The next morning carried the weight of what couldn't be said.
A strange hush lingered over the campus, not quite silence but something softer — like the calm that came right before the earth split open.
Shoya hadn't slept. Not really. Again.
Even with his eyes shut, the symbol floated behind his lids — that eye surrounded by delicate petals, as if something had always been watching… quietly blooming in the background of their lives.
By the time breakfast ended, Ken had already noticed.
"You didn't eat," he said, his voice low, almost cautious.
Taka, scrolling through his phone, chimed in, "You gonna start collecting mysterious plant tags now?"
Shoya didn't answer.
He tucked the label deeper into his bag, next to the sketchbook.
His fingers hovered on the edge of the spine — near that smudged print.
Still there. Still faint. Still whispering look closer.
But he didn't open it again.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood abruptly. "I'll catch you guys later."
Ken: "Wait—where you going?"
Shoya: "Greenhouse."
Taka sat up. "Alone?"
Shoya just nodded and left.
The walk to the greenhouse was quiet.
The rain had paused, but the ground was still soft, and each step squished lightly beneath his shoes.
Morning mist clung to the lower branches of trees.
When he reached the greenhouse, he didn't go inside.
Instead, he circled to the back. Looking around the greenhouse saw some footsteps he didn't care that much.
He was watching the greenhouse, and for some reason he was thinking about Naomi.
It's been quite a time he hasn't talked to her or sit with her having that peaceful feeling he was having when he sat with her.
He checked his phone.
No new messages.
Nothing at all,
Just the faint hum of insects, and the low rustle of leaves.
Still, he couldn't shake the image of Naomi's eyes — the way they had stared at the library window like she'd already made peace with something no one else could see.
He wondered what it had cost her.
He turned to leave—
—and stopped.
He heard a voice ....
It was really peaceful ...
It..it was singing ... ahh for the feeling he had at that time he never heard a voice like that before so warm and peaceful as he was getting closer.
He saw
A figure stood by the main greenhouse door.
Naomi.
Not looking at him, not moving.
She hadn't seen him yet.
Her hand rested on the frame, eyes locked on the vines.
Shoya froze, hidden by the curve of the structure.
His breath hitched, but he didn't move.
Naomi stood there for a moment longer.
Then, with one hand, she gently touched the frame — right where the door had been unsealed — and stepped back.
Her fingers lingered in the air.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
For one suspended second, time dissolved.
in that moment Shoya's chest tightened and his heart skipped a beat.
Shoya: " hey, good morning..."
Naomi didn't say a word ...she turned red.
And Naomi ran away.
Shoya: " hey Naomi ... i didn't mean to..."
She ran with her face turning red.
Back in class, Shoya sat stiffly two rows behind her.
Naomi didn't turn around once.
She copied the professor's notes, eyes never wandering.
Shoya's thoughts spun like leaves in wind — was she involved? Did she know about the door? Did she plant that label?
Did she want him to find it?
That was what he was trying to think of but he couldn't because as he looks at her his mind blurs and thinks only of the moment their eyes met and ears only hear the song she sang this morning.
He looked down at his notebook.
He hadn't written a single word.
After the class has ended he was trying to get to Naomi, but she ran away again. Never looking back at him.
He didn't know what to do but he decided to let her go for now, he had something else in mind.
.
.
.
.
Later that afternoon, Shoya skipped his last lecture and went to the library alone.
He didn't search the usual databases.
Didn't check the online records.
Instead, he returned to the student archives — to the old assistant's desk tucked behind the arts reference section.
She wasn't there.
But the cabinet was unlocked.
Inside were the same folders, same brittle pages. He flipped through quickly until he found the file from days ago.
Kaori's student ID, her class enrollment, her photo project submission form.
But this time, something caught his attention.
A scribbled note on the bottom corner of her file — nearly faded:
"For records: related case – see Minami Ayaka (withdrawn)."
Shoya stared.
Minami Ayaka?
He didn't recognize the name. But something about it scratched the back of his mind.
He searched the cabinet again — and tucked behind a stack of older newsletters, he found it.
A slim envelope. Yellowed edges.
Inside:
• A blurred ID photo of a girl with short dark hair.
• A partially filled withdrawal form.
• A red-stamped note: "Transfer pending.
• Case closed."
• No details. No contact info.
Shoya whispered, "could it be She also knew Kaori...?"
Not in class. Not in club. But somehow, they were connected.
Minami Ayaka had vanished too.
Two names. Two disappearances. Neither ever spoken aloud.
And Naomi? She wasn't listed anywhere near them.
But she kept appearing in the aftermath.
He copied the name into his notebook.
And went away.
That evening, Ken and Taka sat by the vending machine near the dorm common room.
Shoya walked past them once, then doubled back.
"Hey," he said, "Do either of you remember a student named Minami Ayaka?"
Taka blinked. "Minami… sounds familiar.
Didn't she run a club? Like, years ago?"
Ken frowned. "I think I heard that name in first year. Didn't she drop out?"
Shoya's chest tightened.
"Did she vanish?"
Taka and Ken looked at each other.
Ken: "No clue. She just… stopped showing up."
Shoya sank onto the bench slowly, head buzzing.
Two missing girls.
A locked room.
And Naomi, somehow tangled in the center.
That night, Shoya received no message.
Just a dream.
He stood in the greenhouse alone.
Rain fell in slow motion, as if time itself was being stretched.
The door creaked open on its own.
And from the shadows, Kaori's voice echoed—
"Not all flowers bloom where they're planted."
Then silence.
And the soft sound of a door locking from the inside.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued in chapter 14...