The morning they left, the sky was clear, as if rinsed clean by a late-night rain.
Everything sparkled, but it wasn't cold. The air carried the scent of damp earth just awakening, like a map being opened for the first time in years.
Mike and Kuro left without leaving a note. Not because they feared anyone would stop them, but because they didn't want to make anyone worry. And the truth was, they hadn't even named this journey.
Calling it an expedition felt childish. Calling it a search for answers didn't quite fit either. All they knew was this: if they didn't go, they would remain trapped in questions with no end.
They still felt a sliver of fear, remembering Mr. Than's words. But they were young. They held a quiet belief that if things went wrong, they could always run.
Kuro carried his old canvas backpack, stuffed with notebooks, printed maps, and a collapsible baton he'd quietly gotten from a maintenance engineer.
Mike, as usual, carried a heavy sling bag filled with handmade sensors, micro-energy detectors, a UV lamp, and a coil of insulated wire for emergency repairs.
They followed the old road, winding along the forest's edge and over stone slopes. The dirt bore faint traces of wheel marks from students long before them.
It wasn't far from the city center, but far enough to escape the paved grid of Luxios infrastructure.
Mike was steering, silent through the first stretch. Kuro sat behind, eyes fixed ahead.
Wind streamed through their hair, chilly enough to stay alert, but not cold enough to bite. Whenever they passed a thin forest patch, Kuro felt like he was sliding past the contours of youth itself.
They passed places they knew well: an old tech station, a dry canal, the sugarcane shack where they used to hang out after class. All of it unrolled like an old tape on slow rewind.
There was no easy way to describe the feeling. But oddly, it brought a sense of peace, like they had lived out an entire chapter and were ready to turn the page.
Their first stop was beside a clump of old bushes near a small rise, where a hollow in the rocks hinted someone had once camped there.
Mike unrolled a paper map onto a plastic sheet. Kuro drank from his bottle, gaze lingering toward the ridgeline drawn like an unfinished sketch.
"What if we find nothing?" Mike asked.
Kuro didn't turn. His voice was soft. "Then at least we'll know we went."
The answer seemed simple. But it held a truth they didn't speak out loud: if Kuro didn't go, curiosity would haunt him. If Mike didn't go, doubt would slowly unravel his worldview.
Mike marked three points: Mr. Than's supposed valley, their current campsite, and the vehicle drop-off. "We stop here before sunset," he said, pointing to a knoll that overlooked the valley. "Tomorrow we go on foot."
They pressed forward.
They crossed a shallow stream, the water clear as glass, mirroring a pale sky above. Kuro dipped his hands in, watching the ripples widen. For a moment, those ripples felt like energy fields, centered, expanding, and affecting everything around them.
Mike set up a tent. Kuro fetched water and laid out a cloth for their instruments. The sensors powered on, faint lights blinking like newborn stars.
Their base camp stood on high ground, overlooking the sunken land below. Kuro lit a fuel brick for cooking. Mike gathered dry twigs, glancing now and then toward the far ridge.
Dinner was simple: ration bars, warm water with a splash of honey, and a tiny stove Mike had crafted during survival class.
They sat afterward, not too close, but near enough to feel the same drifting thought: this might be the last still moment before the unknown.
They fed a small fire beside the tent. Dry sticks cracked in amber light. The fire danced across their faces.
Kuro broke the silence. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Mike gave a tired smile. "Depends on the kind."
"When I was little," Kuro said, voice low, "I once heard someone calling my name in my sleep. But when I woke up, no one was there. It felt like something familiar was waiting for me to remember a memory I never had."
Mike said nothing. The fire flickered in his eyes.
Kuro shared a few more fragments, unclear images, odd midday scents, shadows at the corner of his eye.
They didn't explain them away. They didn't try to. They just sat there, listening as if remembering the stories of an old friend.
Kuro leaned back on his pack, staring at the stars. Mike sat upright, still flipping pages in his notebook.
"You know," Mike suddenly said, "I used to think anything that couldn't be measured wasn't real. Ghosts, for instance. Just fiction."
"And now?"
He paused. "Now I wonder… if they weren't real, why would we keep leaving traces behind?"
Kuro smiled. Not in mockery, but in recognition.
The night deepened.
The moon had not yet risen. Mist clung to the ground in pale streaks.
Suddenly, a wolf's howl echoed from somewhere beyond the hills. Low, drawn-out, vibrating through the slopes.
They heard it clearly. But neither stirred.
They weren't fearless.
They had simply read enough to know their camp was on high, dry ground, away from water or heavy cover. Wolves rarely came close to people at night here. The howl was just a reminder that nature was still out there. Not a threat. Just presence.
"If we die tomorrow morning," Kuro muttered with his eyes closed, smiling, "don't regret anything."
Mike replied softly, as if it were routine. "Worst case, we die together."
As sleep finally took them, a breeze passed through the rocks, carrying a scent that was hard to place.
Old wood? Damp paper? Or the smell of memories returning from a dream that never ended?
A sleepy murmur broke the silence of the night, as the fire quietly faded to embers.
Above, a single star blinked. Then vanished.