Morning arrived softly.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, spreading across the small room where six-year-old Mizuki lay curled beneath her blanket.
The air was cool, but not cold — the kind of morning that felt calm, like the day hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet.
Mizuki stirred.
She rubbed her eyes with both hands, her movements slow and clumsy, then sat up, hair sticking out in every direction.
For a moment, she just listened.
From somewhere beyond her room came familiar sounds — the click of a lighter, the rustle of papers, the low hum of a man quietly talking to himself.
Her father was awake.
That thought alone was enough to pull her out of bed.
She slipped her feet into her slippers and padded down the hallway, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.
The house smelled faintly of tea and dust — the comforting scent that always lingered around her father’s work materials.
She stopped at the doorway.
Her father stood near the dining table, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt while studying a set of blueprints spread neatly in front of him.
Lines and symbols covered the paper — things Mizuki didn’t understand yet, but liked to look at anyway.
Buildings, he once told her.
Old ones, new ones.
Things that needed to change.
He noticed her reflection in the glass and turned.
“Morning,” he said, his voice warm despite the early hour.
“Morning,” Mizuki replied, her voice still soft with sleep.
She walked closer, peering at the papers on the table.
Little boxes and lines filled the page, some crossed out, others drawn darker.
“Are those houses?” she asked.
“Buildings,” he corrected gently.
“Some old.
Some not finished yet.”
She nodded, even though she didn’t fully understand.
To her, they just looked like puzzles.
Her father folded the blueprints carefully and slid them into his bag.
He reached for his jacket, lifting it from the back of the chair.
That was when Mizuki spoke again.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
She hesitated, rocking slightly on her heels.
“Can I go with you today?”
He paused, jacket halfway on.
“To work?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded quickly.
“I’ll be quiet,” she said.
“I promise.”
Her father laughed softly.
“It’s not a place for kids,” he said.
“It’s noisy.
Dusty.
And sometimes dangerous.”
“That’s okay,” Mizuki said.
“I want to see what you make.”
The words were simple.
But they made him stop.
He looked down at her — at the way she clutched the hem of her pyjamas, at the way her eyes shone with curiosity rather than fear.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he sighed, smiling.
“Alright,” he said.
“But you stay close to me.
Always.”
Mizuki’s face lit up.
“I will!”
She ran back toward her room, her slippers slapping softly against the floor.
“I’ll get dressed!”
Her father watched her go, amusement lingering in his expression.
He shook his head slightly, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Outside, the city was already awake.
Cranes stood tall against the sky.
Old buildings waited quietly for their turn to disappear.
New ones existed only on paper.
And inside that small house, a six-year-old girl hurried to change her clothes, unaware—
That this ordinary morning
would one day become the moment
she would never stop remembering.
A few minutes later, the house fell quiet again.
Mizuki stepped out wearing a light jacket and shoes slightly too big for her feet.
Her hair was tied clumsily at the back of her head, a few strands already slipping loose.
She stood straight, trying very hard to look ready.
Her father glanced down at her and nodded.
“Good,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
They left together.
The building site stood at the end of a narrow street, boxed in by newer structures that leaned too close for comfort.
At its centre rose the old building — tall, weathered, and stained by years of neglect.
Scaffolding wrapped around it like a fragile cage.
Safety tape fluttered in the breeze.
Mizuki stayed close to her father as they entered.
He greeted the workers with a nod, his posture shifting — calm, focused, responsible.
Blueprints were spread across a portable table, hands pointing, voices low.
“This section first,” her father said.
“Slowly.”
“It’s close to the others,” a man warned.
“I know,” her father replied.
“That’s why we don’t rush.”
Measuring tapes stretched across concrete.
Notes were written, checked, and rewritten.
Mizuki sat on a low block nearby, legs swinging just above the ground.
Dust clung to her shoes, but she didn’t mind.
She watched quietly, eyes following every careful movement.
“Papa,” she asked softly.
“Yes?”
“Why do you have to break this one?”
He glanced up at the building.
“It’s old,” he said.
“It isn’t safe anymore.”
She nodded, satisfied.
The building stood silent as they worked around it — measured, understood, waiting.
A little while later, the work settled into a steady rhythm.
The measuring tapes were reeled back in.
Voices lowered as the men compared notes, pointing at the building’s edges and the narrow spaces between it and the surrounding structures.
Mizuki shifted where she sat.
Her legs had stopped swinging.
She leaned back, pressing her palms against the cold concrete, then reached into the pocket of her jacket.
Her fingers closed around something familiar.
A small rubber ball — faded blue, scuffed at the edges.
It fit easily in her hand, light and comforting.
She rolled it between her palms for a moment, watching it spin, then looked up at her father.
“Papa?”
He turned toward her immediately.
“Yes?”
She held up the ball.
