The scent of toast and warm coffee drifted into Haruaki's room long before the sun touched his window.
He stirred, not dramatically—just enough to roll onto his side and blink blearily at the half-open curtain. Outside, the breeze was already moving the cherry blossoms again. Soft, fluttery. The kind of morning that didn't rush you.
He sat up, ran a hand through his already-messy hair, and sighed like someone twice his age.
Another day.
Downstairs, the clinking of cups meant his mom was in full café-mode, probably humming along to a song she'd forget the lyrics to halfway through.
He didn't mind. He liked mornings like this.
The kitchen was warm, the light golden. A mug of coffee waited for him beside a slice of thick toast with strawberry jam, crusts cut off just the way he didn't care about—but his mom insisted on anyway.
"You're late," she teased, not looking up from where she was sprinkling sugar onto a batch of something cinnamon-scented. "Your sister left before sunrise. Said she had council things."
"She left her coffee," Haruaki said, eyeing the labeled thermos by the sink. "Again."
His mom looked up, following his gaze. "She swore she'd take it this time."
He picked it up, checking the lid out of habit. "It's the classic 'forget it on purpose and leave the kind brother to do it' trick."
That earned him a laugh. "You make such a good older brother substitute."
"Tragic."
She ruffled his hair as he passed by, still holding the thermos. "Be safe. The blossoms are shedding fast."
He nodded, toast still in his mouth. "I'll bring back the empty one."
His bike ride to school was something out of a commercial that didn't realize it was trying to sell you happiness.
The sky was clear. The breeze just cool enough. The sun not too hot. He rode with one hand on the handlebars and the other steadying the thermos in his bag, coasting past rows of cherry blossom trees that blurred pink against his peripheral.
Nozomi's school, and now his too—Ivory Spire—peeked out over the hill like something drawn from an old manga. Red bricks, clean windows, just enough ivy to be charming but not enough to feel haunted. It was the kind of school that didn't demand perfection—just effort. Passion. Integrity.
And a bit of style, if you had it.
Haruaki didn't. But he had a screwdriver in his pencil case and an attendance record as clean as the classroom whiteboards.
By the time he reached the front gate, a few students were already trickling in.
"Morning, Tsugihara!"
"Thanks for fixing the heater yesterday!"
"Still owe you that snack from the store!"
He waved lazily as he passed them, one hand on his bike and the other in his pocket.
It wasn't that he was particularly social. He'd only transferred in a month ago. But the class had already decided he was one of them, thanks mostly to Aika Komori, who'd dragged him into her orbit like a dying star.
The class knew Aika as the loud, lovable weirdo whose test scores used to hover in the danger zone until—miraculously—she jumped nearly thirty ranks in two weeks.
"Haruuuu~ please help me study!" she'd begged during lunch one day, half in cosplay and full of tears.
He'd relented. Reluctantly. Or at least, he pretended it was reluctant.
The class noticed. The next day, five more asked. Then ten. Then someone joked about creating a cult. And when he didn't immediately say no—
They panicked.
"It's okay if you don't want to!!"
"Seriously, don't force yourself—!"
"Are we bothering you!?"
He'd sighed. Told them he didn't mind. And from then on, their class never got a score below 40%.
Accidental class tutor. Reluctant fixer. Some even called him their 'quiet class rep.' Not officially, of course. But it stuck.
Before he reached his classroom, he stopped by the student council room. The door was ajar—papers already stacked in precise, alarming piles.
He knocked once.
"Delivery," he said flatly, holding out the thermos.
Nozomi spun from her desk like a dramatic stage actress mid-scene.
"Haru-nii! You're a lifesaver," she gasped. "This coffee is the only thing keeping Chika-senpai from turning into a midterm demon."
"Then don't forget it next time."
"Forgotten things have more dramatic impact when someone else brings them~!"
He gave her a look. She winked.
He left her with her dramatic energy and finally headed for his own classroom—quietly pleased she hadn't tripped over any of her own folders this time.
"Yo, Tsugi-hara-kun~!"
Aika Komori, messy pigtails and two keychains bouncing off her backpack, greeted him the second he stepped through the classroom door. Her smile was bright, chaotic, possibly dangerous.
"You brought the sunshine! I was this close to falling asleep during homeroom—oh! Did you fix Muraoka's watch?"
He pulled it from his bag and handed it to her. "Gear was jammed. Should be fine now."
She gasped, clutching it to her chest like he'd returned a sacred relic. "You're the best!"
The classroom buzzed around them. Some students were finishing up homework. Others were already arguing over lunch plans. Someone was reciting kanji with a dramatic accent in the back.
And Haruaki? He sat at his desk, leaned back a little, and let the light hit just right.
He'd only been here a month. But already, this was the kind of school life he'd always wanted.
