Chapter 11: Homework

When Itō Takuma’s chilling account finally drew to a close, Yomikawa Tsuko asked, “And that, then, is the entirety of Kimura-kun’s ordeal, as far as you know it?”

The story was undeniably strange, laced with a creeping dread, yet it lacked the concrete elements of a homicide or a typical criminal investigation. It was, in essence, a perfect campus ghost story – fertile ground for wild speculation, where even the most outlandish theories carried no real-world consequences. An ideal diversion, Yomikawa thought with grim satisfaction. Just the thing to keep Ōgami Yōsuke and the others occupied, their sharp minds chasing shadows instead of… other, more inconvenient truths.

Itō Takuma nodded, his face still pale. “More accurately, that’s everything I’ve been told about what happened to Kimura.” The unspoken hung heavy in the air: Kimura might have endured far worse, horrors he hadn’t dared to share.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing clinging dirt from his hands. “Whatever you decide to do from here on out… count me out. I’ve had my fill.”

“One moment, Itō-san,” Ōgami Yōsuke interjected, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, intense light. The fear in Itō’s story had clearly done little to dampen his investigator’s zeal. “The cave on Mount Karasu-Go… do you know its precise location?” His tone suggested a field trip was already forming in his mind. “And Kimura-san’s home address?”

Itō Takuma shook his head, a flicker of his earlier fear returning. “Kimura only ever said it was on the north side of Karasu-Go, somewhere near the cliffs. When he… disposed of the statue… he said the drop-off wasn't far from there. As for his address, yes, I can give you that.”

Ōgami fired off a few more pointed questions, his mind clearly already sifting through the narrative for clues, before finally, reluctantly, letting Itō Takuma make his escape.

Yomikawa Tsuko glanced at her watch. Nearly thirty minutes had passed since Itō had begun his tale. She turned to the remaining club members. “I believe that’s sufficient for today. We’ll reconvene in the clubroom after school tomorrow to dissect Kimura-kun’s case in more detail. If anyone is unable to attend, please inform me in advance.”

“Eh? That’s it? We’re stopping now?” Ōgami Yōsuke looked genuinely crestfallen, like a hound pulled back just as it caught the scent.

“For today, yes. Everyone needs time to process this… to conduct their own research, perhaps?” Yomikawa Tsuko’s lips curved into a faint smile as she met Ōgami Yōsuke’s gaze. “I have high expectations for your analysis tomorrow, Ōgami-kun. Don’t disappoint me.”

Junko, ever eager to play her part, chimed in brightly, “That’s right! You’re the real brains of this outfit, Ōgami-kun! A case like this? Child’s play for you, I bet.”

“Please, don’t exaggerate,” Ōgami mumbled, but as he looked at Yomikawa’s smile, that strange, unsettling feeling returned. Senpai didn’t seem angry anymore, not about his earlier accusations. But there was something in her eyes, something cold and appraising, that made his skin prickle.

After a few more minutes of forced pleasantries, the group began to break up. Kana, however, hesitated, falling into step beside Yomikawa as they walked. She let out a sigh, a carefully constructed sound of wistful observation. “It’s rather sweet, isn’t it? Junko and Ōgami-san…”

Yomikawa Tsuko arched an eyebrow, a silent question. “Are you feeling a touch… left out, Kana-chan?” Kana and Junko had always been a pair. But today, Junko’s focus had been almost entirely on Ōgami Yōsuke, leaving Kana somewhat adrift.

“Left out? Not exactly,” Kana said, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Just… it took me by surprise, is all.”

“You don’t approve of Ōgami-kun, Kana?” Yomikawa Tsuko’s question was a silken thread, dropped casually into the conversation.

Kana faltered. “It’s not that I disapprove… It’s just… he’s a bit intense, isn’t he? He feels… separate from the rest of us. We’re just messing around, exploring weird stories for fun. But Ōgami-san… he treats it all so seriously, like a real investigation. If Junko-chan gets too caught up in his world… I just worry… she’ll drift away from us, from the way things used to be.”

A surprisingly astute observation, Yomikawa Tsuko noted internally. Ōgami Yōsuke, son of a respected folklorist, was indeed cut from a different cloth. His knowledge, his dedication, his almost obsessive attention to detail – as evidenced by his reaction to the tale of Kimura’s cursed statue – set him apart from mere dabblers. If Junko, blinded by her burgeoning crush, began to mirror his intensity, she would inevitably outgrow the casual nature of their little club. The chasm between a hobby and a calling was vast.

