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The morning Osamu Dazai arrives is just like any other.
White.
That is the first thing Oda Sakunosuke notices every morning when he wakes—the ceiling, the sheets, the curtains that never quite close all the way. Even the light feels white, washed thin by glass and distance, as if the sun itself hesitates to fully enter the room.
There is a rhythm to it. Machines that hum softly. Footsteps that pass and fade. The quiet murmur of nurses who speak as though sound itself might bruise something fragile.
Oda has grown used to it.
Or perhaps “used to it” is the wrong phrase. You don’t grow used to silence. You learn how to sit inside it without trying to escape.
That morning is no different.
Until it is.
The door opens without ceremony.
Not a careful push. Not the polite hesitation of someone entering a hospital room. It swings open just a little too fast, just a little too wide—like the world outside has briefly forgotten where it is.
And then—
Colour.
Brown hair, slightly unkempt, like it refuses to stay in one shape for long. Brown eyes that catch light in a way that feels almost deliberate. And a smile—easy, bright, out of place.
Alive.
It’s almost jarring.
For a moment, Oda thinks—absurdly—that someone has brought a piece of the outside world in by mistake.
Then the boy speaks.
“You’re awake! Sign my cast.”
The illusion shatters.
Dazai lifts his arm like it’s something to be admired, not endured. White plaster wraps around it, stark against his skin, covered in signatures—messy handwriting, doodles, names layered over each other as if time itself has been scribbling there.
He steps closer without waiting for permission.
Of course he does.
“Everyone else already has,” he continues, as though this is a perfectly reasonable introduction. “Doctors, nurses, a very rude man in the hallway who I’m pretty sure wasn’t authorised, but I admire the confidence.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to suggest conspiracy.
“You look like someone with good handwriting.”
Oda blinks at him.
Once.
Slowly.
There is something fundamentally wrong about this moment. Not in a loud, obvious way—but in the quiet way a story begins incorrectly, like a line that doesn’t quite fit the paragraph it belongs to.
“…You don’t know me,” Oda says.
Dazai beams.
“I don’t need to.”
He says it so simply that for a second, it almost sounds true.
Almost.
Oda watches him carefully now.
There’s something else beneath the surface. Beneath the smile, beneath the restless energy that seems to hum through his body like he cannot quite stay still inside himself.
Something hollow.
Not empty in the way the room is empty. Not quiet like the hospital’s silence.
But hollow—like a structure that looks complete until you realise there’s nothing holding it up inside.
“Why me?” Oda asks.
Dazai tilts his head, considering.
Then, casually:
“Because you didn’t look surprised when I walked in.”
Oda pauses.
That’s not true.
He was surprised.
Just not in the way people expect.
Dazai watches him like he’s waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, a crack.
When it doesn’t come, he hums thoughtfully.
“Most people do this thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his good hand. “They look confused. Or annoyed. Or they ask who I am like it matters.”
A small shrug.
“You didn’t.”
Oda exhales quietly.
“…I’ve seen stranger things.”
Dazai lights up at that, as though it’s the best possible response.
“I knew it.”
He drags a chair closer without asking and drops into it, resting his cast carefully on the edge of Oda’s bed.
“See? This is why you should sign it.”
There’s a pause.
Long enough that the hum of the machines creeps back in, filling the space between them.
Oda studies the cast.
Names overlap. Some bold, some hesitant. Some written like they expect to be remembered. Others like they don’t care if they fade.
It’s chaotic.
Temporary.
“…It’ll be removed eventually,” Oda says.
Dazai nods immediately.
“Of course.”
“And everything written on it will disappear.”
Another nod.
“Yes.”
Oda looks up at him.
“Then what’s the point?”
For the first time, Dazai hesitates.
It’s small.
Most people wouldn’t notice it.
But Oda does.
Because the smile doesn’t drop—it flickers.
Just for a second.
Then it’s back, brighter than before.
“That’s exactly the point,” Dazai says.
He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand.
“If it lasts forever, it’s not interesting.”
There’s something off about the way he says it. Not cynical. Not bitter.
Just… certain.
Like it’s a rule he’s already accepted.
Oda doesn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he reaches for the pen on the bedside table.
Dazai goes very still.
It’s subtle—but all that restless energy narrows into focus, like a flame suddenly drawn into a single point.
Oda takes the cast gently, careful not to jostle it.
For a moment, he simply looks at it.
Then he writes.
His handwriting is neat. Deliberate. Each stroke placed with quiet precision, as though the act itself matters—even if the result won’t last.
When he’s done, he hands it back.
Dazai pulls his arm in close, examining it with exaggerated seriousness.
“…Wow,” he says softly.
Then, louder:
“You do have good handwriting.”
But his voice is different now.
Quieter.
Not performative as the boy was doing before.
But real.
Human.
His eyes linger on the name longer than they should.
Oda Sakunosuke.
He traces it lightly with his fingers.
As if confirming it’s real.
“…There,” Dazai says after a moment, leaning back again, the smile returning—but softer now. “Now you exist.”
Oda watches him.
“I existed before.”
Dazai shakes his head.
“Not to me.”
There’s no malice in it. No cruelty.
Just honesty.
That same strange, hollow honesty.
Silence settles again—but it feels different now. Less like absence. More like something shared.
After a while, Dazai speaks again.
“You’re not leaving this place, are you?”
It’s not asked like a question.
Oda doesn’t answer right away.
Because some answers don’t change anything.
And some questions already know the truth.
“…No,” he says finally.
Dazai nods.
Like he expected that.
Of course he did.
He stands up, stretching slightly, as if preparing to leave already.
“I’ll come back,” he says casually.
Then, with a small grin:
“Don’t die before I get more signatures.”
Oda almost smiles at that.
Almost.
Dazai pauses at the door.
For a brief moment, the light from the hallway frames him—turning him into something less real, less solid. Like he belongs more to motion than to stillness.
“…Hey,” he says, without turning around.
Oda waits.
Dazai’s voice drops, just slightly.
“If it only has one ending…”
A pause.
“…does that make the middle more important, or less?”
Oda considers the question.
Really considers it.
Then:
“Only if you decide it is.”
Dazai is quiet.
Then he laughs—soft, genuine, and fleeting.
“Yeah,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
The door closes.
The white returns.
The silence settles back into place.
But something is different now.
On the bedside table, the pen remains slightly out of place.
And somewhere beyond the room, a boy walks down a corridor with a cast full of names—one more added to something that was never meant to last.
It is a story that only has one ending.
But still—
A story all the same.