In the ordinary world — a world set in the modern age — people lived their lives in a constant rush, surrounded by towering buildings and the never-ending hum of engines echoing through the streets. The glow of streetlights shimmered faintly, reflecting off the damp pavement still glistening from a recent rain. Each step that landed upon a puddle made a soft splash, scattering droplets that caught the faint light like tiny shards of glass. The city never truly slept; it breathed quietly beneath the twilight, its pulse steady and alive.
At a certain school nestled not far from the heart of a neighborhood, a modest three-story building stood. Its walls were painted a pale cream, worn but clean. The air inside carried the faint scent of chalk and paper. Voices of students intertwined — laughter, chatter, and the occasional sound of a turning page. The rhythm of daily life continued as it always had, with nothing unusual to disturb the balance of the day.
Inside one of the classrooms on the second floor, near the row of windows, sat a girl. Her seat was by the glass, the place where sunlight often spilled through in long, soft rays. The wooden desk before her bore faint scratches and carvings left by students from years past, silent traces of memories she never knew. Yet she didn't mind. She sat quietly, her gaze fixed ahead, her expression calm and unreadable.
She was an ordinary girl — short black hair cut neatly just above her shoulders, strands catching the sunlight in a subtle sheen like strands of silk. Her eyes, dark as night, held a stillness that hinted at distance — the kind of gaze that seemed to look through the world rather than at it. At times, her eyes softened when the breeze slipped through the window, brushing lightly against her cheek, stirring her hair just enough to make it dance under the light.
The teacher's voice echoed from the front of the classroom — steady, patient, and monotonous. She listened, or at least pretended to. The words passed through her ears like drifting clouds, touching her mind only for a moment before fading away. Her hand idly spun a pencil between her fingers, tracing invisible patterns in the air.
This was her daily life — simple, repetitive, and unremarkable. She wasn't the type to draw attention. Not disliked, not popular, just quietly existing between those two worlds. She was the kind of person who could vanish into a crowd without leaving a trace, someone whose name few remembered unless they happened to glance her way.
When the bell rang, sharp and familiar, the classroom erupted with motion. The scrape of chairs, the sound of bags unzipping, laughter, footsteps — all filled the air in a wave of life. She moved calmly amid the noise, gathering her notebooks and pencil case with care. No one called her name. No one looked her way. She shouldered her bag and cast one last glance toward the window, where the sun was beginning to tilt westward, painting the walls in amber light. Then, quietly, she left.
The corridor outside was bathed in a golden glow. Dust particles drifted lazily through the beams of light that stretched from one end of the hall to the other. Her footsteps echoed softly against the tiled floor. Each step felt familiar, practiced — part of a routine she had followed countless times. Her shadow stretched long behind her, thin and fading with each passing second.
Outside, the noise of the city returned to fill her world — cars passing, people talking, the faint hum of distant machinery. The wind carried the scent of wet earth and pavement. She followed the narrow path she always took, lined with trees whose branches reached gently overhead. The leaves rustled, whispering secrets only the wind could understand. When she stepped on the fallen leaves, they crunched faintly beneath her shoes, adding a rhythm to her solitary walk.
It was her usual route home. She had walked this path so many times that she could have done it with her eyes closed. In the beginning, she had felt lonely walking alone — the weight of silence pressing against her chest, the absence of another voice beside her. But now, that loneliness had faded into something quieter, something she could live with. The silence was no longer an emptiness but a companion that walked beside her every evening.
Her home appeared at the end of the street — a small two-story house standing quietly among others. The windows reflected the dim light of dusk, and the curtains swayed slightly from the evening breeze. She stopped for a moment at the gate, looking up at the faintly glowing sky. There was no sound from within the house, no sign of life. There never was.
She turned the handle gently, the faint creak of metal breaking the silence. The air inside was cool and still, carrying a faint hint of dust and detergent. The living room was as it had always been: a small sofa, a low table, and a television resting on a wooden stand. The dining table still had a cup and plate left from breakfast, untouched. The quietness filled every corner, pressing gently against her ears.
It was normal for her.
Her parents had been working abroad for years, leaving her to live alone in this small, silent house. In the beginning, she used to cry when it rained at night, the sound of the storm amplifying her loneliness. She used to sit by the window and stare into the darkness, wishing for someone to come home. But as time passed, the ache in her heart dulled. The emptiness became familiar. She no longer felt lonely — it had become simply a part of her existence.
She set her schoolbag down on the table, the faint thud echoing softly. Then she moved toward the kitchen, taking out a cup of instant noodles from the shelf. The kettle clicked as it began to heat water. The bubbling sound soon followed, a soft "pop, pop" rhythm that filled the quiet air. The smell of warming noodles and spice began to drift through the room, gentle and comforting.
