Outside, the rain fell fine and unending, as if the sky had torn a hole that couldn't be mended, pouring its sorrow ceaselessly down to earth. Raindrops drummed on the windowpane with a monotonous, suffocating patter, merging into winding trails that blurred the gray world beyond.
Amano Hina curled up on the old sofa by the window, arms around her knees, chin resting on them, quietly gazing at the cityscape veiled in rain. Her eyes were a clear sea-green, yet they reflected no light now—only a gloom in tune with the sky.
It had been a full year since her mother died. Those 365 days and nights had stretched like a century for a girl who had just lost her only support. She could still remember her mother's warm smile, the gentle feel of her hand stroking Hina's hair, the profile of her face as she tried to make Hina a bento even while ill. The memories were like old photographs soaked by rain—colors still vivid, but damp with heartbreak.
After the funeral, the empty apartment held only her. A cold stovetop. Silent nights. Greetings that no one answered. Life was nothing if not brutally real. At least her younger brother had been taken in by relatives, so he wouldn't have to worry about getting by.
Hina, however, refused to live under someone else's roof. To survive, she had to choose deception. Facing the hiring manager, she straightened her not-yet-fully-grown frame and, in a deliberately steady tone beyond her years, claimed she was already eighteen. Luckily, she had inherited her mother's delicate good looks and managed to pull it off, landing a part-time job at a McDonald's not far from home.
Every day after school she changed into the slightly oversized red-and-yellow uniform, put on the hat with the golden "M," and stood behind the counter, repeating the cycle of taking orders, handling cash, and passing out food. She had to squeeze out a standard smile for every customer, saying "Welcome" and "Thanks for coming," even when she was bone-tired. Even when she ran into picky, difficult patrons, she had to endure it.
That meager hourly wage was her only source for rent, food, and school expenses. Every coin had to be counted carefully. She hadn't bought new clothes in a long time. Lunch was often the cheapest rice ball or bread from the convenience store. On rare "splurges," it was a single employee-discount burger.
The weight of life pressed down on her young shoulders like layers of rain-soaked cotton—heavy and unyielding. And the loneliness of losing a loved one seeped into every crack of her days like this unending rain—cold and suffocating. She often woke in the dead of night, listening to the drizzle outside, feeling like a lone skiff lost on a boundless sea with no shore in sight.
…
Today's shift ended the same way—busy and exhausting. She changed out of her uniform and stepped out of the restaurant thick with the smell of fried food. The chill and damp wrapped around her at once. The rain wasn't letting up; with night falling, it felt even gloomier.
She turned down the umbrella a coworker offered, pulled her thin school jacket tighter, lowered her head, and walked into the curtain of rain. It quickly soaked her blue short hair, strands sticking to her forehead and cheeks like ice. The jacket drank in the water and grew heavy, clinging to her skin and passing its chill along. Her mood, like the rain-washed streets, felt muddy and dull.
A nameless oppression spread and swelled in her chest, braided with loneliness and helplessness. She needed an outlet—a place to slip free of this heavy reality, even for a moment. She lifted her eyes to the shabby high-rise in the distance, and a thought surfaced on its own—an almost instinctive impulse she indulged now and then whenever she felt especially lost and powerless. A secret ritual that belonged to her alone.
Instead of taking the familiar path home, she turned down a quieter alley. Her steps hesitated a little, yet there was a dogged resolve in them.
She made her way, as if by habit, to an old high-rise that had long been abandoned. The building looked half-finished for years: gray concrete laid bare on the exterior, most windows unglazed—like hollow eyes staring blankly at the rain-struck city.
Few people came here even on normal days; in the rain it felt all the more desolate. She glanced around, wary, confirming no one was watching. Then she slipped through a half-open, rust-scarred metal side door.
Inside was darker and more ruined than outside. The air was thick with dust and damp mold, undercut by that raw tang unique to construction debris. The emergency lights were long dead. Only the thinnest daylight, washed out by the rain, leaked through a few broken windows, just enough to outline the empty lobby and stairwells.
The fire stairs were rough steel, the handrails scabbed with rust. A thick film of dust coated the steps, mixed with leaks from the roof into patches of muddy sludge. Hina drew a long breath of that cold, murky air and began to climb, one step at a time.
Tap, tap, tap—her shoes on steel echoed through the vast emptiness, the sound unusually clear, solitary, almost aching. Her footsteps, her breathing, and the ceaseless rain outside formed the only symphony in that silence.
She climbed slowly—not from fatigue, but with something like a pilgrim's mindset, each step carrying a hard-to-name mix of anticipation and anxiety. The stairwell walls were scribbled with graffiti and symbols that meant nothing, as if recording the building's past and the fleeting traces of those who had slipped inside before.
She had no idea how long she'd been climbing. Her legs were starting to ache, her breathing a little unsteady. At last, she reached the top floor.