Chapter 16: Silent Silence
The leaves began to fall.
Not all at once. Not in golden waves.
Just one here,
then another there,
fluttering down like forgotten words.
The school days blurred together.
Tests came and went.
Announcements were made.
Events passed.
But the seats in the back row never changed.
He still sat by the window.
She still sat by the wall.
And the space between them grew quieter—
not emptier.
Just... deeper.
No one paid attention anymore.
The class had accepted them.
Or maybe, the class had just forgotten them.
Either way, they were left untouched.
Exactly how they wanted it.
Or said they did.
One day, the teacher gave back graded assignments.
Mu Yichen took his without a word.
Han Seri's paper, however, was handed to the wrong person.
A boy three seats ahead flipped it over before passing it back.
He laughed.
"Didn't think the ghost girl could write this well."
He said it loud enough to be heard.
Not quite mocking. Not quite kind.
Yichen didn't turn his head.
But his hand, resting on the desk,
curled into a quiet fist.
No one noticed.
Except her.
At lunch that day, they passed each other briefly in the hallway.
He glanced her way.
She kept walking.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
But that night, she reread the comment the teacher had left on her paper:
"Insightful. Unexpected."
And she wondered
what it meant to be seen by someone
who said nothing
but always listened.
That Friday, the first frost came.
A thin sheet of cold silver on the windows.
Students wore scarves, clutched hot drinks, complained about the weather.
Han Seri arrived late.
She rushed in just as the bell rang, hair damp, breath visible in the morning chill.
Mu Yichen was already seated, as always.
But something on her desk was different.
A small, folded packet of heat pads—
the kind sold at corner stores.
New. Untouched.
By the time she reached her desk, he had placed them at the edge of hers.
Said nothing.
Didn't look at her.
Just opened his notebook and began writing.
She stared at the packet for a long time.
Then placed it in her bag, slowly.
Like it was made of glass.
That night, neither of them wrote in a journal.
Neither of them drew.
But both of them looked out their windows—
Yichen at the stars,
Seri at the empty street
and felt something stir that had no name.
Not affection.
Not yet.
Just the kind of silence
that only happens
right before something begins.