Requiem of the Reborn

There were teachers students feared and respected, and then there was Lyra.

Ma'am Lyra or Miss Lyra, as everyone in Shizukawa University called her, was the kind of woman who commanded attention the moment she stepped into a room. Her presence was neither loud nor flamboyant, but magnetic—like a lighthouse to lost ships. With thick, wavy chestnut hair always pinned neatly at the nape of her neck and eyes the color of polished obsidian, she exuded the kind of grace and intelligence that made both students and faculty alike pause when she spoke. She also had this kind demeanor that everyone adored that excluded her from the teachers whose motto is, "every student is just at the tip on my pen". Her students adored her, not only because she made Shakespeare sound as thrilling as a summer blockbuster, but because she genuinely cared. She remembered birthdays, noticed when students were unusually quiet, and had a knack for making even the most timid teenager feel like they mattered.

Despite being a young blood, the twenty-five year old Lyra was a tenured educator in philosophy, literature, and political science, the youngest in the school's history to hold such a position.

“Lyra is basically what happens if two angels had a child and bestowed it to mankind” one student once tweeted. It had gone viral, much to Lyra's embarrassment.

“Lyra!” The Principal called from down the hallway as she walked in, with an iced coffee in one hand, a leather-bound notebook in the other. She turned with a warm smile. “Good morning, Principal.”

“You’ve got another fan letter,” he said, holding out a thick envelope. “That’s the third one this week. What are you doing to these kids?”

“Making them analyze what's wrong with Plato's allegory of the cave and cry,” she said, accepting the letter with a chuckle.

The halls buzzed with the usual chaos of teenagers bouncing between lockers and early-morning grogginess. As always, several students called out her name, high-fived her, or tried to engage in either political or philosophical debates before first period.

“Miss Lyra, did you read my essay?”

“Miss Lyra, if Plato and Nietzsche were in a fight, who’d win?”

“Miss Lyra, I need your advice. It’s about... life.”

She answered them all with a patience that felt infinite.

Later, in her second-period Contemporary Issues in Asia class, Lyra stood before thirty juniors, pointer in hand.

“Now,” she said, turning to face them, “why do you think is the current political or economic landscape in Asia affects how state policies are made and implemented?

Hands rose. Discussion erupted. Lyra listened, guided, corrected gently. One student, a quiet girl named Lianne, sat in the back, staring out the window. Elara made a mental note. After class, she approached the girl. “Lianne, can we talk for a moment?” The student froze, then nodded.

“You seemed far away today,” Lyra said softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lianne hesitated, then burst into tears. “I just—I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Everything feels… too much.”

Lyra didn’t speak. She placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, waiting until the tears slowed. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, Lianne. Let’s talk with the counselor together after school. And until then, you’ll stay with me, okay?” The girl nodded. It wasn’t the first time Lyra had caught the signs, and it wouldn’t be the last. Or so she thought.

That afternoon, just as the last bell rang and the students flooded out of classrooms like a river breaking a dam, a panicked cry echoed through the school.

“Someone’s on the roof!”

Lyra dropped her bag and ran. She knew without being told—she knew it was Lianne. The door to the rooftop was supposed to be locked, but teenagers always found a way. She pushed it open with trembling hands. The cold wind slapped her face. There, standing on the edge, was Lianne, her arms spread wide like a bird ready to take flight.

“Lianne!” Lyra called, voice steady, but her heart thundered.

“Don’t come closer!” the girl screamed.

“I’m not,” Lyra said, slowly walking forward. “But I’m here, and I’m listening.”

“No one understands,” Lianne sobbed. “Not my parents, not my friends—”

“I understand,” she said, inching closer. “I know how heavy it feels. Like you’re stuck in a world that doesn’t see you. But I see you. I see your brilliance. Your poetry. Your courage.”Lianne hesitated.

Lyra saw the moment—the slightest shift in weight, a flicker of doubt.

That was enough.

She lunged.

There was a blur of movement, a scream, the rush of wind, and then—

Darkness.

But not silence.

There was a faint ringing, a sensation of falling—but no pain. Then, an overwhelming warmth. As though she were sinking into water that glowed with light.

And then... nothing.

The world returned with a gasp.

Lyra opened her eyes.

The sky above her was no longer a muted gray, but a vibrant blue, crisscrossed with the outlines of soaring birds she couldn’t recognize. The air smelled different—cleaner, almost too crisp that any country in the world cannot compare to.

She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt strange. Smaller. Weaker.

She looked down.

Tiny hands. Her hands are not the same as before which is weird - so weird because it shouldn't be the hands of a twenty-five year old.

She touched her face. Softer skin which is not her skin - her skin was fair but she knows that there are signs of aging. And at that very moment she realized that her body was that of a child—perhaps three or four years old.

She thought, “What the hell is going on?”

Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell over her.

“She’s awake,” a gruff voice said. “About time.”

Lyra turned. A matronly woman in coarse linens knelt beside her, face weathered, eyes suspicious.

“You’ve been unconscious three days, little urchin. Thought we lost you.”

Lyra tried to say a single world but since she is younger than she was it sounded more like a whim.

The woman added. “You were found outside the village, half-dead. No family. No name. You’re lucky one of kids saw you and brought you here. Another mouth to feed. What on earth would that kid bring you to another hell hole. But anyway, at least you are alive and well.”

Lyra's head spun.

Something wasn’t right. She remembered Lianne, the rooftop, the fall—and now this?

She is not an idiot not to notice that she was in a new world and obviously, orphaned

But not just any orphan, the matron had said something— this little body of mine was abadoned. There is no way that this body will get to this village alone and there is no way that her parents could have died and she is the only survivor because the woman didn't mention anything.

She clenched her fists secretly an thought that needs to find out what is going on - she knew that there is something about this that feels totallyy wrong.