The classroom was nearly empty after school. Golden light streamed through the windows, dust swirling lazily in the air. I sat alone at my desk, pretending to work on homework, though my pencil hadn't moved in five minutes.
I wasn't expecting anyone to still be around.
So when a voice said, "Hey, loner," I nearly jumped out of my seat.
Rina sauntered in, her bag slung over one shoulder. Today, her nails were painted silver to match the little chains dangling from her skirt. She dropped into the chair in front of me, spinning it around so she could lean against the backrest.
"You always stay this late?" she asked.
"…Sometimes," I muttered.
"Let me guess. Too scared to go home and face the terrifying void of existence?"
I sighed. "Why do you talk like that?"
She smirked. "Because it makes you roll your eyes, and that entertains me."
I tried to glare, but she just grinned wider.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the muffled sound of basketballs from the gym down the hall.
Then, without warning, Rina said, "Tell me about her."
I blinked. "Who?"
"Your mom. The one who taught you guitar."
My chest tightened. I looked down at my notebook, suddenly very interested in the blank page. "…There's not much to tell."
"Liar."
I glanced up. Her expression wasn't teasing this time. It was steady. Expectant.
Something inside me wavered. My throat felt dry.
"…She used to play on the street," I said finally. "Outside stations, markets… wherever people passed by. Just her, a guitar, and a little tip jar."
Rina tilted her head. "That sounds kinda badass."
I huffed. "Most people thought it was pathetic."
Her eyes narrowed, but I pressed on.
"She… she wasn't famous. She never even recorded anything. But she believed—really believed—that music mattered. Even if only one person stopped to listen, she'd smile like it was enough."
My voice cracked. I looked away quickly. "…She worked so hard. For me. And now she's gone. And nobody… nobody even remembers her songs but me."
The words hung heavy in the air. My chest felt raw, like I'd torn something open.
For once, Rina didn't fire back with a sarcastic remark. She just sat there, watching me quietly.
Finally, she said, "Sounds like she was real."
"…Real?"
"Yeah." She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Not fake. Not like half the people out there chasing fame for clout. She played because she wanted to. Because it meant something. That's real."
I swallowed hard.
Rina looked back at me, her eyes sharper than usual but not unkind. "If you're the only one who remembers her songs… then you've already got the most important job. Don't you think?"
My breath caught. I didn't know what to say.
She stood, grabbing her bag. "Anyway. Don't mope too much. She'd probably kick your ass if she saw you sulking like this."
I blinked. "…She would, actually."
Rina grinned. "Then there you go. Listen to me, being all inspirational. Gross." She shuddered dramatically.
Despite everything, I laughed. Just a little.
"Later, Music Boy," she said, waving as she strolled out the door.
And when the classroom was quiet again, I realized something strange.
For the first time in months, talking about Mom hadn't felt like reopening a wound.
It felt… lighter.
Like someone else was willing to carry a little bit of the weight with me.