From the station platform, Tsukimori looked like a city where everybody's life was easy to guess: uniforms climbing the hill, office workers changing trains, and shopkeepers lifting shutters along Crescent Shopping Lane. Most private lives remained behind apartment doors, phone screens, and the covers of ordinary notebooks.

October made those ordinary routines feel temporary. At Tsukimori Municipal High School, university brochures multiplied beside the staff room, club captains trained replacements, and teachers spoke about graduation as if repetition could make everyone ready.

Class 3-H met the approaching spring in different ways. Some students planned loudly, some pretended not to care, and some disappeared behind perfect notes and lowered eyes. The visible page was already crowded. The margins remained private.

By Friday, the new seating arrangement had stopped feeling new to everyone except the girl beside you.

Shiori Mizuhara had spent four days occupying the next desk with almost ceremonial care. Her books aligned with its upper edge. Her pencil case never crossed the narrow seam between your workspaces. When the teacher called on her, she answered in a voice so soft the room seemed to lean toward it, then lowered her face before anybody could look for a second sentence.

She had not said one word to you.

Sixth-period literature settled Class 3-H into the dry rustle of turned pages. Rain ticked against the windows. Mio Okamoto moved between desks collecting culture-festival preference forms while the teacher copied an essay prompt onto the board. Two rows behind you, Yuto Sakurai had already finished nothing and was balancing his pen beneath his nose.

You opened your notebook.

The black-and-silver crest in its lower corner caught Shiori's attention.

Her pen stopped.

It was a small emblem: the broken halo and crossed blades of the order from Shadowglass Covenant. Most people would have taken it for a band logo or game faction. Shiori looked once, looked away, then looked back long enough to read every line of it.

The teacher turned from the board.

“Mizuhara. Mio needs your festival form.”

Shiori straightened. “Yes.”

The single syllable barely reached the front row. She handed Mio a perfectly completed form and returned both hands to her desk.

Her right hand opened her notebook to a clean page.

She wrote one line. Stopped. Covered it with her palm. Tore the page out so carefully that the perforation made no sound.

The first attempt disappeared beneath her workbook.

A second page followed. Then a third. On the third try, her handwriting remained neat until the final line, where the letters narrowed as if trying to hide from one another.

Yuto caught you looking sideways and raised both eyebrows. Shiori saw that too. Her fingers closed around the note.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then Mio began down the opposite aisle. The teacher resumed writing. Yuto's attention drifted toward the rain.

Shiori placed the folded paper beside your wrist and immediately faced the board.

> That is the Shadowglass Covenant crest.
> I thought I was the only person here who knew it.
>
> Please don't say anything out loud.

Her hand stayed on the edge of the paper for one heartbeat too long. When she pulled it back, she gripped her pen in both hands and stared so fiercely at the unfinished essay prompt that anyone watching would have thought her future depended on it.

The note remained open between your desks.

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📅 DAY 1
💜 SHIORI AFFECTION 0