The library was always cold — not from the air conditioning, but from the way it swallowed sound. Even the loudest students spoke softer here, as if the shelves might scold them for disturbing the books.
Aika liked that.
She came during lunch, not to eat, but to read in silence — a different kind of quiet than the rooftop. Less wind, more dust. More memory.
Today, the desk by the far window was already taken.
At first, she didn't recognize him. The morning light made the boy's features blur — half-shadow, half-focus — until she saw the familiar curve of his hand, the way he held his pencil like it was part of him.
Ren.
He sat sideways in the chair, one leg curled under him, his sketchbook propped against the edge of the table. He didn't notice her at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn't say anything. That was his way, she was starting to learn.
Aika hovered by the bookshelf, watching him draw.
He wasn't sketching flowers this time. It was a hand — detailed and small, a girl's, fingers curled slightly as if reaching out for something.
She wondered if it was hers.
"You draw in the library too?" she finally asked, stepping closer.
Ren didn't flinch. Just looked up and said, "I like the way it smells in here. Paper and ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"Of stories. And people who used to love them."
Aika smiled, even though it wasn't funny. "I like that."
He nodded toward the seat across from him. "You can sit, if you want."
She did.
The light through the window cast soft shadows across the table. Neither of them said anything for a while. She pulled a book from her bag, opened it to a random page, and didn't read a single word. Her eyes kept drifting to his sketchbook.
"You're always drawing," she said eventually.
"It helps," he murmured, still focused on the page.
"Helps what?"
Ren looked up. His gaze was calm, but not cold.
"Stay human."
Aika blinked. She didn't know how to answer that. But maybe she didn't have to.
Instead, she asked, "Do you… want to be an artist?"
He shook his head. "Not really."
"But you're good."
"That's not the same as wanting it."
"Then what do you want?"
He paused, like the question had caught him off guard. Then he laughed, just barely — one of those laughs that sounded more like an exhale.
"Some days? Just to make it through without feeling like I'm wasting air."
It hit her like a weight she didn't expect. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just true.
She looked down at the book in her hands. It felt heavy too now.
"My mom left last year," she said quietly, not sure why.
Ren didn't react. Didn't offer condolences or fake sympathy. Just waited.
"She sent a letter. Last week. I haven't opened it yet."
Now he looked at her. Not curious. Not judging. Just… listening.
"You don't have to," he said. "Letters don't mean anything if they come late."
Aika swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn't cry. She didn't want to. She just nodded.
A moment passed. Then he closed his sketchbook and leaned back.
"I work at a flower shop," he said, changing the subject like he was gently handing her a new page to write on.
She looked up. "Really?"
"Weekends and some afternoons. Helps pay for my grandma's medicine."
That explained the flowers, she thought.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
Ren shrugged. "It's quiet. Flowers don't lie. They just bloom. Or they don't."
Aika smiled. "That's kind of sad."
He smirked. "It's kind of true."
The bell rang — end of lunch.
Ren stood first, slipping his sketchbook into his bag.
"You can come by sometime. If you want. The shop's called Miharu's Flowers. It's by the old train station."
He turned to go, but paused at the door.
"And Aika?"
She looked up.
"I'm glad the rooftop wasn't empty."
Then he left.
She didn't realize she was holding her breath until the door clicked shut.
That night, she opened her journal and wrote:
> The library used to be my hiding place.
But now I think I've been found.
His hands draw better than his mouth speaks.
But his silence says more than most people ever do.
I think I want to know him.
More than I should.
More than I planned.