The alarm buzzed insistently at 6:30 a.m. Mark's hand shot out from under the covers to silence it. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
*Don't know why I'm feeling like I should skip school today…* he thought, rubbing his eyes. He let out a quiet sigh. *But I haven't finished my notes, and Mrs. Isabella specifically told me not to miss yesterday. Guess I have to go.*
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dressed in his uniform: a crisp white shirt, bright red tie, and dark blue blazer. He brushed his teeth, combed his dark hair, and slung his backpack over one shoulder—each motion automatic, rehearsed. Before heading out, he opened his notebook one last time to glance at yesterday's algebra proofs.
Stepping onto the porch, he started down the drive. From the house next door came a cheerful shout.
"I'm going to school, Mom!"
Olivia emerged, brown hair in a loose braid, dressed in the same white shirt, red tie, and dark blue blazer, navy skirt fluttering as she hurried across the lawn.
"Finally—looking at your face, I can tell you actually got some sleep," she teased, looping her arm through his.
"I wasn't expecting it either," Mark replied with a wry smile. "By the way… are those rumors true that you're dating Jason?"
Her smile faded. "Who told you that? Who's spreading that nonsense?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Heard it from some students on my way to the library during break yesterday. I meant to ask you then, but I forgot."
Olivia's jaw tightened. "Whoever it is will regret it."
Mark's voice drifted into its usual calm gloom. "Honestly, you should focus on yourself, not those rumors."
She rolled her eyes, then grinned. "You're one to talk, zombie boy."
They reached the school gates, the morning sun glinting off their dark blue blazers, and walked inside together.
The bell rang sharply as they entered. In Classroom 1C, students clicked pens and flipped open notebooks. Mark chose the third bench from the back, unpacked his notebook, and traced the chalkboard's algebra proofs with his pen—already half-remembered.
Mr. Reynolds stood, straightened his tie, and slipped into the hallway. The pause stretched out until he reappeared, smoothing his blazer.
"Alright, everyone," he said, voice steady, "we have a new transfer student today."
A hush rippled through the room as a girl stepped into the doorway: long pastel‑pink hair tumbling past her shoulders, fair skin glowing under the fluorescents, and sculpted features that caught the light as she tilted her head. She wore the same uniform—crisp white blouse, bright red tie, dark blue blazer folded over one arm, and navy skirt—and held a single sketchbook at her side.
She paused, letting the room settle, then spoke in a clear, unhurried voice:
"My name is Amber Statfelt—but you can call me Amber. My father's transfer brought us from New York to California, and I'm really looking forward to studying with all of you."
She offered a warm smile and tucked a loose strand of pink hair behind her ear.
Instantly the room crackled with whispers:
> "She's gorgeous."
> "I wonder what she sketches."
> "Who's brave enough to ask her out?"
"Quiet down, please," Mr. Reynolds said, tapping his desk. He pointed to the third row. "Amber, that seat."
With light, measured steps—like a bird finding its perch—she slid into the desk beside Mark. His pen stalled as her sketchbook brushed his armrest, and he glanced up, though he hadn't meant to.
*Her voice… unguarded, free as wind through leaves.*
*Those eyes—bright, curious, full of color.*
He caught himself, pulled his gaze down, and lifted his pen again. As the chalk scraped the board, he began copying the next algebra proof—his day unfolding as usual, yet now marked by that single, unexpected moment.
**Scene Three: Lunch Break**
The bell rang, and Classroom 1C emptied into the corridors. Mark lingered long enough to slip into the boys' restroom, then headed toward the cafeteria. Passing the commons, he spotted Amber chatting with a circle of girls—her pastel‑pink hair tumbling over her shoulders as she laughed—and thought, *So she really can make friends wherever she goes.* He turned away, expression unreadable, and moved on.
In the lunch line, he filled his tray: an egg sandwich and a side of roasted potatoes. Across from him, Kevin piled on steamed broccoli and green beans—only veggies. Olivia, standing beside Kevin, wrinkled her nose.
"Really, Kevin? Only veggies?" she teased, crossing her arms. "You're the last person who should talk—look at your plate."
Kevin shrugged. "Gotta stay healthy."
Mark set his tray down with a muted clatter. He slid into the bench opposite Olivia and Kevin, pulled out his sandwich, and took a slow bite, eyes distant.
"You haven't changed, Olivia," he said quietly. "You still won't touch a single vegetable."
Olivia's cheeks colored. "What should I do if I don't like them?" she replied, a defensive edge creeping into her tone. *But you've changed a lot, Mark… in a bad way,* she thought, glancing at his downcast eyes.
Kevin leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Hey, Olivia—I heard you're dating Jason."
Olivia snorted, lifting a water bottle to her lips—and immediately choked, spluttering until she'd soaked her blouse. Heads turned; Kevin patted her back as she gasped.
"That rumor's ridiculous," Olivia said at last, smoothing her collar. "I'm definitely not dating that rowdy, arrogant mistake of a guy."
Mark watched her in silence, then said softly, "Fine. But you're the one always ready with a comeback." He did not smile.
Olivia's eyes flashed. Kevin's question hung in the air until Mark rose, picking up his tray. He offered a curt nod. "I have to get back."