Not too loud.
Not too quiet.
Just enough to feel like the world was moving, and he didn't need to chase it.
The day moved along.
Second period blurred into fourth, and before Haruaki knew it, lunch was already winding down. Aika was arguing with someone over the number of octopus-shaped sausages that should legally be in a bento, and he slipped out before it got violent.
The Ivory Spire library was tucked near the back of the second building, quiet in a way even the music room couldn't compete with. Light poured in from the upper windows, catching the motes of dust like the whole place was permanently dreaming.
He walked straight to the corner shelf near the back—past the study cubicles, past the whispering underclassmen—and found exactly what he was hoping for.
"Twilight Bells and the Clockwork Bride."
The spine was crisp. New. Not yet dog-eared or tragically water-damaged like the school's older light novel sets. He smiled faintly.
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye.
Or rather—someone.
At the far end of the library, tucked at a low table near the window, a girl sat with a shogi board between her and the soft light.
She wasn't moving. Not reading. Just staring at the board, head tilted slightly to the side, eyes locked on the pieces like they had personally insulted her.
Haruaki recognized the type—not just the board game club kind, but the kind of focus that came from running simulations in your head, again and again, until something finally clicked.
He paused.
Not for any real reason. He just... did. Something about her expression didn't match the elegance of her uniform or the way her fingers hovered thoughtfully above the captured pieces. It wasn't frustration. It was... emptiness. Boredom.
Loneliness?
She glanced up suddenly.
Their eyes met for less than a second.
Haruaki quickly looked away, and without a word, walked off like he hadn't just been caught staring. Behind him, the girl blinked once. Tilted her head slightly.
Then went back to her board.
The rest of the day passed without incident.
After the final bell, he packed up, gave a lazy wave to Aika—who was already drawing doodles on the cleaning duty list—and made his way down the hill, pedaling toward the sunset-soaked streets of home.
The Komorebi Café sat quietly on the corner of a sleepy shopping district. Warm yellow lighting, a wooden sign with a smiling coffee bean mascot, and regulars who always waved when he walked in.
"Welcome back, Haruaki," called one of the older ladies near the counter.
"You've grown again!" someone else joked, as if he hadn't passed the same height marker on the café door for the past three years.
He smiled. Warm. Familiar. This part of his life was quiet, too—but in a different way.
He never told anyone at school about the café. Not even Aika.
Not because he was hiding it.
He just liked having something that was his.
Something untouched by class rankings or study groups or the noise of school life.
Something warm, like jam and cinnamon, and the hum of the espresso machine.
His shift was short today. A couple coffees, some dishes, a refill of napkin holders. Easy.
They ate dinner after.
His father stirred something quietly on the stove while his mother set the table and hummed a song he half-recognized from her café playlist.
"Nozomi texted," Haruaki said as he passed the miso soup. "She's helping plan for the school event. Might be back late."
His parents nodded.
"Don't wait up," his dad murmured. "She'll sneak in with fanfare anyway."
They laughed. Ate. Cleaned up. The kind of peaceful ending that made everything feel ordinary in the best possible way.
That night, Haruaki sat on his bed with the light novel he borrowed in one hand and a screwdriver sticking out of a half-open pencil case beside him.
He read. Slowly. Letting the pages pull him in.
But for some reason, his mind wandered.
Back to the girl with the shogi board.
Back to her stillness. Her face like untouched snow.
Her eyes, sharp and quiet, but...
Lonely.
Just like he used to be. Before he transferred.
Before Aika. Before any of this.
He didn't know who she was. Not yet.
Didn't know that she held a position most students only whispered about in admiration.
But something about her made him pause.
And that meant something.
A few days had passed, the clouds rolled in sometime after lunch.
By late afternoon, Ivory Spire was drenched in gentle rain—soft, steady, clinging to the windows and giving everything a watery glow.
He returned the book to the library, tucked it neatly onto the cart, and turned to leave.
And there she was.
Again.
Same spot. Same girl.
This time, the shogi board hadn't been touched. The pieces were laid out in perfect, untouched symmetry.
Like it was waiting.
Haruaki hesitated.
He wasn't planning on bothering her. He wasn't that guy.
But something tugged at him. A small thing. A quiet thing. The same feeling he got when a tool was just barely misaligned.
He looked at her again.
Her expression hadn't changed, but her eyes... they looked even heavier today. Glassy with thought. And tired in a way he recognized too well.
Before he could overthink it, his body moved.
He stepped forward.
Knelt across from her.
Studied the board for a moment.
Then reached out and moved a pawn forward—one square.
Slowly, deliberately.
Only after that did he speak.
"...Is it alright if I play?"
The girl blinked once. Her eyes flicked to the board. Then to him.
She nodded. Barely.
And the game began.