When it was ready, she sat down and began to eat slowly, each movement deliberate and quiet. The sound of noodles brushing against the chopsticks mixed with the faint hum of the refrigerator. The soup was hot, and she blew softly on it before taking each bite, savoring the simple warmth that spread through her chest.
After she finished, she stood up and carried the bowl to the sink. The sound of running water filled the silence — gentle, repetitive, like a small song that only she could hear. The light above the sink cast ripples across the surface of the water, shimmering like tiny stars on a lake's surface.
When the dishes were clean, she walked toward the bathroom. The air inside was warm and foggy as she turned on the shower. The sound of water streaming down against the tiles reminded her faintly of rain. Steam rose slowly, blurring the mirror, softening the edges of the room. She closed her eyes and let the water run through her hair, washing away the fatigue of the day. For a moment, she felt weightless — as if the world outside had disappeared.
Afterward, she dressed in simple sleepwear, the soft fabric brushing against her skin. She walked into her bedroom, turning on the warm yellow lamp by her bed. The light spread softly, painting the room in calm tones of gold and shadow. She sat on the edge of her bed, the bedsheets cool beneath her fingers.
Then she reached for her phone. The faint glow of the screen illuminated her face, outlining her features in pale blue light. She scrolled aimlessly — through pictures, messages, videos — not really reading, not really thinking. Each swipe echoed softly in the silence, the small clicks of her finger tapping the screen almost rhythmic.
Time slipped by unnoticed. The light outside her window faded completely, replaced by the deep blue of night. The ticking of the wall clock grew louder in the stillness. She blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy.
When it grew late, she finally placed the phone beside her pillow. The screen dimmed, and the room was swallowed by quiet once more. She lay down, pulling the gray blanket over her shoulders. The only light came from the moon, its pale glow filtering through the curtain, tracing faint silver lines across her face.
Her breathing slowed. The sound of her heartbeat blended with the ticking clock — soft, even, steady.
And then, she fell asleep peacefully.
It was a night like every other — silent, simple, and empty, yet strangely calm.
She woke up in the morning.
The sound of the alarm clock echoed softly through the quiet room, a sharp reminder that another new day had begun.
The ticking of the clock's second hand filled the stillness, marking time like faint footsteps inside her head.
Soft morning light slipped through the curtain, forming narrow beams that rested gently upon the wooden floor and the edge of her bed.
The light was tender yet cold at the same time, for it reminded her of how silent and empty this house always was.
She slowly opened her eyes, inhaling softly.
The sound of her own breath was distinct in the absence of any other noise.
She sat up; the blanket slid down to her feet in a small heap.
She brushed a few strands of messy hair away from her face, then walked toward the bathroom.
The faint patter of her bare feet against the wooden floor resonated in the still air, echoing like the sound of solitude itself.
Inside the bathroom, the morning light reflected faintly off the small mirror, spreading across the tiled wall.
A thin mist floated above the sink.
She turned on the faucet; the sound of running water hissed softly, like gentle rain against the tiles.
She cupped her hands and splashed the cold water onto her face.
The chill spread instantly across her skin, waking her completely.
Droplets rolled down her neck and fell to the floor, one after another.
She stared at her own reflection — an ordinary face, unpainted, unadorned — the face she had grown used to seeing every day.
After washing up, she dressed herself as usual.
The neatly pressed uniform she had hung last night was ready for her.
She buttoned the shirt in silence, the faint scent of soap and fabric softener lingering in the air.
She put on her socks, tied her hair neatly, and slung her school bag over one shoulder — the same pattern, the same rhythm as every morning.
She walked into the kitchen.
The house remained silent, its emptiness both familiar and calm.
She opened the cupboard and pulled out a packet of instant noodles.
The dry scent of the noodles and seasoning powder brushed faintly against her nose.
She filled the kettle and turned it on.
The bubbling sound of boiling water filled the room — a small, comforting noise that made the quiet morning feel alive again.
When the water was ready, she poured it into the cup of noodles.
The strands loosened slowly under the rising steam.
The savory smell spread through the kitchen, warm and familiar, like the company of an old friend she met every morning.
She sat at the small wooden table by the window.
The sunlight lay across the steaming cup, turning the rising vapor into threads of light.
She picked up the chopsticks and lifted the noodles carefully.
The hot soup brushed her lips, spreading warmth through her body.
She ate quietly, with only the occasional clink of the chopsticks against the bowl echoing through the still air.
When she finished, she cleaned the bowl and arranged everything neatly.
Then she stepped outside.
The metallic click of the gate closing behind her sounded faint but clear.
The morning sun had softened; thin clouds drifted across the sky, dimming the light.
A cool breeze moved through her hair as she inhaled deeply, catching the faint scent of wet earth left from last night's rain.
She began her walk to school — the same path she took every day.
The street stretched ahead, lined with students in the same uniform.
Laughter, conversations, and the rhythmic tapping of shoes against the pavement blended into the sound of daily life.
But for her, it was just background noise.
