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It has already been a full year since Haruaki began teaching at the Hyakki Academy. In the past year, his life had been filled with laughter, chaos, and endless surprise. He found loyal friends,Rintarou and Izuna, made bonds with his mischievous yet lovable students, Class 2-3, and somehow still has his job despite the mayhem that followed him everywhere he goes.
His life is filled with a bright, vibrant yet noisy environment that he would never dare wanting to change nor disappear.
But sometimes, when the halls fell quiet and the sun dipped behind the academy’s gates, a single thought would weigh heavy on Haruaki’s heart.
His students, his friends, his co-workers—were all youkai.
And he was just a mere human.
At first, it didn’t matter. They treated him as one of their own, and he treated them the same, he never felt out of place. But as time passed, he began to realize a truth he couldn’t ignore.
Their bodies were built differently.
Their beliefs were different.
And most of all—their lifespans were different.
Some would live for hundreds of years. Some, even thousands.
While he…he would fade in barely a century.
Haruaki wasn’t afraid of dying. What scared him the most was the thought of being forgotten—of all his memories, his laughter, his lessons being buried with him.
On one peaceful afternoon, he sat with his twin brother Amaaki in their family home, helping him to make charms and prayer beads for their shrine.
“Hey, Ame,” Haruaki said softly, catching his twins towards him.
“Yes?” Amaaki replied, glancing up from his work.
“Do you think I’ll live a long life?”
Amaaki frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Haruaki said, smiling faintly. “My students and friends—they’re all youkai. They’ll outlive me by centuries. One day, when I’m gone…do you think they’ll remember me?”
Amaaki was quiet for a moment. Then he gave a small sigh. “Of course they will, Haru. You’ve done too much good to be forgotten.”
Haruaki chuckled softly. “Maybe. But memories fade, even the brightest ones.”
“Then make something that won’t fade,” Amaaki said suddenly. “Write something. Leave something behind that they can keep.”
“Like letters?” Haruaki asked.
Amaaki nodded. “Yes. A letter—or a box of them. Fill it with everything you want to say.”
Haruaki smiled. “That’s actually…a wonderful idea.”
That night, Haruaki began writing.
He wrote about everything — the laughter in his classroom, the trouble his students caused, the warmth of their friendship. He wrote about Rintarou’s teasing, Izuna’s quiet scolding, and how proud he was to work beside them.
Soon, his letters piled up — stories, notes of gratitude, even small jokes written on slips of paper.
For two months, he kept it secret, secret from his students…but it suddenly
Until one day—
“SEIMEI!”
The faculty door burst open, and a few members of 2-3 that is now Class 3-2 stood there, curious as ever.
“What are you hiding?” Mame asked.
Haruaki froze from his current position. “W-What are you talking about?” He said as he was trying to hide the letter he was currently writing.
Rintarou, who had stopped by to put some documents on his desk, then smirked. “You’ve been awfully secretive lately, Haruaki. Don’t tell me you’re writing a love novel?”
Izuna, who just came inside, noticing the commotion happening in the room, all he could do was sighed then said “You’re definitely up to something again. Aren't you?”
Cornered, Haruaki scratched his cheek and confessed. “Fine… I've been writing letters. For my students, and for both of you. So there would be something that can make you remember me when they graduate and when I’m no longer here by your side.”
The room went silent for a moment—then Sano who was listening to his idiotic teacher’s idea suddenly grinned.
“Then let’s help!”
Haruaki blinked. “Eh?”
“If it’s about memories, we should all write one! Everyone in Class 3!”
Soon, laughter filled the room. Paper, pens, and colored ink scattered everywhere as everyone began writing.
That night, the small box of letters became a large glass jar — overflowing with folded notes, doodles, and small trinkets.
It became their weekly ritual: everyone, including Haruaki, would write something—something they learned, something funny, or something they wanted to remember.
When graduation came, Haruaki smiled proudly as the class sealed the jar together.
“Someday,” he said, “when you open this again, you’ll remember that our time together was real.”
And with that, the Jar of Memories stayed in his dorm room—quietly guarding the stories of Class 2-3.
Years passed.
Haruaki grew older. His hair turned silver, his steps slower, but his laughter never changed. He taught for decades, always smiling, always kind.
And one day, at the age of ninety, Haruaki passed away peacefully in his sleep.
His death caused a wave of grief among his friends and students who became close to him over the years he had been teaching. His life might be short for them, but for Haruaki…it was long enough to leave something sentimental. It is a constant reminder that no matter what challenge is, no matter how much someone hurts you, there's still a way to find the next step in your life.
Just give it a try, and take every chance you see as long as you’re not stepping into someone.
After the funeral, Rintarou and Izuna were tasked with clearing out his dorm room.
“Man…” Rintarou murmured, looking around the neatly kept space. “He never changed a thing. Same books, same tea set…”
Izuna walked quietly to the desk. Something caught his eye—a large, dusty glass jar tucked beneath the window. Inside were hundreds of folded letters and papers, aged but carefully preserved.
Rintarou crouched beside him. “What’s that?”
Izuna brushed the dust off the glass. The faded label read:
‘Class 2-3 — Jar of Memories.’
Rintarou’s expression softened. “So this is what he was hiding all those years ago…”
“Let’s bring it to them,” Izuna said gently.
That weekend, Haruaki’s old students — now adults — returned to Hyakki Academy to visit his classroom.
