[If it doesn't hurt, it doesn't count."]
I wake up before the pain does.
That's the trick.
If you move before your body remembers what you did to it yesterday, you might still beat it. For a minute. Maybe two.
I swing my legs over the edge of the futon and press my feet to the floor. The wood is cold. Dust clings to the edges of the mat. I stare at the scar above my knee—a faded pink arc that tugs slightly when I bend.
It's not the deepest. Just the one that stayed.
There are others. On my palms. My shoulder. One along my ribs where I caught a jagged edge of limestone last summer and thought I'd broken something inside. I didn't. I just bled a lot.
I flex my hands.
My right wrist clicks. Good. Still working.
The room is dark but not silent. I can hear the rustle of Grandpa's paper. The kettle's already whistled and stopped. The scent of barley tea creeps into my room like a hand.
I stand slowly.
Every joint has something to say.
He doesn't speak when I pass the kitchen.
Just a glance. Then a nod.
That's it. That's all I need.
The mountain looks different today. There's mist in the lower trees, curling around the roots like it's trying to hold something down. I tighten my windbreaker and start the climb.
My legs are heavy. My right knee whispers warnings. I ignore them.
You can't listen to pain if you plan to outgrow it.
The forest trail is slick with dew and broken pine. I know every step of this route. Every rise. Every loose rock. Every turn that tries to trip me if I get too confident.
And still, it gets me.
One minute I'm pushing up a slope near the south fork—next, my foot slides, and my shoulder cracks into the edge of a boulder.
I don't fall. Not fully.
But I hit hard.
Pain bites through my jacket, sharp and immediate. My shoulder goes numb for two seconds. I lean forward, brace my hands on my thighs, and breathe.
Three deep inhales.
Then I keep going.
By the thirty-minute mark, my body feels like it's running underwater. Every step is a push through weight I can't see.
I love it.
This is where the soft parts of me burn off. This is where all the junk melts—doubt, fear, weakness. I can feel it leaving. Dripping out of me like sweat, like blood.
If it doesn't hurt, it doesn't count.
I stop at the Ridge Line—not because I want to, but because I can't see the trail past the fog.
The sky is a sheet of white. The trees creak in the wind like old ropes pulled tight.
I crouch, touch the dirt. My hands are shaking. It's not the cold.
Something's off today.
The mountain is… watching. No. Waiting.
I feel it in the air. In my bones.
I listen.
There's no sound. Not even birds.
That's what makes me turn around.
At school, my desk feels too soft. The seat too low. Everything in this place is built for people who don't live in their bodies.
People who don't bleed before breakfast.
Kara sits two rows ahead. She glances back once, like she's checking if I made it in. Then she looks away fast.
Her pencil never stops moving. Like her mind's already two pages ahead.
I can't blame her. This place makes you feel stuck if you stop thinking.
Biology, third period.
Miss Riva talks about parasitic species. Creatures that survive by feeding off stronger hosts.
She looks right at me when she says it.
Maybe I imagine that. Maybe not.
After class, she stops me by the door.
"You're favoring your right shoulder," she says quietly.
I blink. "It's fine."
She nods. "It will be. Until it's not."
Her tone isn't warning. It's something else. Like she knows the shape of pain too well.
I want to ask her how. I don't.
Lunch is rice and boiled egg. No pickles. I ran out.
I eat on the roof again. No one else is up here. Kara came once, but hasn't returned.
Maybe she's giving me space.
Or maybe she saw enough.
That afternoon, I run the lower circuit—part of the base loop, near the shrine trail. It's easier terrain, meant for tourists and grandmothers. But I run it like I'm being chased.
Because I am.
Not by a person. Not by an animal.
By the version of me that quit last year. The one that almost stopped.
He's always just behind me. Gasping. Bleeding. Wanting rest.
I don't let him catch me.
Halfway through, my shoulder gives.
Not a break. Just a pull. A warning flare of fire through the joint that makes me stop breathing for a second.
I lean against a tree, head down, spit on the dirt.
When I look up, I see her.
Kara. Again.
