The moment Kana Ayase stepped into the classroom, something shifted in the air — subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it settled deep inside me, like the gentle pull of a tide I hadn't yet learned to swim against.
Her silver hair caught the morning sun like threads of moonlight woven through silk, and her calm smile held a quiet certainty that made the usual buzz of the new semester fall away.
"Good morning, everyone. This is our new transfer student, Kana Ayase," Mr. Sato announced, gesturing toward her with a warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
A ripple of polite greetings swept through the class, but all I could do was stare, caught in the slow-motion moment where everything — the sunbeam, the dust motes, the faint scent of chalk and paper — folded together around her presence.
Kana bowed lightly, voice soft but clear. "I'm happy to be here."
She walked with a grace that made the classroom seem both smaller and infinitely larger at once as she settled into the empty seat two rows behind me, near the window.
I tried to focus on the blackboard, but my gaze kept drifting back to her — to the way her hands rested lightly on her desk, the soft glow of sunlight in her hair, the quiet strength beneath her serene expression.
The teacher's voice became distant, muffled by a growing storm of thoughts in my head.
Who was she really? Why did the letter I found in my locker bear her name? And what did she mean by the strange prophecy it contained?
The bell rang, snapping me back to the present.
During break, I found a small folded note slipped onto my notebook — the same delicate handwriting from the letter.
Don't look so nervous. We'll talk at lunch.
No one else noticed my furtive glances toward Kana as she sat alone on the rooftop when the lunch bell rang.
I climbed the stairs, heart hammering.
The door creaked open to reveal her sitting calmly, the wind stirring the edges of her school blazer folded neatly beside her.
"You came," she said simply.
I nodded, words stuck in my throat.
"About the letter," I finally said, pulling the note from my pocket. "Why did you send it?"
Kana smiled softly, eyes filled with quiet sorrow.
"It's not a letter," she said. "It's a promise."
Her words pulled me in deeper than I expected — a promise of love and loss intertwined, of time slipping through our fingers like grains of sand.
We ate in companionable silence, the distant cry of gulls and the rustling camellia petals framing the fragile moment.
"I'll disappear in the winter," she whispered.
The words hung between us like a ghost.
"How do you love someone you know you'll lose?"
Her eyes held mine, steady as the tides.
"You live every moment like it's the only one you have."
The final bell rang, but time stretched on — endless and bittersweet.
"Tomorrow," she said softly as she left. "The camellia tree by the breakwater. After school."
That night, I turned the letter over and over, the scent of camellias lingering on the paper.
The story was only beginning.
The midday sun was climbing higher, and the soft hum of voices drifting in through the open windows was a distant echo in my mind. The classroom had transformed into a blur of chalk dust and scattered papers, but my attention was fixed on the faint crease where the note had been folded — the same handwriting, the same strange promise.
I couldn't help but wonder what she meant by it all.
The letter had said: We'll meet in the spring, fall in love in the summer, and say goodbye in the winter.
Why those seasons? Why such a cruel fate?
---
When the lunch bell rang, the school corridors erupted with a flood of students, laughing and calling each other to the cafeteria. The sound was loud and chaotic, but I didn't join the crowd.
Instead, I took the narrow staircase to the rooftop — the one place that always offered a moment of silence amid the chaos.
I pushed the metal door open, and the familiar scent of warm concrete mixed with the salty breeze hit me instantly.
Kana was already there.
She sat near the chain-link fence that overlooked the distant harbor, her silver hair lifted slightly by the wind. Her school blazer was folded neatly beside her, and her pale hands rested lightly on her bento box.
She looked up as I approached.
"You came," she said softly.
---
My throat felt dry. The words I had rehearsed vanished the moment I saw her.
I managed to nod.
"You… put that note in my desk," I said, pulling the slip of paper from my pocket.
She smiled faintly. "I wanted to calm you. You looked tense."
"Calm me?" I let out a bitter laugh. "You sent me a letter that predicts my entire year and then tell me to calm down?"
"It's not a prediction," she replied calmly. "It's what will happen."
---
I stared at her, searching for any hint of a joke or trick, but her eyes held only earnestness.
"Memory," she said, as if reading my confusion. "I've already lived this year. I remember everything."
The claim was absurd, impossible. Yet there was something in her voice, a softness that begged me to believe.
---
We ate our lunches quietly. The sounds of distant seagulls, the faint rustling of camellia petals drifting through the air, and the gentle hum of the city below wrapped around us like a fragile cocoon.
I couldn't stop stealing glances at her — the way her eyes seemed both distant and sharp, as though she was watching the present while simultaneously living in the past.
---
After a few moments, I finally asked, "What do you mean you'll disappear in the winter?"
Kana's eyes darkened, the light dimming in them like a setting sun.
"It's hard to explain," she whispered. "But I won't be here anymore. Not in the way you'll remember."