“Can I play over there?” she asked, pointing toward the steel footpath that ran along the side of the site.
It was fenced, clear of equipment, and empty — just a long stretch of metal plates catching the sunlight.
Her father followed her gaze, checking the area instinctively.
The path was clear.
No tools.
No workers passing through.
He nodded.
“Stay where I can see you,” he said.
“And don’t go past the fence.”
“I won’t,” Mizuki replied quickly.
She stood up and walked carefully toward the footpath, her shoes making a soft tapping sound against the metal surface.
She bounced the ball once, then again, smiling faintly as it rolled back toward her.
The sound was small.
Harmless.
Her father watched her for a few seconds longer before turning back to the team.
Behind him, Mizuki chased the ball as it rolled ahead of her, laughing softly when it slipped just out of reach.
The steel beneath her feet was cool and solid, the fence beside her warm from the sun.
She didn’t wander far.
She stayed where she was told.
The old building loomed nearby, silent and still, while the world around it moved carefully, deliberately.
And for that moment — between blueprints and measurements, dust and sunlight — everything felt balanced.
Safe.
A few minutes passed.
The worksite remained quiet, measured, controlled.
Mizuki chased the small blue ball along the steel footpath, her laughter light as the ball bounced unevenly against the metal plates.
She ran a little faster, then slowed, careful not to cross the fence.
Across the street, a man and a young boy walked along the roadside.
The boy was small — seven years old — his steps uneven as he tried to keep pace.
One of his shoes was slightly loose, the heel worn down.
He stumbled once, caught himself, and laughed.
“Careful,” his father said gently, tightening his grip on the boy’s hand.
They stopped when the ball rolled too far.
It slipped through a gap near the fence and bounced toward the road.
Mizuki froze.
For a split second, she didn’t know what to do.
She stepped forward instinctively —
And that was when everything changed.
A sound echoed through the site.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Just wrong.
A deep, strained groan — like something old being asked to hold more than it could.
The ground trembled.
Workers shouted.
“Move—!”
Mizuki’s foot slipped on the metal plate.
She lost her balance.
She didn’t scream.
She just fell forward.
The man at the roadside reacted instantly.
He released his son’s hand and ran.
“Mizuki!” her father shouted at the same time, dropping everything and sprinting toward her.
The world moved too fast.
The man reached her first.
He grabbed her arm and pushed her away from the structure — hard enough to send her sliding across the ground, away from danger.
She hit the pavement and rolled.
Before anyone could reach them —
The building gave way.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
Dust filled the air.
A thunderous collapse drowned out every sound.
When it ended, the site fell silent.
The small blue ball lay still near the fence.
Mizuki struggled to sit up, coughing, her ears ringing.
She looked toward the place where her father had been running from.
He was gone.
So was the man who had pushed her away.
And the boy who had followed him.
People screamed.
Workers rushed forward.
Hands tried to pull her back.
But nothing could be changed.
Three lives had ended in the space of a single moment —
a father who ran without hesitation,
a man who chose someone else over himself,
a child who followed because he trusted.
Mizuki didn’t understand what she was seeing.
She only knew that the world had gone very, very quiet.
The dust began to settle.
It muted everything — the broken concrete, the ground beneath her hands, the ball that hadn’t moved.
Mizuki pushed herself up, unsteady.
The ringing in her ears pushed the world farther away.
She looked around, blinking.
“Papa…?”
Her voice was small.
No answer came.
She took a few steps forward, swaying — back toward where she had last seen him running.
“Papa?” she called again, louder this time.
Workers rushed past her.
Someone shouted her name.
Hands reached for her shoulders.
She slipped free.
“Papa!”
Her voice cracked.
She didn’t see him.
She didn’t see the man.
She didn’t see the boy.
She saw only what remained —
dust,
and stillness.
Her chest tightened, each breath shallow and uneven.
“Papa… where are you?”
The words broke as they left her mouth.
She searched desperately — for his jacket, his bag, anything familiar.
Nothing answered.
Someone knelt beside her and wrapped their arms around her, holding her back.
She struggled weakly.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Papa is here.
He was just here.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry.
She kept looking.
“Papa…?”
The world did not respond.
And there, in the remains of a morning that had begun so gently, a six-year-old girl waited —
for a voice that would never answer again.
Ten years later, she would stand at the very edge of a building’s rooftop —
no walls beside her, no ceiling above her.
The wind moved freely there, tugging at her hair as the city spread far below.
She took a slow step forward, stopping where the concrete ended and open air began.
And when she looked down,
it wouldn’t be because she wanted to fall.
It would be because she couldn’t stop asking herself:
If she hadn’t taken that step that morning…
how many lives would still be standing?
Thank you so much for reading Beyond Space and Time – I Was Not Allowed to End.
It truly means a lot to me that you gave my story a chance.