Chapter 9: The Haunting Echoes of the Past Darkness.

A vast, suffocating emptiness stretched around Sora, swallowing everything in its path. It was cold, like a winter night without warmth, a silence so thick it felt tangible. He stood there, suspended in nothingness, unsure if he was dreaming or trapped in something far worse.

Then, the voices began.

"Why does he even come to school?"

"He's always alone. Such a creep."

"I bet he thinks he's better than us."

"Just ignore him. He's not worth it."

The whispers slithered around him, faceless, nameless, yet painfully familiar. They came from every direction, their volume rising with each passing second, like an unseen crowd closing in.

Sora clenched his fists. He wanted to cover his ears, to block it all out, but his body refused to move.

Then, the scene changed.

He stood inside a classroom, but something was wrong. The walls seemed closer, the air felt thick, and the windows were pitch black, as if there was nothing outside. The desks and chairs were empty, yet he wasn't alone.

Figures surrounded him—his former classmates. Their faces were blurred, distorted like melting wax, but their words cut through him like knives.

"No one likes you."

"Why do you even bother coming?"

"You're useless."

"You should just disappear."

A hand grabbed his wrist, cold and unrelenting. Another shoved his shoulder. A wave of nausea rose in his stomach as the voices turned into laughter—mocking, cruel, never-ending. His breathing became shallow, his chest tightening with fear.

He wanted to run.

But he couldn't.

His body wouldn't listen.

Then, the scene shifted again.

He was home.

Or at least, the house that once was. The cold, hollow place that never felt like home.

The living room was dimly lit, and the air smelled of something burnt—perhaps a forgotten meal or something worse. He stood in front of two towering figures, their faces shrouded in shadow, yet their presence was suffocating.

His parents.

A lump formed in his throat. He knew what was coming.

"You're nothing but a burden," his father's voice boomed, low and emotionless.

"You should never have been born."

The words were heavier than any slap, sharper than any wound. They echoed in his mind, ringing again and again, drowning out everything else.

Sora's hands trembled. He tried to speak, to say anything, but his throat tightened, and no sound came out. His mother turned away, uninterested, indifferent, as if he wasn't even there.

He reached forward.

Maybe if he said something, they would look at him. Maybe if he proved himself, they would—

The floor cracked beneath him.

And he was falling.

Down.

Down.

Into the endless dark.

---

Sora's eyes shot open.

His body jerked awake, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark, but it was real. The walls were solid. The bed beneath him was warm. No whispers. No voices. Just silence.

His fingers dug into the bedsheets, trying to ground himself. His head ached, his skin felt damp with sweat, and his chest was still tight, as if the weight of the dream hadn't fully left him.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hands over his face.

"It was just a dream," he told himself. But the words felt hollow.

Because it wasn't just a dream.

It was a memory.

No matter how much time had passed, those words still clung to him, like invisible chains wrapped around his chest. The voices, the laughter, the rejection—they were all real once. And deep down, he still carried them with him.

"You should never have been born."

His father's words resurfaced, colder than the night air.

Sora exhaled shakily and glanced at the clock on his desk. 3:17 AM. He doubted he would be able to sleep again.

He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, his mind heavy with thoughts.

Would things ever change?

He had started talking to Nanako. He had taken small steps forward. But was it enough? Could he really move past everything?

A bitter chuckle left his lips.

Even after everything, the past still had its claws in him.

He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of his room. The emptiness. The loneliness.

Tomorrow would be another day.

But tonight, he was trapped in the echoes of his past.