The clock in 2-A ticks like a polite metronome, steady, almost rehearsed. The kind of sound you stop noticing only after it's already inside your pulse.
Outside the windows, Mikagura City gleams under a washed-out sky, glass towers bending the late afternoon light into silver streaks. The air smells faintly of ozone—rain waiting at the edge of the world.
Aisha Kurozawa sits near the window, her hair catching that soft glare. She always sits there. She says she likes "places where you can see clouds deciding what they want to be."
I sit three rows behind, pretending to solve a math problem I already gave up on fifteen minutes ago.
Someone's phone vibrates. Someone yawns. Someone laughs at something meaningless.
The kind of noise that tells you life is still ordinary.
But today, the silence between those sounds feels stretched too thin—like the moment right before a song forgets its rhythm.
When the bell rings, everyone moves at once: the scraping of chairs, the soft thunder of shoes, the restless murmurs of teenagers escaping routine.
I pack my books slower than I should. The desk trembles slightly; the ventilation unit hums with static again.
From the corner of my eye, I see Aisha glance toward the ceiling. She hears it too—the faint metallic buzz, too high-pitched to be anything human.
She meets my eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then she smiles, polite, unreadable, and stands.
That's the thing about her—she doesn't leave impressions, she leaves echoes.
At lunch, I end up outside, sitting by the vending machines near the courtyard.
The sky has turned a darker gray, layered like unwashed glass. The wind carries a scent of cold metal and wet earth.
A few stray leaves drift past the walkway, chasing the first hints of rain.
I unwrap a sandwich I don't remember buying. My phone buzzes with a notification from a newsfeed—something about a minister's resignation, another about drone regulation bills. Nothing worth caring about.
Then a familiar voice: "You always eat out here."
I look up.
Aisha stands at the edge of the courtyard, holding an umbrella still folded. Her uniform ribbon trembles lightly in the breeze.
"Habit," I say. "The vending machines don't judge."
She laughs softly, a sound like the first drop of rain hitting a roof.
"You should try the cafeteria once in a while. You might remember what warmth tastes like."
"Too many people," I answer. "They talk too loud. I like silence that doesn't need permission."
She tilts her head. "You sound like an old man."
"Maybe I was one in another life."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
She looks at me for a moment longer than comfort allows—curious, not confused. Then she turns toward the sky.
"It's going to rain," she says.
A gust of wind rushes through the courtyard. The school's digital clock flickers, just once.
And for half a heartbeat, I swear I hear something beneath the static—an artificial tone, like a machine trying to whisper.
I blink. It's gone.
Students spill from the hallways, umbrellas popping open like flowers of nylon and color.
The day folds itself into the usual rhythm again, as if nothing strange had happened at all.
But I know the truth hiding under the surface:
Some silences are warnings wearing ordinary clothes.
The sky has gone the color of unripe steel.
From the hallway, you can smell rain before it arrives — the faint sweetness of dust surrendering.
Most students have already gone home; the corridors hum with fluorescent after-light and the echo of distant cleaning bots.
I tell myself I'm going to the rooftop to breathe, not to find her.
It's a lie that sounds reasonable until I see her there, standing by the fence, arms folded on the rail, watching the city fade into blur.
Aisha doesn't turn when I slide open the heavy door.
"You always pick strange places to hide," I say.
She smiles without looking. "And you always find them."
I walk beside her. The wind here tastes like iron.
From up high, Mikagura looks peaceful — all order, no pulse. Drones move between towers like obedient fireflies, drawing invisible paths in the dusk.
"Do you ever wonder," she asks, "how many of those things are watching us right now?"
"Enough to make privacy a myth."
"Then why aren't you afraid?"
"Because fear needs imagination. I'm out of that today."
She laughs quietly. It's the sound I'd replay if my life had a rewind button.
For a while neither of us speak. The fence rattles softly with every gust, a metronome for the silence.
She glances sideways. "Graduation's in two months."
"Yeah."
"After that, everyone scatters. Universities, jobs, different districts."
"Maybe even different worlds."
Her gaze lingers on the skyline, and when she finally speaks, her voice is almost lost in the wind.
"Do you think people remember each other once they leave? Or do they just… delete the file?"
"I think memories don't disappear," I say. "They just go offline until something triggers them again."
"Like a system backup," she says, amused.
"Exactly. We're all bad hardware pretending to run perfect software."
She laughs again, softer. "That's the most depressing comfort I've heard all week."
I shrug. "Honest, though."
The first drop of rain hits the rail between us, leaving a perfect circle that fades almost instantly.
She opens her umbrella halfway, looks at me.
"Walk me home?"
"Just this once," I say. "Promise."
"Promise what?"
"That I'll keep the umbrella upright."
She grins. "That's a terrible promise."
"Then it's one I can keep."
For a brief moment, the city lights flicker in her eyes, like data reflecting off glass.
Thunder murmurs in the distance — low, uncertain, like someone thinking of violence but not yet ready to commit it.
She looks at me and says, almost too softly to hear, "Then let's go before the world decides otherwise."
The stairwell smells of wet concrete and dust. Each step rings hollow, the sound bouncing between walls that feel closer than they should.
Aisha walks a few paces ahead, umbrella folded, humming some half-remembered melody. The tune is light, but the echo it leaves behind isn't.
Halfway down, a man in a gray maintenance uniform kneels beside an open wall panel. His toolbox lies neatly arranged, almost too neat.
The panel's cables shimmer faintly, veins of red light pulsing in rhythm.
"Evening," he says without looking up.
