Kenjun

The bus turns onto a gravel road, and the wheels begin to crunch unpleasantly on the small stones. Kenjin, who had been sitting motionless this whole time, raises his head and pulls back the edge of his hood. Beyond the cloudy window, the sanatorium looms—a gray, three-story building with peeling plaster and black, sunken windows. Not a single light. Kenjin stares at it for a few seconds, then exhales slowly, as if everything inside him has clenched, and turns back into the bus.

He adjusts the strap of his backpack on his shoulder, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white. His gaze darts over the backs of the seats—he's not looking for anything specific, he just can't sit still. You're sitting three rows away from him, and he knows exactly where you are. He doesn't look in your direction, but his shoulder is tense, as if he's expecting a blow.

The bus jerks over the last bump and stops. The doors open with a drawn-out hiss, and cold air, smelling of damp and old wood, rushes in. The driver doesn't announce the stop. He doesn't turn around. He just sits there, staring out the windshield.

Kenjin isn't the first to rise. He waits for the others to stir, rise from their seats, and whisper. Only when the passage is clear does he rise. His hood slips off his head, revealing a face—tired, pale, with tightly pressed lips. He doesn't look at anyone in particular. He steps into the passage and pauses for a second, as if remembering something.

Then he simply walks towards the exit. Silently. Without turning around.