The morning they left, the sky was clean—cleansed, almost—as if a midnight rain had rinsed it of all weight. Crisp and sharp, but not cold. The air carried the scent of freshly stirred soil, like a map being unfolded for the first time in years.
Mike and Kuro departed without leaving a note. Not because they feared objections, but because they didn't want to make anyone worry—nor could they name the journey themselves. To call it an exploration would be naive. To call it a search for answers would be insufficient. All they knew was: if they didn't go, they would forever be prisoners of unanswered questions.
Yes, there was fear. Mr. Than's words had left a mark. But they were still young—still with the kind of courage born from not knowing what to fear. If danger came, they would run.
Kuro wore an old canvas backpack packed with books, notebooks, blurry printouts, and a collapsible baton he'd once quietly acquired from a maintenance engineer. Mike, as always, carried a satchel heavy with gear: custom sensors, micro-energy meters, a UV lamp, and a coil of conductive cable for field repairs.
They took the old path—skirting the forest edge and crumbling stone slopes, where the faint tire marks of past students still etched the earth. Not far from the city, but far enough to feel unsupervised. Unseen.
Mike drove. He didn't speak. Kuro sat behind him, silent as well. Wind wove through his hair—cool enough to sharpen the senses, but not enough to make one shiver. Each time they passed a patch of thinning trees, Kuro felt like he was gliding past his own life. Past his youth.
They passed places once familiar: an old rest stop, a dry canal, a juice stall where they used to gather after school. The world rolled by like a tape on slow rewind. That feeling—difficult to describe—was oddly light. As though they had already lived through that chapter, and were only now closing the cover.
They took their first break by a gnarled bush beside a small hill—where a hollow in the rock suggested someone, long ago, had made camp and never returned.
Mike pulled out the paper map and spread it across a tarp. Kuro drank from his flask, eyes drifting toward the slope—a soft, unfinished curve in the land.
"What if... we find nothing?" Mike asked.
Kuro didn't turn around. "Then at least we know we went."
A simple reply—but full of quiet truths. If he stayed behind, Kuro would remain haunted by wonder. And Mike, trapped within models and forecasts, would never truly feel the pulse of a world outside data.
Mike redrew coordinates on the map. Three points: where Mr. Than had once walked, the place they would set camp, and the spot where they'd leave the bike. "We stop here before dark," he said, pointing to a small rise overlooking the valley. "Tomorrow morning—we hike into the Hollow."
The journey resumed.
They crossed a shallow stream—its water glass-clear, mirroring a sky painted in pale blue. Kuro crouched, cupped the water, and watched the ripples widen. For a moment, he imagined those rings like energy fields—each with a core, a boundary, and a radius of influence. Even the smallest disturbance altered the whole.
Mike pitched a temporary shelter. Kuro fetched water and laid out a mat for their tools and notes. When everything was ready, Mike activated the sensor array—LEDs blinking softly like newborn stars.
Dinner was modest: survival bars, warm water with a touch of honey, and a small pot fueled by a solid chemical block Mike had made during a survival engineering course. Afterward, they sat—not close, but close enough to feel the same weight of something unspoken.
Kuro leaned back against his pack, eyes tilted toward the stars. Mike sat upright, flipping pages in his notebook.
"You know," Mike said suddenly, "I used to think anything you couldn't measure wasn't real. Ghosts. Energy fields. All nonsense."
"And now?"
Mike paused. Then replied:
"Now I think... if it isn't real, why do we keep writing it down?"
Kuro chuckled—not mockingly, but like someone who had finally found someone asking the same questions.
Night descended slowly. The moon had yet to rise. Only faint stardust hung like mist above the grass.
As they drifted toward sleep, a breeze slipped through the rocks—carrying a scent both ancient and familiar. Was it burnt wood? Molded pages? Or perhaps the smell of memory itself, rising from a dream that had never truly ended.
Above them, a single star blinked.
Then vanished.