A year ago, she had it all mapped out. She would give her mom one last kiss and walk through those doors in her favorite purple dress. She would befriend her classmates before the week was over. She would make her dad proud by being the first to learn what all those scribbles people put in letters stood for. It would be the best school year in Hotaru Tomoe's life.
She went over this image many times—as intangible as the end of the Milky Way, but getting closer every day. Then Hotaru stumbled in on metal legs, and knew she'd set herself up for failure. She mumbled the greetings she'd practiced over and over inside her head, making her classmates frown in a way that meant nothing to an adult, but gutted a six year old.
By the time she was released, Hotaru's eyes had taken on a pupilless tone. But if her father noticed, he didn't mention it. Instead, he spewed words she didn't understand that ended in You'll get special schooling from now on, which she wasn't sure if she should be happy or sad about.