The Monday after the festival, a lingering energy hummed through the hallways of Mizube High, a collective hangover of excitement and fatigue. Himari was at her locker, swapping her history textbook for literature, when a sudden hush fell over the corridor. It was the kind of silence that precedes an event.
Mr. Kobayashi stood at the door of 2-C, clearing his throat. "Everyone, take your seats. We have an announcement."
The class settled, a low murmur of curiosity running through the room. Himari slid into her seat, her gaze drifting to the window where the morning sun was fighting its way through grey clouds. She was only half-listening, her mind still replaying the strange intensity of the stylish girl from the festival.
"The school has a new transfer student," Mr. Kobayashi said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "She's joining us from Tokyo. Please give her a warm Mizube welcome."
The door slid open. The principal entered, followed by the girl.
And the world dropped out from under Himari's feet.
It was her. The girl from the festival. But now, up close, in the stark light of the classroom, the feeling of vague recognition exploded into a terrifying, concrete certainty. The name, when the principal said it—"Satomi Ishikawa"—was a key scraping in a rusted lock.
Ishikawa.
Himari knew that name. She knew that face. Five years hadn't changed the sharp, intelligent eyes, the confident set of her mouth, the way she held her head slightly tilted, as if assessing the world around her. This was Satomi Ishikawa. She had been in the same class. The class that belonged to Kaito.
Satomi stood at the front of the room, offering a perfectly polite bow. Her uniform was immaculate, her bob-cut hair a sleek, dark frame around a face that was both familiar and alien. Her gaze swept the room, friendly and curious, until it passed over Himari.
For a fraction of a second, it stuttered. A flicker of confusion. A slight narrowing of the eyes. Then, it moved on, continuing its smooth journey. But Himari had seen it. The crack in the composure.
Mr. Kobayashi assigned Satomi the empty seat two rows over and one back. Perfectly positioned to watch Himari without being obvious.
The morning lessons were an exercise in torture. Himari could feel the weight of Satomi's gaze like a physical pressure on the back of her neck. Every rustle of paper, every shift in posture from that direction made her flinch internally. She kept her eyes glued to the blackboard, her posture rigid. She was a statue, afraid that the slightest movement would attract attention.
During the break, the predictable happened. Maya and Sora descended on Satomi's desk like glamorous vultures, drawn by the scent of Tokyo sophistication.
"Tokyo! How incredible!" Maya gushed. "What part?"
"Minato Ward," Satomi replied, her voice smooth and pleasant. But Himari, stealing a glance, saw that her eyes kept drifting away from Maya, scanning the room until they found Himari again. There was a quiet intensity there, a puzzle she was trying to solve.
"Your style is amazing," Sora added. "You must think we're all country bumpkins."
"Not at all," Satomi said, her smile never reaching her eyes. "It's refreshing. Everyone seems very... genuine." Her gaze lingered on Himari for a beat too long.
Himari quickly turned to Hana, who was chattering about the upcoming volleyball tournament tryouts. She tried to focus on Hana's words, but they were just noise. The only thing that was real was the silent, terrifying interrogation happening across the room.
At lunch, Himari, Hana, and Takumi retreated to their usual spot under the tree. The crisp autumn air did nothing to cool the heat of Himari's anxiety. She was picking at her bento, her appetite gone, when a shadow fell over them.
"Mind if I join you?" Satomi asked. She stood there, a friendly smile on her face, but her eyes were fixed on Himari.
Hana, ever the social ambassador, beamed. "Of course! Sit down! This is the best spot in the whole yard."
Satomi sat gracefully, placing her own obviously expensive bento box on her lap. She didn't start eating immediately. Instead, she looked directly at Himari.
"You know, I have to say, you look incredibly familiar," Satomi began, her tone light, conversational. "I've been trying to place it since the festival. It's been driving me a little crazy."
Himari's heart hammered against her ribs. She forced herself to take a slow bite of rice. "I get that sometimes," she said, her voice thankfully steady. "I must have one of those faces."
"Perhaps," Satomi said, not looking away. "But it's more than that. There's something about your mannerisms. The way you tilt your head when you're listening." She paused, as if searching for the right words. "It reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago. Back in Tokyo."
