10. Universality

Half asleep, I watch the vivid red haze glowing behind my eyelids.

Wait, why is it so bright...?

I almost drift off again, then jolt upright. The clock beside my pillow is fifteen minutes past the time I planned to wake up.

The ceiling is glowing more brightly than the world outside. I tap the sign on the wall twice to bring it down to a comfortable level, then hurry to get dressed.

“Come on, I told you to wake me up.”

I wash my face and enter the dining room, where the air carries a gentle, warm fragrance.

“I did. Several times.”

My mother resets the kettle on the trivet and makes a small adjustment to its position. A flame flickers to life.

“We'll have to carve it again soon.”

With a troubled expression, she rubs the fading groove in the tile with one finger.

Beside my younger brother, who has a piece of bread in his mouth and is frantically running his pencil across a handwriting practice book, my father stops turning the pages of his newspaper.

“—Today marks thirty years since the 9.2 Event. Ceremonies will be held across the country later today—”

On the television, a live broadcast shows a plaza containing a monument shaped like a curtain.

I hurriedly swallow my toast, drain my soup, and rise with my school bag in hand.

“Be careful.”

Checking the sign for white, my mother holds out my bento box.

I take it with a nod.

“I'm off!”

I press my palm to the sign on the door and dash outside. Behind me, something clicks shut.

The day is so brilliantly clear that I can barely keep my eyes open.