A sudden coldness crept through me.
"How do you love someone you know will vanish?"
She smiled, a sad, knowing curve of her lips.
"By living each moment like it's a gift. Like it's the only one we have."
---
I reached out instinctively and brushed a stray camellia petal from her hair.
"It's already starting," she said softly.
---
The bell signaling the end of lunch echoed across the rooftop. I felt as though I was waking from a dream.
"Tomorrow," she said, standing up and gathering her things. "The camellia tree by the breakwater. After school."
Before I could answer, she was gone — the soft click of the door the only trace she'd been there.
---
That night, I lay in bed, the letter on my desk beside me.
The scent of camellias clung faintly to the paper, as if the promise itself had taken root.
I didn't know what awaited me at the breakwater, but deep inside, I knew one thing:
This was only the beginning.
The rest of the afternoon slipped past me like a faded dream.
The math problems on the board were a series of numbers and symbols, but my mind churned with far heavier equations—how could someone remember a year they hadn't yet lived? How could a promise of love and disappearance fit into the rhythm of ordinary school days?
Kaito shot me a sideways grin during history class, nudging me lightly. "You're spacing out again, Riku. Thinking about your new 'mystery girl,' huh?"
I forced a half-smile. "Something like that."
He laughed, shaking his head. "She's got your number, huh? Looks like the whole school's gonna be buzzing about Kana Ayase soon enough."
I glanced toward the window, where the late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the campus.
"Yeah," I muttered. "If only I understood half of what she's about."
---
The Hallway Murmur
Between classes, whispers buzzed like distant thunder.
"Did you hear about the new transfer?"
"She's so mysterious. Some say she's from a town nobody's ever heard of."
I overheard bits and pieces, curious eyes darting toward Kana wherever she moved through the corridors with that quiet grace.
She didn't speak much to anyone else, but when she passed me by, her eyes flickered briefly—an unreadable spark, like a secret waiting for the right moment to unfold.
---
Library Encounter and a Second Note
After the final bell, I found myself wandering into the school library—a refuge of stillness amidst the swirling thoughts.
There she was again, sitting by a window, silver hair glowing in the golden hour light.
Without a word, Kana slipped a folded note into my palm.
I unfolded it carefully:
"Trust the moments between the words."
Confused, I looked up, but she was already disappearing into the stacks like a ghost fading into shadows.
---
Nighttime Reflections
Back in my room, the moonlight spilled over my desk, casting long fingers across the scattered papers and open books.
The note's cryptic message echoed in my mind.
What moments? Between which words?
And why did every encounter with Kana feel like stepping into a story that was already written—but with pages I had yet to read?
Sleep eluded me as I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding with anticipation and a strange, unshakable hope.
The streets were quiet as I left school, the late afternoon sun dipping low behind distant buildings and painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. The air was cool but soft, carrying the faint scent of camellias that still lingered from the rooftop. I walked slowly, my mind replaying every word Kana had said—her promise, her disappearance, the notes that felt more like riddles than messages.
Each step felt heavier, as if I were pulling a weight tied not to my feet but to my heart.
How could someone live a year twice? And why had fate woven her story with mine?
---
A Familiar Voice
As I passed the old bookstore near the station, a voice called out softly from the shadows.
"Riku."
I stopped. It was Miyu, a quiet girl from my class who often sat alone with her sketchpad.
She stepped into the light, her dark eyes filled with concern.
"You've seemed... distracted lately," she said gently. "Is something wrong?"
I hesitated, debating whether to share even a fragment of the strange web I'd been caught in.
Instead, I shook my head. "Just... a lot on my mind."
She smiled faintly, then glanced behind me toward the river.
"You know the camellia tree by the breakwater, right?"
I nodded slowly.
"Be careful there," she warned, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Some things don't want to be found."
---
The Camellia Tree — The Next Day
After school, my feet carried me toward the breakwater without conscious thought.
The camellia tree stood tall and proud against the soft roar of the sea, its dark green leaves dotted with clusters of bright pink petals that fluttered gently in the breeze.
Kana was already there, waiting. She looked smaller somehow beneath the spreading branches, her silver hair catching the dying light like a beacon.
She turned as I approached, her eyes shadowed with something I couldn't name.
"Riku," she said quietly. "There's something I need to show you."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, ancient-looking pendant—an intricate silver charm shaped like a camellia flower.
"When this blooms, so do memories," she whispered. "But it also holds the key to what's coming."
---
Before I could ask what she meant, a sudden chill swept through the air, and the sky darkened as heavy clouds gathered overhead.
A low, ominous rumble rolled across the horizon.
Kana's eyes widened with a flicker of fear.
"Riku," she breathed. "You don't know the danger you're in."
Behind us, the petals of the camellia tree began to swirl wildly in the wind—like a storm was awakening.
And from the shadows beneath the branches, a figure stepped forwa