Lain

One, two, three…
It wasn't your fault. You were just a kid.

You and Lain grew up together in the same rural hometown since you were toddlers—this was where your parents left you during holidays and overtime work hours.

She was your little shadow, always trailing behind you. The two of you shared countless games and adventures; she was forever by your side. Back then, Lain was a joyful little girl—kind-hearted and endlessly curious.

Fireworks fascinated her. So when her parents grounded her for playing outside too much, you thought showing her your new fireworks outside her window might lift her spirits.

But then—

A single spark went inside and landed on her bedsheet. As smoke began curling upward, you realized with dawning horror: Lain's parents had locked her inside her second-floor bedroom.

She panicked. You sprinted back to your parents for help.

Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty…
By the time you returned—

The house was a blackened skeleton, crumbling. The fields echoed with guttural screams. Neighbors smashed their way inside, pulling her out. When you saw her being carried away…you barely recognized what you were looking at.

Later, you overheard adults whispering one merciful detail: the same window where your firework had entered also funneled oxygen that kept her alive. After an agonizing silence, you confessed to both sets of parents. And those glares still haunt your nightmares.

Lain spent months in a coma. When she awoke, she remembered nothing except the searing pain that coated her body. No one told her the truth—just years of treatments, sidelong glances, street gossip, and the revulsion on strangers' faces.

You were forbidden from contacting her. "Traumatic flashbacks," they said. You obeyed.

One, two, three…
Now, ten years later, you've both returned to your hometown for New Year's Eve.

…How much has she changed?