Yomikawa suspected Kana’s discomfort wasn’t truly about Ōgami or even Kagehara as individuals. It was about the disruption they represented, the unwelcome ripples in the once-calm pond of their club’s social dynamics. She was, in essence, resisting the erosion of her comfort zone.

“Well, these things happen. Ōgami-kun does possess a certain… compelling quality,” Yomikawa Tsuko conceded, her smile enigmatic. “Regardless, Kana, you must also prepare to take on more responsibility. I graduate next year, after all. The future of the club will soon rest on your shoulders.”

The words landed with a quiet finality. A shadow of genuine sadness crossed Kana’s face. “That’s right… Senpai will be leaving us eventually.”

Later, Yomikawa returned to the silent, empty villa.

She’d cut the club meeting short for a very practical reason: the relentless march of time. No more skipping school meant no more skipping homework. And homework, in this new, unfamiliar academic landscape, was a looming, monstrous challenge.

The first-year high school material was a barely explored territory. Second-year subjects? A completely alien continent. And the science and math lectures, with their talk of formulas and theorems she couldn’t begin to decipher, were a special kind of torture. The hours she would now have to dedicate to rote memorization and remedial study stretched before her, a bleak and daunting prospect.

She shed the restrictive uniform, the thigh-high socks that felt like a second skin – Senpai’s skin – and didn’t even bother with casual clothes. A loose set of pajamas would suffice. Down in the cavernous, dusty basement, she located the stacks of first and second-year textbooks, a mountain of forgotten knowledge she now had to conquer.

“Systematic learning is the only way,” she muttered to herself, flipping through a physics textbook, the diagrams like arcane symbols. “But I can prioritize. Focus on the topics directly related to each day’s assignments.”

Her intellect, the core of her being, was formidable. Sharper, she knew, than most. In her previous existence, academics had been a triviality, high grades achieved with minimal effort. Self-study, even of this dense material, shouldn’t be an insurmountable obstacle.

“Countless individuals have clawed their way into top universities through sheer self-discipline and study. My own ambitions are far more modest. I merely need to ensure my academic performance doesn’t suddenly, inexplicably plummet. That would draw… unwanted attention.”

Lugging the heavy textbooks back to the sterile expanse of the bedroom, she settled at the computer desk, ready to begin her penance. Just as she opened the first book, her phone buzzed. Her mother.

An involuntary jolt, like a mild electric shock. Yomikawa’s mother – Yuna, as she was now known, having taken her husband’s surname – was a woman of formidable intellect. Her powers of observation, her logical mind… they were not to be underestimated. Frankly, if it weren’t an absolute necessity, Yomikawa Tsuko would prefer to have no interaction with her whatsoever.

“Mom.” She answered, her internal defenses snapping instantly to full alert.

“Tsuko, dear? How are you faring, all on your own?” Yomikawa Yuna’s voice was a soft, melodic caress, her words chosen with a gentle precision that conjured images of traditional grace, of a Yamato Nadeshiko. Listening to her speak, one would never suspect the sharp, analytical mind that lay beneath.

“Living alone presents no difficulties, Mother. I am managing quite well,” Yomikawa Tsuko replied, each word carefully weighed, measured for its potential impact.

“Oh, dear. Something’s come up at work. It seems I won’t be able to return home at all this week. I’m so sorry to leave you to cope for longer, Tsuko.” A sigh, laden with maternal concern, drifted through the phone.

Excellent news, Yomikawa Tsuko thought, a sliver of genuine relief cutting through her carefully constructed composure. Aloud, her voice remained a mask of calm understanding. “You are always so dedicated to your work, Mother. Please, don’t worry about me. I shall be perfectly fine.”

“You’re a good daughter, Tsuko. But I do worry. If anything comes up, anything at all where you might need an adult’s assistance, please don’t hesitate to call Hitomi-obasan. Just like you always have.”

Like I always have? Hitomi-obasan?

Yomikawa Tsuko’s mind raced. A quick, surreptitious scroll through the phone’s contact list. And there it was, near the bottom: an entry simply labeled “Hitomi-obasan.” No surname. “Is it truly alright to continue imposing on Hitomi-obasan?” she asked, testing the waters.

“Of course, dear. She’s always happy to help. Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll be sure to thank her properly when I return.”

So, this “Hitomi-obasan” was a close confidante of Yuna’s. Another loose thread in this tangled web of a borrowed life. Another variable to be investigated, cataloged, and potentially, managed.

The sheer effort of navigating these pre-existing relationships, of playing this intricate, exhausting role, was a constant, throbbing headache. Yomikawa Tsuko made a vague, affirmative sound. “I understand, Mother. Actually, I was just about to start my homework. So, if you’ll excuse me…”