The air grew thick. Takumi, sensing the tension, became intensely interested in a beetle crawling near his shoe. Hana looked back and forth between them, her smile faltering.
"Oh? Who?" Hana asked, trying to keep the mood light.
"His name was Kaito," Satomi said, and the name hung in the air between them, sharp and dangerous. "Kaito Tanaka. He was in my class. He was a fantastic artist, always drawing in this little sketchbook. He had this... quiet way about him. Very observant."
The name, spoken aloud in this safe space, was a detonation. Hana's eyes widened. Takumi stopped fiddling with his phone.
"Tanaka? That's your name, Himari!" Hana exclaimed.
"It's a common name," Himari forced out, her throat tight.
"It is," Satomi agreed, her gaze unwavering. "But it's not just the name. It's… everything. The way you hold your hands. The shape of your eyes when you're thinking. The way you sometimes get this faraway look, like you're observing the world from a slight distance." She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I know it sounds crazy. But he was… important to me."
A flash of memory, unbidden and painful, seared through Himari's mind. Kaito, age thirteen, sitting in the back of a classroom in Tokyo, trying to make himself small. The feeling of his body starting to feel wrong, a suit that no longer fit. The whispers he couldn't quite hear, the confused looks from classmates, including a sharp-eyed, serious girl named Satomi who always seemed to be watching him. The desperate, lonely fear.
Satomi's voice brought her back. "He was quiet. Shyer than you are, I think. But he was the most talented artist I'd ever met. He'd draw these incredible, detailed pictures in the margins of his notebooks. I still have one he did of the school's courtyard. He gave it to me." She paused, and a faint blush touched her cheeks. "We were friends. Good friends. I… I was going to tell him something the week he left. But he was gone so suddenly. A family emergency, they said. It was like he vanished into thin air."
The story was a masterstroke. It was personal, emotional, and painted a picture of a bond that made her interest seem natural, concerned, not suspicious. It was a narrative that would elicit sympathy from anyone listening. And indeed, Hana's face was a picture of rapt empathy.
"That's so sad!" Hana breathed. "You never heard from him again?"
"Never," Satomi said, her eyes glistening with what looked like genuine moisture. She turned her full attention back to Himari. "So you see, when I saw you… with the same name, with that same… feeling about you… I just thought, what if? What if you're a cousin? A relative? I had to know. I had to ask." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Do you know him? Do you know what happened to Kaito?"
The question hung in the air, a trap disguised as a plea. Every fiber of Himari's being was screaming. The carefully constructed walls of her life felt like they were vibrating, ready to collapse. She could see the past so clearly in Satomi's eyes—not just a classmate, but a girl who had cared. A girl who had been left with a question mark where a confession should have been.
Himari made herself look up. She met Satomi's gaze and saw, for the first time, past the polished exterior. She saw the lingering hurt of a fourteen-year-old girl who had lost her friend without explanation. And in that moment, the fear of exposure was joined by a crushing wave of guilt.
She took a slow, shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she said, and her voice was steadier than she expected. "I don't know anyone named Kaito. My father was an only child. It must be… a coincidence. A really strange one."
The hope in Satomi's eyes dimmed, replaced by a profound disappointment that seemed entirely authentic. She sat back, managing a small, sad smile. "I see. I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this. It was silly of me."
"It's not silly!" Hana insisted, placing a comforting hand on Satomi's arm. "It's so romantic! And tragic!"
The conversation moved on, steered by Hana's effusive kindness. But the dynamic had shifted irrevocably. For the rest of the day, Satomi's glances were no longer just curious; they were tinged with a new emotion—a deep, melancholic longing. She wasn't looking for evidence; she was looking for a ghost. And she believed, on some level, that she had found a trace of him in Himari.
Walking home that evening, the world felt fragile. The mountains seemed less like protectors and more like silent witnesses. Satomi Ishikawa wasn't an enemy. She was a living link to a life Himari had been forced to abandon. And the revelation of her crush, her unspoken confession, added a layer of heartbreaking complexity. The secret wasn't just about biology or fear; it was about a promise broken, a connection severed, and a love letter that had never been sent. The weight of it was heavier than any secret should be.