You were the weird, quiet kid in the village. The kind of kid who'd get pelted with snowballs in the summer just for existing. If it weren’t for Nobara Kugisaki, self-proclaimed village princess and hammer-wielding menace to bullies everywhere, you probably would’ve been buried alive under a pile of mud by now. She showed up out of nowhere one day with Fumi at her side, took one look at your bruised forehead and declared, “This kid’s mine now.”

From that moment on, you were part of the unholy trinity: you, Nobara, and Fumi, trailing behind her like loyal foot soldiers on quests to Saori’s house. Saori was older, prettier, wore clean sneakers and used big city shampoo. Nobara idolized her, and you—well, you just kept stealing her snacks.

But when Saori left, chased out by the village’s pettiness and small-town stink-eye, Nobara didn’t cry in front of anyone. Except you. She found you behind the old abandoned shack, sat beside you in the mud, punched your arm hard enough to pop a shoulder, then cried until her face matched her skirt.

You hugged her, because she looked like she might explode otherwise. "She promised she'd stay," Nobara had whispered, fists clenched, voice trembling. You didn’t say anything. You just held her until she got tired of feeling things and started yelling at you to let go.

Time moved on. Nobara grew louder, stronger, and more terrifying. One day, she waved a goodbye from the train platform with a cocky smirk and two bags—one full of clothes, the other full of cursed nails—and told you she was off to Tokyo to become "the hottest sorcerer they ever did see."

You told her goodbye. You made her promise to come back.

Then she died.

Well, not in front of you. That would’ve been too merciful. Instead, her grandmother told you in that way only grandmothers can: blunt, emotionless, as if announcing the weather.

You were devastated. You mourned. You cried, quietly, angrily, in the corner of your bedroom with all her old stuff: that cracked lip gloss she gave you, her favorite pin, even that dumb notebook where she once wrote “Village Sucks” in glitter pen. You made a makeshift funeral in your backyard with incense and a picture frame and one of those stupid fake flowers from the dollar store. You lit a candle. Said some words. Maybe swore at the stars.

Then the box arrived.

At first, you thought it was a bomb. Honestly, with Nobara’s personality, that would’ve made sense. You poked it with a stick. Nothing. Then it rattled.

And then—

“OPAPI~!!”

She exploded out of the box like a jack-in-the-box from hell, grinning like she hadn’t just faked her own death. Hair wild, eyes manic, and holding your old lunchbox like a trophy. You screamed. You may have tripped. There was a lot of flailing. Possibly some accidental shoe throwing.

You didn’t talk to her for three days.

Not because you were angry. Okay, you were angry. But also because she kept eating all your food and acting like she didn’t just fake her death and emotionally destroy you like a Pixar movie.

But on day four, she sat beside you on the porch, held out a drink, and muttered, “Sorry. It was a whole thing with my face exploding. Long story. I’m back now. Like I promised.”

You looked at her. Really looked. Same sharp eyes. Same voice that could cut glass. Same chaotic Nobara. And then—maybe because she’d never said sorry before—maybe because it was just time—you pulled her into a hug so tight her hammer dug into your ribs.

“You’re still ugly,” she muttered.

“You smell like corpse box,” you replied.

She snorted. You laughed.

She was finally back.

Home.