Day One of Forty

I sit at the kitchen table with a notebook open to a grid of boxes, each one labeled in my best spreadsheet-like handwriting: “Math – 8:00-9:00, History – 9:15-10:00, Chemistry – 10:30-11:15.” I’m proud of the neat columns; they look like a tiny army ready to march through my summer. The plan is simple: I finish the semester’s worth of homework before the sun sets on the first day of vacation, then I can finally breathe.

Rikka Takanashi breezes in, a swirl of pastel ribbons and an expression that suggests she’s just stepped out of a battlefield. She plops a plastic cup of lemonade on the table, sloshing a few droplets onto my spreadsheet. “Yuuta, I have an urgent matter,” she announces, voice flat as a stone but eyes glittering with the sort of drama that makes ordinary things feel like prophecy.

I glance at the cup, then at the rows of my schedule. “What’s up?”

She pulls a folded piece of paper from her sleeve and slides it toward me with the solemnity of a royal decree. “There is an ancient sealed power that has awoken. It is… a cicada.”

I blink, because the notion of a cicada being an ancient sealed power seems like the kind of thing that would belong in a comic book, not in my summer. “A cicada?”

She nods, as if I’ve just affirmed a known truth. “Yes. It has been dormant for forty days, sealed beneath the old shrine on the hill. It will awaken at the first sunrise of the festival and must be thwarted.”

I stare at the paper, which is covered in a scribbled map, strange symbols, and a doodle of an oversized cicada wearing a crown. My spreadsheet trembles under the weight of her seriousness. “You want me to… what? Fight a cicada?”

She leans in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We must devise a campaign. Forty days, forty missions. Each day we will gather a fragment of the cicada’s power and seal it again. It is our destiny.”

I glance back at my schedule. “My homework… I mean, I have a math test tomorrow. I can’t just—”

She waves a hand, and the motion is so theatrical that it seems to push the air itself aside. “The cicada’s power is more pressing than algebra. Besides, the math test will still be there after the cicada is sealed. Right?”

My spreadsheet, once a monument to order, looks suddenly like a flimsy house of cards. I sigh, because I am already aware that my plans are about to dissolve. “Fine. What’s the first mission?”

She pulls a small, battered notebook from her bag, opens it, and points to a sketch of a tree with a single branch highlighted. “We need to retrieve the Golden Leaf from the shrine’s ancient oak. The leaf is the key to the cicada’s seal.”

I stare at the oak in my mind’s eye. It’s the same tree we used to climb when we were younger, the one that rattles its leaves when the wind is mischievous. I can already feel the heat of the summer sun on my shoulders, the buzz of insects, and the faint hum of something… else.

“Alright,” I say, trying to sound decisive. “We leave at nine, we’re back by noon, and then I—”

She interrupts with a grin that could have been a battle cry. “We will be back by noon, because the cicada awakens at sunrise. After that, we have precisely three hours to complete the first fragment. No more homework.”

I close the notebook, the sound crisp, and I stare at my schedule one more time. The rows are still there, waiting, but they feel like a polite suggestion rather than a command. I pick up a pen, but before I can even cross out a box, the doorbell rings.

It’s the delivery guy with a box of cookies. He hands me a package, and I sign for it without looking. The box is heavy, like a small stone. I set it on the table, and the lid pops open with a sigh. Inside is a set of glittery stickers—“Cicada Squad”—and a pair of novelty sunglasses shaped like insect eyes.

Rikka snatches the sunglasses and puts them on, her eyes narrowing behind the ridiculous lenses. “Now I can see the cicada’s true form.”

I grin despite myself. “You look… ready for battle.”

She strikes a pose, and I realize she’s holding a wooden sword that looks like it was salvaged from a kindergarten’s costume closet. “The darkness shall tremble before us!”

I laugh, a short, deadpan chuckle that could be mistaken for an admission that this is absurd. “Yeah, the darkness will tremble. And we’ll have to explain this to the teacher later.”

She sighs, as if the weight of the world rests on her shoulders. “Yuuta, you always make me feel… normal.”

I glance at the spreadsheet again. The first row now reads “Math – 8:00-9:00 (Cancelled).” The other rows are a mess of crossed-out boxes and doodles of cicadas wearing crowns. The schedule has been destroyed, not by any epic cataclysm, but by a simple shift in priority: a cicada, a pair of novelty sunglasses, and a friend’s earnest conviction.

