother's voice stretched thin with exhaustion.
"Why don't you listen?"
"Why are you always like this?"
"Can't you be normal for once?"
Haru stood in the hallway.
His fingers curled tightly into his palm.
He wanted to disappear.
Then something fell.
Glass shattered.
And suddenly—
Fire.
Not warmth.
Not comfort.
Violent orange flames climbed the curtains like something alive.
The room filled with heat.
"Haru!" his mother shouted.
"Don't—!"
But Haru was already moving.
He didn't think.
He just reacted.
His hand reached toward the fire.
Bare skin against burning cloth.
Pain struck instantly.
Not sharp.
Not quick.
It spread.
Like his hand had been plunged into something alive.
Haru screamed.
But the sound felt distant.
Like it belonged to someone else.
He pulled his hand back.
Stumbling.
Staring at it in disbelief.
Red.
Burned.
Wrong.
The fire was gone minutes later.
Or seconds.
Time didn't behave properly anymore.
Neighbors arrived.
Voices filled the house.
But Haru barely heard them.
What stayed wasn't the smoke.
Or the shouting.
It was the look.
His mother's eyes when she saw his hand.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Disappointment… mixed with guilt.
As if she didn't know whether to blame herself—
or him.
That night Haru couldn't sleep.
His hand throbbed beneath the bandages.
Each pulse reminded him of the fire.
Of the mistake.
I made it worse.
I always make things worse.
The room felt too small.
The shadows too deep.
Then—
Someone spoke.
"You're still here."
Haru froze.
He turned slowly.
A figure stood near the window.
Tall.
Quiet.
Watching him.
"Who are you?" Haru whispered.
The figure tilted its head slightly.
"I'm the part of you that stayed when the pain didn't leave."
Haru stared.
The house was silent again.
But something had changed forever.
Pain didn't disappear.
It transformed.
And tonight—
It had taken a shape.