Chapter 28 Epilogue — “The Photograph”

The photograph should never have existed.
It was discovered three months after the incident, inside a damp diary found at the back of Saint Elora’s old art storage. The diary smelled of mildew and wisteria — that faint sweetness that lingers even after death. The photograph was pressed between the pages, warped and pale, as though the sea itself had developed it.
Two girls stood beneath a blooming wisteria tree.Their uniforms were the same. Their smiles almost identical.But one of them — the girl on the right — had no face.
Someone had scratched it out with something sharp, maybe a pen or a blade. Only the outline of her hair remained, dark and soft against the blurred sunlight. The other girl smiled brightly, her head tilted slightly, as though leaning into the absence beside her.
On the back, written in small, shaking letters:
> “I’m still here.”


No name. No date. Just those three words.

---The diary was catalogued as evidence, though no one ever came to claim it.The police had closed the case — accidental death, runaway rumor, unstable emotional state.
But sometimes, the officers who handled the evidence swore they could smell saltwater on their hands for days afterward. One even claimed the photograph felt warm when he touched it, like someone breathing against his palm.
He quit the force a week later.

---Spring came again to Saint Elora.The sea calmed, the cliffs were fenced off, and the students returned. A few of them still whispered when they walked past the old art building.
> “That’s where they painted together.”“They said she loved her too much.”“No—she hated losing her.”


The school painted over the graffiti near the art room door, but every morning, the paint seemed to peel again, revealing faint words scratched into the wood:
> H + M = Forever.


No one admitted writing it.No one dared erase it.

---In the dormitory, Room 204 remained locked.The new students avoided it, saying the window sometimes opened on its own during storms.A few claimed they heard a girl laughing softly, followed by a whisper:
> “You promised, didn’t you?”


The janitor once entered to clean. He found the room empty — except for an old sketchbook under the bed. The pages were blank, except one, drawn in shaky pencil lines:
Two girls standing by the sea. One reaching out, the other fading into the waves.
The janitor never came back after that day.

---Far from the academy, in a small seaside town, an old woman walks the shore at dusk.She says she sometimes sees a girl standing knee-deep in the water, hair black and wet, eyes soft like moonlight.
> “She looks like she’s waiting for someone,” the woman murmurs.“Did you talk to her?” a child once asked.“No,” she replied, smiling faintly. “She didn’t look lonely.”


When the tide rises, the figure vanishes, leaving only two sets of footprints in the sand — one washed away faster than the other.

---

Back in the art room, the final painting Mizuki made remains stored in the faculty archives.

Few have seen it.
Those who have describe it differently. Some say it shows two girls embracing under a storm. Others claim the faces are gone — replaced by bleeding streaks of color that never dry.
But one detail everyone agrees on:In the corner, faint and almost invisible, the words written in pale white paint:
> “If love must rot, then let it bloom first.”



---Years later, Saint Elora closed for renovations. When the workers tore down the old church, they found something behind the altar — two carved letters: H + M.
The wood was splintered, the grooves dark with something that looked like dried blood.The priest who saw it said nothing, only covered it again with a new panel and whispered a prayer that tasted like salt.
That night, the sea rose higher than usual. The waves struck the cliffs until dawn, as if demanding something back.

---And somewhere — whether in memory, dream, or the quiet hum of the ocean — two voices still linger.
> “Do you love me?”“Always.”“Then promise it won’t end.”“It won’t.”


Wind through the trees. Rain on stone.The soft sigh of wisteria petals falling, one by one.
If you listen carefully on nights when the sea is calm, you might hear laughter drifting from the cliffs — light, broken, and tender.
Some say it’s the sound of ghosts.Others say it’s just the wind.
But those who once knew them — or thought they did — sometimes find themselves dreaming of a faceless girl, smiling in the rain, holding out a camera.
Click.Flash.Silence.
When they wake, their pillow is wet with sea water, and the faint scent of lavender fills the room.

---
Years fade. Names dissolve. But the photograph remains.
Inside the archives, sealed in glass, the image still smiles back — one girl bright and alive, the other erased but somehow present.
Under certain light, if you tilt the picture just right, the missing face seems to shimmer — an outline, faint as breath on glass.
And if you stare too long, you might realize she’s looking back.