We head out, the summer heat already thickening the air. The path to the shrine winds through a field of tall grass that sways like a sea of green. I can hear the cicadas already—those tiny, relentless drummers of summer—tuning up for a concert that feels like a warning.

Rikka stops in front of the ancient oak, eyes scanning the bark as if she can read its hidden language. She pulls out a small, battered notebook that looks like it belonged to a pirate. “According to the scroll, the leaf is hidden in the hollow of the tree, guarded by the spirit of the cicada.”

I tilt my head. “Spirits of cicadas?”

She nods gravely. “They’re not just insects, Yuuta. They are the echo of summer itself. If we disturb them, they will sing a song that can shatter glass—or at least our ears.”

I climb the tree with the careful grace of someone who’s never climbed a tree since elementary school. The bark is rough, the branches sway, and the cicada’s song grows louder with each step upward. I reach the hollow, a small cavity in the trunk that looks like a perfect pocket for a leaf. Inside, a single golden leaf glints, as if it’s been waiting for me.

I pull it out, and a soft hum fills the air, like a note held just beyond hearing. It’s not scary; it’s just… oddly beautiful. I tuck the leaf into my pocket, feeling the weight of something larger than homework.

Rikka claps, and the sound echoes through the branches. “You did it! The first fragment is ours!”

I descend, the golden leaf safe, and we head back to the kitchen. The sun is high now, and the heat is a blanket that makes the house feel like a sauna. I set the leaf on the table, and it glitters in the light, casting tiny reflections on the wooden surface.

Rikka pulls out a small, ornate box from her bag. Inside is a smooth, black stone that looks like a piece of volcanic glass. “We must seal the leaf with this stone. The cicada’s power will be bound until the next day.”

I stare at the stone, feeling the absurdity of the moment settle like dust. “So, we put a leaf in a stone?”

She nods, her expression solemn. “It’s ritual. The cicada’s seal is not a thing of logic; it’s a thing of belief.”

I place the leaf on the stone, and a faint glow emanates from the contact point. The light is warm, not blinding, and it seems to pulse in time with the cicada’s distant song. I watch, and for a moment I feel a strange calm, like the world has aligned itself just enough to let us breathe.

Rikka looks at me, her eyes softening behind the novelty sunglasses. “Yuuta, you’re really doing this.”

I glance at my now-ruined spreadsheet, at the scribbles of homework that have been replaced by drawings of cicadas, and I feel a small, unexpected tenderness. “I guess I am.”

The bell of the kitchen timer rings, announcing that the water on the stove has boiled over. I scramble to turn it off, and the steam rises, fogging the air. Rikka giggles, a sound that feels like wind chimes.

We sit down at the table, the golden leaf and black stone between us, and the cicada’s song continues outside, a constant reminder that the world is both ordinary and magical at the same time. I pull out my notebook, the one that used to be a spreadsheet, and I write a single line: “Day One of Forty—Completed.”

Rikka takes my hand and squeezes it. “Tomorrow we find the next fragment. The cicada’s song will guide us.”

I smile, the kind of smile that acknowledges the absurdity but also the genuine excitement that bubbles under it. “Tomorrow, then. And after that, maybe I’ll actually finish my math.”

She laughs, a bright, unrestrained laugh that makes the cicada’s hum seem like a chorus. “We’ll see, Yuuta. We’ll see.”

The afternoon drifts into evening, and the sun begins to dip, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The cicada’s song fades into a soft background hum, as if it knows that its first day of forty is over. I glance at the golden leaf, now dimming, and feel a tiny spark of pride. I have a schedule that’s been ruined, a cicada that’s been partially sealed, and a friend who believes in the impossible.

In the quiet that follows, I think about the homework I’ll have to face after the summer, about the math test that will still be waiting for me, and about the strange, wonderful day that just began. It feels like the start of a story that will be both ridiculous and meaningful, and I am oddly content to be a part of it.

The cicada’s song, distant and gentle, lingers in the air like a promise. The day is ending, but the forty-day campaign has just begun, and I can’t help but feel that this summer will be one I’ll never forget.