Saname was known by everyone as the top student in school—brilliant, kind, and always helping others. He had a gentle heart and a smile that could calm even the most chaotic days. But behind those calm eyes, no one knew a storm was waiting to be awakened.
It all began on a cold evening while he was studying, deeply focused on his upcoming science exam. The room was silent except for the ticking clock. Suddenly, his phone rang. He picked it up, expecting his friend or a classmate, but the voice on the other side shook his soul.
"Saname... he's dead."
It was a relative. Someone who had helped raise him after his parents passed. Murdered. The police said it looked like a robbery gone wrong, but Saname knew better. Something in his chest told him this wasn’t just a crime—it was personal.
Days turned into weeks. The world moved on, but Saname didn’t. He became obsessed with the case, digging into every detail, collecting notes, watching people. He hid it well—he was still the topper, still smiling, still kind—but at night, he searched for the truth.
One evening, he found a note slipped into his locker: **"Midnight. Where silence lives."**
He didn’t hesitate. That night, he arrived at the old park at the edge of the town—abandoned, silent, and covered in mist. At exactly midnight, a hooded figure appeared.
“You came,” the voice was deep, unreadable.
“Who are you?” Saname asked, his voice steady.
The figure stepped closer. “I know who killed him.”
Saname’s fists clenched. “Tell me.”
“You did.”
Saname blinked, confusion flooding his mind. “What…?”
“You killed him, Saname. You just don’t remember.”
The world around him seemed to freeze. A memory flashed—something from years ago. Screams. Blood. Eyes like fire. He fell to his knees as pain tore through his body. His skin burned. His heart pounded. His vision turned red.
The demon inside him had awoken.
He didn’t remember what happened next. Only the feeling of rage, of fire, of tearing something apart. When he came back to himself, the figure was lying lifeless at his feet.
The sun peeked over the horizon, casting soft gold over the scene.
And there, just beside the body, stood a sunflower—tall, bright, and alone.
Saname stood frozen. His hands were shaking, his clothes stained with blood. The hooded figure lay still, but no name came to his mind. He didn’t know who he had killed.
He looked at the sunflower. It swayed gently in the morning breeze, untouched by the horror beside it. It shouldn’t have been there. Nothing had grown in that park for years. But there it was, as if it had watched everything.
He dropped to his knees. “What have I done?”
His chest felt hollow, like the real Saname had been ripped away, and only something dark remained. The wind whispered, and for a moment, he thought the sunflower leaned toward him. Watching.
He ran.
Back home, he burned the clothes and cleaned himself. His eyes stared into the mirror, searching for something human. He still looked like himself… but something was missing. The smile he wore at school felt like a mask now. People greeted him as usual, and he smiled back, but the darkness behind his eyes was growing.
At night, he had dreams. Voices calling his name. Eyes watching. The hooded figure’s final words haunted him: “You just don’t remember.”
Who *was* he, really?
He went back to the park days later. The body was gone. No police tape. No blood. Only the sunflower remained.
This time, there were two.
He knelt by them, touched their petals. They felt warm. Alive. A part of him.
“Are you… watching me?” he whispered.
The petals trembled as if answering. That night, he couldn’t sleep. So he wrote. Page after page of thoughts, feelings, flashes of memories—some too painful to face. He started carrying a small notebook, not for studying, but for tracking his mind.
He noticed strange things now. People talking about dreams of fire. Students seeing red-eyed shadows. Was he losing control? Or was something trying to come through?
And always, the sunflowers grew—one more every time he returned to the park.
One for every sin.
Saname knew he had to find the truth—not just about the murder, but about himself. Who planted the flowers? Why didn’t he remember killing? Was the demon inside him... truly him?
As he walked through school, smiling, helping others, he whispered in his heart: “Please, don’t let me become a monster.”
But somewhere, deep inside, the monster whispered back:
“It’s too late.”