She's standing at the trail's edge, hoodie pulled up, face pale.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
She frowns. "You say that every time."
"You don't know how many times."
She walks closer. Her shoes crunch the leaves, careful steps.
"I wasn't following you," she says. "I just wanted to see if you'd come back here."
I don't reply.
She kneels beside me, pulls something from her bag. A small bottle. Disinfectant.
"Let me see."
I hesitate.
Then I let her.
Her hands are cold but steady. She sprays the torn skin along my collar. It stings.
Good.
Her hands are sure, even though they tremble a little when she presses the cloth to my skin.
She doesn't flinch at the blood.
Doesn't look away when I grit my teeth.
"You should go to a clinic," she says.
I shake my head. "They'd ask questions."
"So?"
"I don't want to answer."
She stops cleaning. Just stares at me for a second.
"You think suffering in silence makes you strong?"
"No," I say. "Enduring it does."
She doesn't say anything to that. Just finishes wrapping my shoulder with the bandage from her pack—tight and firm. Better than anything I'd have done.
When she's done, I sit up straighter. Flex gently. The pain's still there. But it's stable now.
"Thanks."
Kara nods once. "You're lucky I used to tape ankles for the track team."
"I didn't know you ran."
"I quit."
"Why?"
She stands. Brushes dirt off her knees.
"I hated feeling slow."
I look up at her. That answer is too honest. It's not the kind of thing people say out loud unless they mean it.
She starts to walk away, then turns back.
"You're not slow," she says. "But you're carrying something."
She taps her temple. Then her chest.
"Up here. And here. That's heavier than your body knows."
Then she's gone, down the trail.
That night, Grandpa doesn't stretch.
He sits on the porch with a small cup of tea, staring into the trees. The wind is rising again. It sounds like breath over broken glass.
I sit next to him. My shoulder wrapped tight under my hoodie. The tea kettle's still warm.
He doesn't look at me when he speaks.
"You fell again."
"Yeah."
He nods slowly. "Good."
"Good?"
"You can't run the mountain without falling. If you never fall, you're not climbing."
I sip my tea. It tastes like smoke and roots.
"Do you remember falling?" I ask.
"All the time."
"No," I say. "I mean one fall. One that... changed things."
He goes quiet.
I think he won't answer.
Then he says:
"There was a ledge. Near the north face. Long time ago. Shiro and I used to train there."
"Your rival."
He nods.
"We dared each other to go faster. He always won. I always pushed harder."
"What happened?"
"One day he didn't come back."
I turn toward him. He's still watching the trees.
"You think he's dead?"
"I think he found something higher than fear."
That answer doesn't sit right. But I don't push.
Not yet.
Later that night, I lie on my futon and stare at the ceiling, feeling the dull pulse in my shoulder, the throb in my knee.
There are no voices.
No dreams.
Just the sound of the mountain breathing through the cracks in the wall.
The next morning, I don't wait for pain.
I run before my body remembers it's broken.
The trail is slick with last night's rain. The rocks are darker, heavier underfoot. The wind's picked up in the higher branches.
But I run harder today. Longer. Past the Ridge Line.
I go higher.
Above the trees, the ground changes. The slope narrows into a ridge no wider than my shoulders. One misstep means sixty feet straight down.
I take it without slowing.
This isn't about survival anymore. This is about control.
This is about finding the point where I break.
Near the top of the third switchback, I see something new.
A structure.
Barely standing. Half-covered in moss and ivy, hidden behind a thicket of thorny brush.
I step off the trail and push through.
It's an old shelter, maybe two meters wide. Wood rotted black. Roof caved in on one side. Inside, a rusted thermos. A rope harness. Torn pages from a training log.
I pick one up.
The ink is faded, but I can read the last line:
["Karu eats those who stop moving."]
Below it: a signature.
S.H.
I stare at it until my breath catches.
Shun Hirota.
My father.
I sit in the ruins until the wind dies down.
I don't cry.
I don't scream.
I just stare at the ink, running my fingers across the grooves like I'm tracing a scar on the mountain's skin.
Then I fold the page. Tuck it inside my jacket.
And start running again.