Chapter 1: The First Bell Always Rings Late

The first day of school smelled the same every year.

A faint mixture of polished floors, faint chalk dust, and the soft scent of cherry blossoms wafting through cracked windows.

_ walked through the gates of Kamisaka High School with his head lowered, shoulders slumped slightly as if weighed down by invisible chains. Around him, students bustled with energy — greetings shouted, laughter echoing, smiles everywhere. But for him, it was a world apart.

He didn’t join the throng. He didn’t wave at anyone or call out a familiar name.

No one looked his way. No one called to him.

He was content to walk alone, blending into the background.

His footsteps were soft on the pavement, deliberate and unhurried. He knew exactly where to go — the classroom on the third floor, the seat by the window in the back row.

It was a seat he’d chosen long ago — not because it was comfortable, but because it let him disappear.

The classroom smelled faintly of old paper and cleaning solution, the walls adorned with peeling posters and half-faded club announcements.

He slid into his seat silently, placing his bag beside him, his fingers brushing against the worn fabric.

The teacher stood at the front, voice warm but tired, welcoming students back and outlining the semester ahead.

_ heard the words but didn’t listen.

His eyes drifted to the window, watching cherry blossom petals drift lazily to the ground outside.

The petals danced in the soft breeze, fragile and fleeting — like the moments he wished he could hold onto.

The door opened suddenly, and a girl hurried inside. Her hair was messy, cheeks flushed from rushing, and she clutched her bag tightly to her chest.

She apologized softly for being late and slid into the seat a few rows ahead.

She didn’t look at him.

He didn’t expect her to.

The day dragged on, lessons blending together in a blur of words and gestures.

During breaks, students crowded the halls, shouting and laughing, sharing stories from the break. But _stayed quiet, watching from a distance.

When lunchtime arrived, he slipped away to the rooftop — his quiet sanctuary.

The door creaked softly behind him as he stepped outside, the wind greeting him like an old friend.

He sat down on the cold concrete floor, knees drawn up, jacket wrapped tightly around him.

From his perch, he could see the city stretched out beneath him — buildings bathed in soft sunlight, roads filled with people going about their day.

He pulled out a worn notebook from his bag and flipped it open.

It was mostly blank — pages filled with half-finished doodles and scattered thoughts. He traced the edges of a rough sketch with his finger, feeling the rough paper beneath his touch.

He wondered if anyone else felt as empty as he did.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. Clouds gathered quickly, blotting out the sun.

He closed the notebook, feeling the chill in the air deepen.

The rain started softly, a gentle patter on the rooftop.

He stood and made his way back inside, descending the stairs to the courtyard below.

Outside, students hurried to their next classes, umbrellas popping open like colorful mushrooms.

He looked down at his hands — bare, empty, and cold.

Then he saw her.

Underneath a lone tree, the girl stood, trying to shield herself with her hands from the falling rain.

She looked up, caught his gaze for a fleeting moment, and offered a small, tired smile.

He hesitated, then turned away, letting the rain soak through his jacket as he disappeared into the crowd.