Rintarou and Izuna met them there, the jar carefully held between them.
“Haruaki used to keep this in his dorm,” Rintarou said quietly, setting it on the teacher’s desk. “We thought… it should be with you.”
Gasps filled the room.
“The Jar of Memories…” Sano whispered, remembering the jar they made during their third year. He never thought that their homeroom teacher is this kind of sentimental to keep something from a long time.
Izuna nodded. “He never stopped adding to it.”
They gathered around as Rintarou carefully opened the lid. The scent of old paper filled the air. Izuna unfolded the top letter — Haruaki’s handwriting, still steady and warm.
To my beloved Class 2-3, and to my dear friends Rintarou and Izuna,
If you’re reading this, it probably means I’ve already taken my final rest.
Don’t be sad — this letter isn’t a goodbye. It’s a thank-you.
Thank you for giving me laughter when days were heavy.
Thank you for letting a human like me belong among youkai.
I was once afraid of being forgotten, but as I write this, I realize something — you’ve already made me eternal.
Every moment we shared, every lesson, every prank, every tear — it all lives here, in this jar, and in all of you.
I’m proud. So proud.
Some of you became doctors, artists, business men/women, public servants, and even some became teachers yourselves . You’ve all found your dreams.
If there’s one thing I want you to remember, it’s this:
Live fully. Laugh loudly. Love endlessly.
That’s the kind of immortality I found with you.
— Haruaki
When the letter ended, the room fell silent except for quiet sobs.
Rintarou exhaled shakily, smiling through his tears. “He really was a sentimental fool.”
Izuna’s voice trembled. “No… he was our best friend.”
One by one, the students began unfolding their own old letters, reading aloud the memories they had written years ago.
Laughter and tears filled the classroom — stories of broken windows, burnt lunchboxes, field trips, and all the chaos Haruaki had once wrangled with patience and humor.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the room was alive again — glowing with the warmth of memories that refused to fade.
Rintarou stood by the window, watching the sunset paint the sky gold. “You see, Haruaki? You were never forgotten.”
Izuna smiled faintly beside him. “You’re still here… in every one of us.”
Ten years had passed since Haruaki’s passing.
Hyakki Academy had changed — new buildings stood tall, cherry blossoms framed the pathways, and laughter still echoed in the halls. Yet in one familiar classroom, one thing remained untouched.
A large glass jar sat proudly on the teacher’s desk, glimmering softly under the afternoon sun. Its label, written in faded ink, still read:
“Class 2-3 — Jar of Memories.”
The classroom door slid open with a soft click.
A young man stepped inside — silver-tipped ears twitching, twin tails swaying lazily behind him. He wore the academy’s teacher’s uniform neatly, his smile warm and familiar.
“Good afternoon, Class 2-3,” he greeted with a playful flick of his ear.
The students rose and bowed. “Good afternoon, Tamao-sensei!”
Akisame Tamao chuckled softly. “You’re all too formal today. Did someone tell you I was scary or something?”
A few giggles spread through the room.
He set his books down, glancing at the corner of the desk where the Jar of Memories stood. His gaze softened.
It had been ten years, yet the glass still sparkled.
He remembered the day they had all gathered — Rintarou, Izuna, and the rest of his classmates — reading Haruaki-sensei’s final letter. He remembered the tears, the laughter, and the warmth that had filled their hearts that day.
He had been just a student then — a mischievous nekomata with dreams far too big for his paws.
But Haruaki-sensei had seen something in him.
“If you ever become a teacher, Tamao,” Haruaki once told him, smiling as he patted his head, “make sure your students never forget that learning isn’t just about books. It’s about living.”
That memory had never left him.
And so, here he was — standing where his teacher once stood, facing a new generation of young youkai.
Tamao straightened, clearing his throat. “Before we begin today’s lesson,” he said, “I want to show you something.”
He lifted the Jar of Memories, setting it at the center of the teacher’s desk.
“This belonged to our former teacher — Haruaki-sensei,” he explained. “He started this jar many, many years ago. Every student, every friend, even other teachers wrote their thoughts, dreams, and memories here.”
He smiled softly. “He believed that as long as we remember, no one truly disappears.”
A murmur of awe filled the room.
Tamao picked up a folded slip of paper from his pocket — a fresh one, neatly written. He placed it gently inside the jar.
“This year,” he said, “we’ll start adding our own. Every week, each of you will write one thing — something that made you smile, something you learned, or something you want to remember. When you graduate, we’ll seal it again. Just like he did.”
The class clapped, a few tails swishing excitedly.
Tamao chuckled. “Good. Now, open your notebooks — and let’s make some memories worth writing down.”
When the bell rang and the students hurried out, Tamao lingered by the desk.
He touched the side of the jar, whispering softly, “Sensei…you said you were afraid of being forgotten. But look at this. You’re still here. Still teaching through us.”
A warm breeze drifted through the open window, rustling the papers inside the jar. For a brief moment, it almost sounded like gentle laughter — like Haruaki’s voice echoing faintly through the years.
Tamao smiled, his twin tails flicking. “Yeah… I heard you.”
He turned to the door, calling out to the hallway,
“Hey! No running in the corridor!—ah, never mind, I sound just like him…”
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Guess the best lessons never leave you.”
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the classroom gold once again—the Jar of Memories shimmered softly, guarding not just Haruaki’s legacy… but the promise that every teacher, every student, and every memory would live on.