The sky had been gray for days, though Aiko couldn't remember the last time it wasn't. The rain tapped softly against her umbrella, each drop a quiet reminder of the emptiness she carried inside. She sat on the cracked pavement near the old bridge, knees pulled tightly to her chest, her thin school uniform clinging to her from the dampness in the air. The world around her seemed distant, blurred by the steady curtain of rain—just like her memories.
Since her mother disappeared without a trace and her father grew silent, Aiko had become a shadow in her own life. At school, she was invisible, her presence unnoticed by classmates lost in their own colorful worlds. She didn't mind. It was easier to disappear when no one was looking.
But that day, the rain felt different—heavier, as if it knew her heart couldn't hold much more. She let the tears fall freely, knowing no one could tell the difference between them and the raindrops.
That's when she saw it.
A small paper boat, fragile and delicate, floated toward her on a thin stream of rainwater, carried by the current like a whisper. She stared, puzzled. Who would bother folding a paper boat on a day like this?
Curiosity broke through the numbness. She reached out, expecting the wet paper to dissolve under her touch. But it held together, surprisingly firm despite its fragile appearance. Written across its slightly smudged surface were simple words:
"Even the smallest boat can carry hope."
For the first time in months, Aiko felt something stir inside—a faint warmth buried beneath the cold layers of grief. She looked up, scanning the empty street. That's when she saw him.