The wind was loud that day.
Clouds gathered above the schoolyard, casting long shadows across the concrete.
During lunch, Rin and his small group sat near the steps.
Toma, as usual, talked too loudly.
The talkative boy spun stories no one fully believed.
The girl laughed—soft, kind, a little tired.
But something else drew Rin's attention.
Across the field, a boy sat alone under a tree.
Rin recognized him.
Not by name, but by feeling.
Someone who had stopped trying to be seen.
A few kids walked past him and tossed a crumpled note at his feet.
One laughed. The others didn't even look back.
Rin's fingers clenched.
He stood up.
"I'll be back," he told his friends.
That night, the Dreambox Shop was quieter than usual.
Moonchan looked up as Rin entered.
"You've grown quieter," he said.
"I saw someone who needed something more than kindness," Rin said softly.
"He needs light."
Moonchan nodded slowly.
He reached into the shelves and brought out a small golden Dreambag, no bigger than a coin purse.
Inside was a glowing marble, warm and pulsing like a gentle heartbeat.
"What is it?" Rin asked.
Kuro, unusually serious, floated lower.
"The Kindling Orb," he said.
"It holds a fragment of warmth. When given to someone, it lets them feel… that they matter."
Moonchan added, "But the price is steep. You must give it to them directly and say their name."
Rin blinked. "But… I don't even know his name."
"Then find out," Moonchan said. "Light means more when we shine it personally."
Rin took the Dreambag.
It shimmered in his hand before fading into nothing the moment he removed the orb.
The next day at school, Rin waited.
He saw the boy in the hallway—alone again.
He followed him during break, staying close but not too close.
Finally, as the boy sat under the tree once more, Rin approached.
He knelt beside him and held out the marble.
The boy stared, confused.
"I wanted to give you this," Rin said. "You dropped it… yesterday."
It was a lie. But a soft one.
The boy hesitated.
Then reached out, touching the orb.
A faint glow pulsed between their hands.
For a second—just one—Rin saw it:
A memory of the boy's mother hugging him in first grade.
A note he wrote but never gave to anyone.
The feeling of wanting someone—anyone—to notice he existed.
"…My name's Kenta," the boy said quietly.
Rin smiled. "I'm Rin."
The orb faded between their hands.
Gone.
But something stayed behind.
The next day, Kenta joined them during lunch.
He didn't say much.
But he sat there.
And that was enough.