The rain had already started falling when Airi Minase stepped off the bus.
It wasn't heavy—just a soft drizzle, the kind that clung to her cardigan and soaked into the fabric without her noticing. She paused at the edge of the covered terminal, clutching her umbrella but not yet opening it. The sky above was a flat sheet of gray, and the air smelled faintly of earth and old pavement.
"I'm back," she whispered, mostly to herself.
Ikehama hadn't changed.
The streets still narrowed between sleepy shops and crooked utility poles. The same small bookstore stood across from the station, ivy curling up its windows like fingers reaching for light. The same train tracks sliced through town, a silent reminder of time's passage.
Only Airi had changed.
She tugged the handle of her suitcase and stepped into the misty morning, umbrella still unopened. Raindrops patted gently on her head, but she didn't mind. The silence wrapped around her like a blanket—damp, cool, and comforting.
She arrived at her grandmother's house an hour later. The old woman wasn't home—probably at the community center—but she'd left a note and warm rice in the cooker. Airi didn't eat. She unpacked slowly, placing folded clothes into drawers that smelled faintly of mothballs and camphor. Her room overlooked the garden. The rain left silver trails on the windowpanes.
She thought of her mother, and for a moment, the silence felt heavier than the air.
Monday arrived with clearer skies and a light breeze. Her new school uniform itched at the collar, and the skirt felt too long, but she didn't complain. Her grandmother gave her a lunchbox and a brief hug.
"You'll do fine," she said.
Airi nodded and left without a word.
It was a short walk to school. She crossed a narrow bridge, passed a row of vending machines humming quietly, and stopped once to adjust her bag.
At the gate, the noise hit her like a wave.
Laughter. Chatter. The rustle of shoes on pavement. Students in matching blazers moved in clusters—laughing, shouting, yawning. She felt like a misplaced puzzle piece as she stepped through them.
"Minase Airi, right?" a voice called.
She turned.
A girl with short brown hair and a wide smile waved at her, holding a clipboard. "I'm Sato Rina. I'm in Class 3-B too. Let's go together?"
Airi hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
Rina talked a lot. About teachers, rumors, cafeteria food. Airi just listened and nodded politely. The classroom was on the third floor. It smelled of chalk and summer heat. A few heads turned when Airi walked in, but no one said much.
She took the second desk from the window and unpacked her pens.
"Hey, Takahashi," Rina called. "You're next to the new girl!"
Airi glanced up just as a tall boy dropped into the seat beside her. His tie was loose, and his hair looked like he'd forgotten to comb it. He had a sketchbook tucked under one arm and ink on his fingers.
"Yo," he said, not looking at her.
She looked away first.
The morning passed in a blur of introductions, rules, and seating charts. Airi answered when called, bowed when needed, but her thoughts drifted in and out like fog.
At lunch, she took her box outside. The rooftop was closed, so she found a quiet spot near the back staircase. It was shaded, with a view of the bike lot. The rice had gone a little cold, but the plum in the center made her smile.
"You like the quiet too, huh?"
She looked up.
Ren Takahashi stood a few feet away, sketchbook in hand. He didn't wait for an answer before sitting down across from her.
"Mind if I draw?" he asked.
Airi blinked. "Me?"
"No," he said, already opening the book. "The sky."
She tilted her head. "It's just gray."
"Exactly," he said. "But not just one kind of gray."
For a while, they didn't speak. He sketched. She ate. The sound of cicadas buzzed faintly from the trees beyond the fence.
Finally, curiosity won over silence.
"You draw often?"
"Every day."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Because I don't talk much."
She almost laughed—but didn't. "You're talking now."
He looked up, eyes soft and a little surprised. "Guess I am."
The bell rang. Lunch ended.
They parted without saying goodbye.
It rained again that evening.
Airi stood beneath the awning outside the school gates, fumbling with her umbrella. The latch had jammed, and her fingers slipped against the metal. The drizzle grew heavier, dotting the concrete with darker circles.
"Here."
A blue umbrella opened above her.
She looked up. Ren held it in one hand, sketchbook still tucked under his arm.
"You looked like you needed saving," he said.
She blinked. "Thank you."
He didn't move, didn't offer to walk her home. Just stood there beside her, holding the umbrella overhead like a temporary roof between strangers.
They listened to the rain.
Airi didn't know why her chest felt warm after.
Maybe it was the sound of the rain.
Maybe it was the silence.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was because someone had stayed beside her—if only for a moment.