The next morning came...
Haru Urara, lively as ever, dashed around the house hysterically, except she now with the little patch on her cheek.
And as always, she would wolf down a quick breakfast of carrot bread, then bolt out the door, rushing to school.
"Bye! I'm going to school now!" Urara would declare before departing eagerly.
Meanwhile, her parents watched her skip off down the street with her small pink figure fading into the distance.
Yet, unlike the usual, instead of heading to work. Her parents decided to take a detour to some other place.
Today wasn't for errands—it was for a confrontation.
After locking their front door, they set their path toward Mary Jane's neighborhood.
It was a small district, adequately close to their residence, familiar enough for them to find their way.
In the meantime, Urara's mother, in particular, carried an old memory: she recalled she had known Mary Jane's mother before the woman vanished from public life.
But uncertainty resided, given it was ages ago.
Meanwhile, on another side of the road...
Urara marched to the train station with her usual quirky, bouncing steps.
Once again, her eyes sparkled the moment she spotted a familiar figure on the platform.
Mary Jane.
"Mary-chan!" she shouted, her voice flaring through across the bustle as if nothing had happened between them.
Mary stiffened. The sound of her name made her heart lurch again.
Ashamed of the night before, she bit her lip and quickly turned away.
Just in time, the train screeched to a stop, and she hastily slipped inside, hoping escape would hide her guilt.
Ignore it… Mary just ignore it... Don't think about it... Maybe it will vanish. Maybe that's best.
She reminded herself.
Meanwhile, Urara wanted to go after Mary, except she was on the other side of the train.
Without a choice, Urara quickly made her way forward. Squeezed inside the train before the doors could close. Then, she should look for her within.
"Mary-chan…!" she murmured as her eyes darted around the packed train car. The air was thick, and passengers pressed shoulder to shoulder like sardines.
Urara tiptoed, weaving between taller bodies, scanning the sea of heads.
At last, she spotted her—Mary, standing stiff among the adults, her face turned deliberately away.
Urara surged forward, but the bodies pressed against one another in this rush hour, blocking her path.
Elbows, bags, and coats formed a wall she couldn't break through.
"Mary-chan!" she cried, but her small voice was swallowed by the murmur of the crowd, muffled and unheard.
...
...
...
Meanwhile, on the other side of the district, Urara's parents reached Mary Jane's house. It wasn't overly luxurious, but compared to their own home, it stood taller and wider, a two-story structure with a modest garden in front.
"Whoa… look at that, it has two floors," Urara's father gawked, eyes sparkling.
"It's not like you've never seen a house with two floors…" his wife muttered, glaring at him.
"Yeah, but still! A house with two floors means more rooms for us!" he said eagerly, his mind already drifting to the cramped nights they spent sharing one bedroom with futons.
His wife pressed her palm to her forehead. "Honey… we're not here to admire their house, remember?"
"Oh… right. What are we here for again?" he asked, scratching his head.
Her eyes narrowed into daggers. "Sometimes I wonder if Urara's obliviousness came straight from you." She sighed, pinching her nose. "We're here to confront Mary's parents. About what happened yesterday. Remember?"
"Oh, right! Their daughter hit our daughter!" he exclaimed, smacking his fist into his palm with exaggerated force.
"Gosh…" she groaned, defeated, and without hesitation, she pressed the doorbell.
The chime sounded within the walls. Yet only silence came in response.
Then, they waited... And some extra presses of the doorbell in the meantime.
This lasted ten or more minutes before their patience started running thin.
"Is there no one home?" Her mother grew worried, crossing her arms restlessly.
"Probably taking a dump?" Her father intruded.
"Hey! Watch your language, honey!" Her mother wasn't thrilled with his response.
"Sorry..."
Then, just as her mother was going to press one more time on the doorbell, a voice finally crackled through the intercom:
"Who goes there...?" It was grumpy.
Her mother gasped in glee before responding,
"Hi, we're Haru Urara's parents," she replied firmly. "We wanted to discuss something with you."
Meanwhile, her husband blinked in awe. "Wait… this thing has a speaker?!"
"Not now, honey."
"Sorry..."
"Haru Urara…" the man dragged out, his voice flat and cold. "That name doesn't ring a bell. Did something happen?"
"Yes," Urara's mother said sharply. "Your daughter hit our daughter."
"My daughter?" he scoffed. "Impossible. My daughter would never commit such a low-mannered act. She was taught—no, trained not to commit such a low felony. For the kind of you... Perhaps you're mistaken with someone else."
His tone was haughty, each word dripping with arrogance and mockery.
The way he placed himself above others. It boiled her mother's blood.
As her mother clenched her teeth,
"Isn't your daughter Mary Jane?" she growled. "Our daughter said your daughter hit her. Unless your daughter isn't named Mary Jane."
Upon hearing that, a silence followed.
Then, Urara's father jumped in, pointing a finger. "Yeah! You heard! Your daughter hit our daug—!" But he froze as his wife raised her hand, silencing him mid-sentence to save them both from embarrassment.
"Sorry…" he mumbled, retreating a step.
Without another word, the gate clicked and swung open on its own.
"Wait, these gates are automatic?!" Urara's father gasped again.
"Not now, honey."
"Sorry..."
From the doorway, the man appeared at last, tall and imposing; his expression was cold and dreary.
He gestured curtly while sighing. "Come in. Let's get this over with. I don't have much time with the bunch of you." Without waiting, he turned back into the house.
Urara's parents glanced at each other awkwardly before sharing a nod.
Only then, they mustered their courage and stepped forward, crossing into Mary Jane's threshold.