She walked silently among the crowd without meeting anyone's eyes, moving like a shadow through a sea of color and sound.
When she reached the school, the white building stood tall against the green field, which still shimmered with dew and traces of rain.
She stepped over a small puddle that reflected the drifting clouds above.
Water splashed gently at the tip of her shoe.
Passing through the school gate, she caught the faint scent of chalk and old wood drifting from nearby classrooms.
She entered her classroom and sat at her usual seat by the window.
A soft breeze lifted the white curtain, letting it flutter quietly beside her.
She opened her notebook and rested her chin on one hand, gazing through the glass.
Outside, the sky was covered by clouds, leaving only a dim and silvery light.
The teacher's voice echoed faintly across the room, mingling with the low murmur of her classmates, yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice came from beside her.
"Hey, you — I've noticed you don't really talk to anyone."
The tone was calm, polite, and filled with quiet confidence.
She turned slightly and saw a boy standing next to her desk.
His posture was proper, his expression composed.
"It's already halfway through our first year of high school," he said with a gentle smile.
"And no one even knows your name. Could you tell me?"
He paused, then added,
"Oh, but I should introduce myself first. I'm the class representative — Shenshuji Meneri."
He said his name clearly, with quiet assurance.
She sighed softly, almost inaudibly, before answering in a faint voice that was nearly a whisper.
"Futaba Rutemeshi."
Her voice was so soft it almost disappeared into the air, yet he nodded slowly, as though he caught every syllable carefully.
There was a spark of interest in his eyes — subtle, restrained, but unmistakable.
"All right, got it," he said with an easy tone. "Well then, see you around."
With that, he walked away.
The sound of his footsteps faded into the chatter of the class.
She watched him for a moment, then turned back toward the window.
The world outside continued as if nothing had changed.
The rest of the day passed quietly.
When the final bell rang, chairs scraped and voices filled the air again.
She packed her bag slowly and left the room.
Outside, the sky had darkened; heavy clouds gathered above, and soon the rain began to fall.
At first it was a drizzle, then it grew heavier, the drops striking the ground with a rhythmic "pat… pat…"
The scent of rain and soil mingled in the air.
She stretched out her hand, catching a few droplets, then withdrew it quietly.
She had no umbrella.
She prepared to walk home through the rain, as she had done before, but before her foot touched the wet pavement, someone stepped in front of her.
A dark umbrella opened above her head.
The sound of rain changed — no longer hitting her directly but tapping softly on the umbrella's surface instead.
"Walking in the rain isn't good for you," came the familiar voice.
It was Shenshuji again.
He looked at her with calm eyes and said,
"I'll lend you my umbrella. You can return it to me tomorrow, all right?"
She looked at him silently.
A faint trace of annoyance flickered in her eyes, but she said nothing.
She simply accepted the umbrella from his hand, opened it, and walked away without another word.
The rain continued to fall.
Though the umbrella shielded her, her heart felt strangely warm.
Shenshuji stood where she had been, watching her go until she disappeared from sight.
Then, without opening another umbrella for himself, he walked into the rain — calm, unhurried — as if the cold drops couldn't reach him at all.
But in truth, Futaba hadn't gone far.
She lingered behind the building, watching his figure fade into the curtain of rain.
Without realizing it, she lifted a hand to her lips, and a small smile formed there — faint but sincere, like a secret kept between her and the falling rain.
When the downpour softened to a drizzle, she opened the umbrella again and began her slow walk home.
The wet street shimmered under the faint light of shop signs.
Puddles reflected the glow like small mirrors.
Each step she took splashed gently, the sound of wet shoes marking her path through the quiet evening.
By the time she reached home, the sky had turned deep gray.
She set the umbrella by the door, slipped the bag from her shoulder, and took a deep breath.
The lingering scent of rain clung to her clothes, mingling with the clean fragrance of soap that filled her house.
It created a strange calmness that settled in the air.
She changed into comfortable clothes, ate a simple dinner, and took a warm shower.
Steam filled the bathroom again, curling softly upward, just as it had that morning — only this time, her body felt lighter, her mind quieter.
It was as if the long day had been washed away with every drop of water.
She stepped out, her hair still damp, and the soft light from the bedside lamp traced along her skin.
She sat on the bed, gazing out through the window where raindrops still clung to the glass.
Outside, everything was still; only the faint dripping from the roof broke the silence.
She lifted her phone, scrolling absentmindedly through photos and videos, though nothing new caught her attention.
Eventually, she set the phone aside, turned off the light, and let the pale moonlight fall through the thin curtain.
She lay down, closed her eyes, and listened to the soft rhythm of the remaining rain.
Its gentle cadence lulled her slowly into sleep.
That day ended quietly, just like every other day —
yet somewhere deep inside, there was a small, tender warmth,
like a flicker of light beginning to shine within the silence of her ordinary life.