Monday arrived with sunlight breaking through the clouds for the first time in a week. Airi stood by her window for a long moment before school, watching the light filter through the misty air and scatter across the rooftops like gold dust.
It was warm.
It didn't feel like healing.
But it didn't hurt.
That was enough.
The classroom felt different that morning.
It wasn't louder, but somehow, the noise no longer pressed against her chest. She could hear Rina's laughter two desks over, the soft thud of textbooks hitting wood, the squeak of chalk as their homeroom teacher scribbled something forgettable on the board.
Airi sat down at her desk and looked to her left.
Ren was already sketching.
"Good morning," she said, more naturally now.
"Hey," he replied without looking up. "You look... brighter."
Airi blinked. "Brighter?"
"Like someone turned the light on inside your head."
She didn't know whether to smile or hide.
Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small box wrapped in cloth. "Here."
Ren paused. "What's this?"
"Lunch," she said. "A thank-you."
"For what?"
"For Saturday. For listening."
He stared at the box like it was made of glass. "You didn't have to."
"I know."
He slowly took it, tucking it beside his sketchbook. "You made this?"
"My grandmother helped."
"I'll take small bites," he said. "In case it's poisoned."
Airi let out a small, surprised laugh. The sound startled even her.
He smiled—not the usual lazy half-smile, but something closer to real.
Lunch arrived with a buzz of chatter and the clatter of desks being moved. Rina appeared beside Airi before the bell had even stopped ringing.
"Airi-chan," she said, plopping down. "Come eat with us today!"
"Us?"
"Yeah, come on. You always sit near the stairs or on the rooftop like a ghost."
Airi hesitated.
Then Ren spoke from beside her, already rising from his seat. "Guess I'm joining too, then."
Rina blinked. "You? Seriously?"
He shrugged. "I've been meaning to see what you weirdos eat."
Rina narrowed her eyes. "You're only coming because she is."
He didn't deny it.
They found a spot under a tree just outside the school courtyard. A bench, a little cracked, but surrounded by fresh grass and fallen petals from the early summer bloom.
Yuuto Kanda, the class rep, was already seated there, reading a thick fantasy novel while chewing a rice ball.
"Ren," Yuuto said flatly, without looking up. "Didn't expect you."
"Same."
"And Airi-san, too," Yuuto added, more polite.
Rina tossed her bag down dramatically. "Look at this! A whole social group forming! This is character development."
Airi sat slowly on the bench as Ren settled beside her. Rina sprawled out on the grass like she owned it.
They opened their lunchboxes.
Ren unwrapped the one Airi gave him with the kind of care someone might give to a handwritten letter. Inside were simple things: tamagoyaki, grilled fish, rice with a pickled plum in the center.
His face didn't change, but he didn't speak for a while.
"Is it okay?" Airi asked, quietly.
He took a bite, then nodded. "It tastes like something that belongs in the past."
"That's... good?"
"Very."
Rina leaned over, eyeing his box. "Hey, that's homemade?"
"Jealous?" Ren asked.
Rina huffed. "Of course. My mom gave me leftover curry again."
Yuuto chimed in, eyes still on his book. "Curry is a perfectly valid bento."
"It's cold curry, Kanda."
"You should invest in a thermos."
"Do I look like I have money for thermoses?"
Airi watched them exchange barbs with quiet amusement. Something about their rhythm felt practiced, like this was a familiar song they performed every day.
And yet, they made space for her.
No one asked her to speak.
No one pointed out her silences.
They just... let her exist among them.
She didn't know how much she'd missed that feeling.
After lunch, as they packed up, Ren leaned closer.
"I liked the plum the most."
Airi tilted her head. "Really?"
"Yeah. It tasted like something you'd put in even if no one liked it."
She laughed again—soft and breathy. "My grandmother always says a bento without umeboshi is bad luck."
"Then I'm lucky today."
That afternoon, rain threatened again. Dark clouds loomed in the distance, and the air thickened with the kind of weight that came before a downpour.
Airi stood at the shoe lockers, watching the sky outside darken.
Ren joined her, slipping on his shoes with one hand, balancing his sketchbook in the other.
"No umbrella?" he asked.
She smiled and pulled his blue umbrella from her bag. "Returning this."
"Ah," he said, accepting it carefully. "I almost forgot."
"I didn't."
They stood there for a moment, neither of them moving.
Then Rina's voice rang down the hall. "Airi-chan! You coming?"
Airi turned.
Ren held the umbrella loosely, twirling it by the handle.
"You should go," he said.
"I'll see you tomorrow?"
He nodded. "Bring another lunch?"
"I'll think about it."
As she walked toward Rina, she heard his voice again—quieter, like an afterthought:
"Thanks for sitting with us."
Airi turned back.
He wasn't smiling this time.
But his eyes said it all.
That evening, as the rain began to fall, Airi sat by her window and opened her notebook.
She didn't write poetry.
She didn't sketch.
She just wrote a sentence:
Today, I didn't feel like a ghost.