He walked away without looking back.
Kevin watched him go and sighed. "At least he's trying to be decent around us, but I know how much he's bearing."
Olivia's teasing expression faded into a sad frown. "You think I don't know that, Kevin? Why can't he just get over it already?"
Kevin reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
They left the cafeteria together, trays in hand, then turned toward their own classrooms—each carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts as they walked down separate hallways.
After lunch, Mark washed his hands and quietly made his way toward the library, his footsteps soft against the tiled floor. The halls had mostly emptied, filled with only the echoes of distant chatter. He adjusted the strap of his bag, carrying a copy of *Birth of an Angel* by Emma Steven Betty in one hand.
Just as he turned the corner near the library doors, a blur of motion caught him off guard. A girl—her pastel-pink hair flowing wildly behind her—came running at full speed, not looking ahead. She slammed into him with a sudden impact, and both of them tumbled to the floor. His book slipped from his hand, sliding across the hallway.
"Ah! I'm so sorry!" she gasped, scrambling to sit up. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
Mark blinked, steadying himself. "Mm… no worries. It was my mistake too," he murmured, brushing off his sleeves.
Her eyes darted to the book on the floor. "*Birth of an Angel* by Emma Steven Betty?" she asked, surprised. Her voice was lively, filled with a kind of openness that contrasted sharply with the stillness of the hall. "Wait, you're that guy from this morning, aren't you? So you're into books?"
Mark stood up slowly, retrieving the novel. "I just started reading fiction and nonfiction. It's something to pass the time," he replied softly, not making eye contact.
As he dusted off his uniform and turned to leave, she called out behind him, "Wait—"
But he was already gone, disappearing into the library without a backward glance, the book held close to his chest.
Inside the quiet library, Mark sat alone near the tall windows, sunlight pooling gently at his side. His fingers brushed over the cover of the book he carried—*Birth of an Angel* by Emma Steven Betty. The title caught his gaze again, and as his blue hair softly waved over his forehead, he let out a quiet breath.
"Birth of an Angel, huh..." he whispered to himself.
Suddenly, a deep ache tugged at his chest, and tears subtly welled in his eyes. His vision blurred momentarily as a memory surged forward from the depths of his mind.
He was twelve again.
Before him stood a black-haired little girl, barely six years old, her bright eyes brimming with excitement. She held up the same book in her small hands.
"Brother! I read this novel my friend gave me, and you know what? It's very interesting," she said, her smile radiant. "I think you should read it too! You know who the main character is—"
Mark, younger and carefree, cut her off with a chuckle. "Erica, a book about angels? Why should I read it? The angel is already standing right in front of me."
The little girl blushed, flustered by his teasing. "Stop making me flustered, brother! I'm not a child anymore. I'm not an angel. I'm a grown-up!"
He handed her a bottle of juice, grinning.
Her eyes lit up as she took it, eagerly drinking. Mark laughed, his expression soft and full of joy.
"See? You're still a child," he teased.
Her brows furrowed as she pouted and shouted in a childish voice, "You tricked me!"
They both burst into laughter, the sound light and pure.
The memory faded slowly, like the final notes of a long-forgotten song. Back in the present, Mark blinked through the mist in his eyes and opened the book in silence, a quiet sorrow settling over him as the echo of that joy faded into stillness
His eyes landed on a passage, and he read slowly, the words brushing against something deep within:
"By the tears of the world, was born an angel—
Named not by joy, but sorrow's cradle.
She bore the cries the sky concealed,
A heart no longer meant to feel.
With burdened wings and silent grace,
She wandered through the darkened space.
Yet fate had drawn in colors bright,
Another soul to share her flight.
The angel of joy with radiant eyes,
Who painted hope across the skies.
When laughter met her solemn knell,
Together they'd cast sorrow to hell."
Two days later, the sky wept over the town in a curtain of gentle rain. It was Sunday. Mark had read the forecast before heading out and came prepared, umbrella in one hand, a grocery bag in the other. As he walked along the path near the quiet shopping district, something caught his eye.
A familiar figure sat alone on a bench beneath a narrow, leafless tree. Her long pink hair clung to her face and shoulders, slightly damp, glistening faintly under the gray sky. She sat still, watching the clouds above as if trying to understand something only she could see.
It was her.
He almost kept walking. But something—perhaps the echo of that passage, or the way the rain seemed to hush the world—made him turn.
Mark approached, his steps soft against the wet pavement. "Why are you sitting out here in the rain?" he asked quietly, voice neither sharp nor warm.
She turned her head, blinking slowly. Her usual liveliness was gone, replaced by a soft, pensive stillness. "Just watching the clouds," she answered, her voice calm, stripped of its usual playful edge.
Mark hesitated. Then, without a word, he extended his umbrella toward her.
"You'll catch a cold like that," he said, eyes turned away. "Take it. No need to return it."
Amber looked at him, surprise flickering in her gaze. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Mark had already turned away. He adjusted his grip on the grocery bag and jogged off into the light rain.
Left behind, she stared at the umbrella now resting in her hands. The rain was still falling—but somehow, it didn't feel quite as cold.