Aisha gives a polite nod. I manage a half-smile. Something about the scene scratches at instinct—he's rewiring something that doesn't need fixing.
When we turn the corner, I glance back.
The man's head is tilted just enough for one eye to follow us.
On the lower floor, a group of students passes by laughing, their voices oddly muffled, as if filtered. The PA system crackles above them with static.
Bzzz—System check: error code… The announcement dies mid-word.
Aisha stops, listening.
"Glitch?" she asks.
"Maybe a power surge," I say, though I know it isn't. The air itself hums, faint and electric.
Outside the windows, the security drones that usually circle the campus hang perfectly still. Their red indicator lights blink in slow unison, like eyes pretending to sleep.
She frowns. "They're frozen."
"Maintenance update?"
"Not at this hour."
We keep walking, pace measured. Every click of her shoes on the tile feels rehearsed, as if we've walked this corridor a hundred times in a dream.
By the time we reach the ground floor, the drizzle has started. Thin lines of rain slide down the glass doors, turning the world outside into moving watercolors.
I press the door open for her.
The wind carries the metallic scent of lightning waiting for permission.
She glances back once. "Rei… did you hear that?"
I listen. Nothing—just the whisper of rain. But beneath it, faint as breath: a rhythmic click, mechanical, counting seconds.
My pulse syncs with it.
"Probably the security sensors," I lie.
She studies me for a second, then nods. "Let's go before it gets worse."
We step into the rain.
Umbrellas bloom around us—students scattering, laughter dissolving into the downpour.
I pull mine open beside hers. The sound of raindrops is almost comforting, like static trying to imitate peace.
But in the reflection on a puddle near the gate, I see the man from the stairwell again—too far away to be coincidence.
He's watching, hand near the inside of his jacket, rain sliding off his face without expression.
Aisha hasn't noticed.
I shift my body just enough to keep her between me and the street.
Thunder mutters. The clock above the gate reads 17:07 and flickers once, its digits trembling.
I think, Something is coming.
I just don't know from where.
Rain thickens into sheets, blurring the schoolyard into moving glass.
Umbrellas jostle in the wind; students hurry toward waiting cars and transit pods. The sound of footsteps, rain, and distant horns weaves into one constant pulse.
Aisha and I reach the gate. She pauses to adjust the ribbon on her uniform; I glance toward the street again—just in time to catch a flash of reflection, something metallic behind a parked vehicle.
The world exhales.
The hum of drones overhead falters, then spikes into silence.
My brain registers the sound before my body does: a compressed hiss, a perfect mechanical exhale.
Then—impact.
Glass shatters somewhere behind us. A student screams.
Instinct takes over; I lunge toward Aisha, hand at her shoulder, shoving her down. The air explodes. Pressure slams into my ribs.
For a heartbeat everything moves slower than thought:
a streak of silver crossing the rain, the spark of metal against stone, umbrellas twisting inside out, the bitter taste of ozone flooding my throat.
Aisha's voice, small, frightened—"Rei?"—as if she's calling through water.
We hit the pavement hard. I twist, using my shoulder to cover her. Rain needles through my shirt; somewhere close, a car alarm stutters into life.
The shooter moves—just a shadow beyond the gate, a faint glint from the weapon's muzzle.
Students scatter, their screams becoming background noise.
A second shot bites into the concrete beside my hand, fragments stinging my skin.
I don't think, I move.
Up, half a step, hand grabbing Aisha's wrist. "Run."
We sprint along the inner wall, shoes slapping puddles. My chest burns, lungs not matching rhythm. The sound of the weapon adjusts; whoever it is, they're tracking.
We reach the edge of the courtyard—another flash. A bullet snaps through the air and buries itself into the metal gate ahead. The gate folds inward like paper.
Aisha trips. I catch her. The heat of her hand feels real enough to burn.
I glance back: the man in gray is walking toward us, expression steady, weapon hidden under the coat but its outline clear.
Lightning lights the rain into a white curtain.
I push Aisha behind a vending unit. "Stay down."
Her breath comes fast. "What—why—who is that?"
I shake my head, no time for answers. The shooter raises the weapon.
He's close enough now that I can see the faint shimmer of a targeting laser, dancing like an insect across the wet concrete.
The sound of the world compresses to one thin line.
I move again.
Aisha screams my name.
The rain seems to pause mid-air as the next shot leaves the barrel.
The shot blooms into the world like thunder with intent.
I don't even feel it at first—just pressure, the shove of air, the metallic taste that shouldn't have a taste.
Then the warmth hits.
It spreads from my chest outward, heavier than breath, lighter than thought.
Aisha's face breaks through the rain, eyes wide, voice lost beneath the noise.
Her lips form my name, but the sound never reaches.
The ground tilts. The color drains out of everything but her.
Each raindrop seems to hang suspended, tiny spheres reflecting the same image—her reaching hand—over and over again.
Somewhere beyond, a drone hums, its red light steady, recording.
My heartbeat staggers.
In the distance, sirens rise like a forgotten promise.
Memory flickers.
A classroom.
A vending machine.
Her laughter under a cloudy sky.
All the unspoken words I'd been saving for later—but later isn't coming.
Pain threads through the warmth now, not sharp, just final.
I want to tell her it's okay, that this isn't her fault, that this is worth it.
The words never make it past my throat.
Instead, a single thought forms—quiet, almost gentle, like a code being written at the end of a program:
If there's another life… let it be one where she remembers me.
The world folds inward.
Light collapses into sound, sound into silence.
Everything stops.