I had no doubt that Hamu was whipping up a storm in the girl's washroom.

Because, for as long as I've known her, she has been willful and playful.

However, her notion of a good time was usually somebody else's nightmare.

Having no way to enter the girl's washroom, I decided to fulfill my responsibility as a class representative and look for the subject outlines in the staff room.

Of course, I had to find the staff room first.

As I navigated my way around the growing crowd of first years, who were eager to locate the source of the commotion, I thought about what my next school would be like, that is, assuming another transfer was imminent.

I was indifferent to the idea, since transferring midway through a semester or just after completing exams, was already the norm for me.

I had transferred four times in grade school and three times in middle school. The former had little to do with Hamu, and a lot to do with my stepfather, whose career as a landscape photographer required constant travel.

My mother fought for stability in my life when I got into middle school, but Hamu's mischievous antics had thrown a wrench in every seemingly well-oiled plan.

You could say that Hamu's pranks were her vocation. And the curiosity that drove her was unending.

Ultimately, my mother refused to believe in Hamu's existence, so I was inevitably blamed.

But I wouldn't have it any other way.

She is the spice of my life.

And maybe I'm that dash of salt in her's.

Eventually, I found the staff room on the second floor of the building that held the indoor theater, next to the gym hall.

Unsure as to whether students were allowed to just walk in, I knocked politely and waited impatiently, by pacing in the hallway.

When a few moments passed with no response, I nudged the door open with my palm and peaked inside.

I saw a row of chairs and office desks forming a dozen or so lines of office cubicles.

None of the workstations that I could see were manned, so I let myself in and soaked up the prevailing scent of black coffee and dried pastries.

Luckily, there was a stack of subject outlines on a desk that was neatly labelled with our homeroom teacher's name.

Having acquired what I came for, I turned to leave but stopped in my tracks when I saw a teacher with long, curly hair seated at her cubicle.

There was nothing peculiar about what I had seen, except for the strange stillness that she seemed to embody.

I quietly crept up behind her to get a better view of what she might be doing.

In her hand was an ordinary, framed portrait.

She was staring intently at it.

The staff room was lit with old, fluorescent tube lights that reflected off of the glass frame's surface, obscuring the photo it contained, with searing brightness.

I might have caught Hamu's infectious curiosity, because I found myself unconsciously moving even closer until I was standing right behind the teacher, practically breathing down her neck.

Even then, she didn't make the slightest move, as if she was just another piece of furniture.

I was finally able to discern the contents of the portrait.

A sense of incredulity slowly seeped into my mind.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times, hoping to get a better look, but no matter how many times I squinted and how much I scrunched up my face, the fact that there was absolutely nothing in that portrait wouldn't change.

But why is she looking at a blank portrait?

I waited a few minutes, trying not to make a sound, hoping that she would do something sensible with the empty frame in her hand.

Still, she remained as she was, silently gazing at it.

I continued to wait, thinking that if I suddenly startled her, she might be very upset.

After an indeterminate time, I lost my patience and moved to stand by her desk, so that our eyes would meet.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt incredibly parched.

I quickly realized that she still hadn't noticed my presence.

This teacher had puffy cheeks and large, bubbly eyes. Her pupils were dilated, and her face pale, as if she had just received frightening news.

If it wasn't for the fact that her odd behavior made my skin crawl, I would have been pleasantly surprised by her prettiness.

"Umm... excuse me miss." My voice was hoarse and dry. "I-I was just wondering..."

A stream of tears flowed down one side of her face.

Having come this far, I was no long afraid of provoking her.

I gently flipped over the empty frame.

Gradually, she broke out of her trance and looked at me.

Her mood suddenly transformed.

She gave me a friendly smile and graciously asked, "How can I help you? Oh, I haven't seen you around! Are you the transfer student, Tomoya Sumisu?"

"Uh... yes. I am. And I have to get to class now. Thanks anyway."

I left her sitting at her desk as I rushed out of the staff room and ran down the winding stairs of the theater building.

On my way back to class, I began gasping for air, and realized that at some point I had started holding my breath.

I steadied the rhythm of my heart and forced myself to relax.

And yet I couldn't help but recall the first time I had met Hamu.

I would never forget that feeling.

It was a stifling coldness.

It was an inescapable sadness.

It was death.