Osaka, Japan. 2007.
The classroom smelled like chalk and damp wood.
It was the second week of September, and it had rained for two days straight. Not heavy rain—just the kind of rain that hung in the air like an apology, soaking your shoes without ever really falling.
The windows were fogged. The floor near the back creaked if you stepped on it twice. The desks near the open window slits were always slightly wet—rain carried in by the breeze. Everyone knew not to sit there.
Everyone except the new girl.
She stood at the front of the room, rain-damp hair on her cheek, pinned back by a blue ribbon on the left side. Her name was printed with oversized letters, laminated on a card pinned to her uniform:
THARINCHAI, PANPRIYA (LISA)
"My name is Panpriya Tharinchai. Call me Lisa," she said, bowing.
"I'm from Buriram, Thailand. My family moved here for my father's work.
Please take care of me." She bowed again, graceful and still.
Her voice was soft, slightly accented—vowels stretched, R's clipped. She didn't look at anyone. Just the floor.
The teacher clapped. "Please welcome Lisa-chan to our class." A smattering of applause.
Most kids blinked at her like she was part of a training video—not a new classmate. One whispered "Thai?" like it was a riddle. Another giggled.
The teacher nudged her gently. "You'll sit beside Sagara."
Kyo didn't look up.
He felt her before he saw her—a presence to his left. Small movements, the click of a mechanical pencil, the faint metallic clang of her aluminum pencil case.
Kyo kept his eyes on his math handout.
By lunchtime, the rain had started falling again—enough that most of the kids stayed inside.
The covered walkway had narrow benches, usually ignored, except on days like this.
Lisa sat alone on the far end of the bench. Bento box unopened in her lap.
Kyo watched from the doorway for a moment.
Then stepped out and sat beside her. Not close. Not far. Just beside.
She didn't say anything. Didn't shift. Didn't move her bag to make room or tell him to leave.
She just sat, steady. Eyes wandering on the dripping edge of the roof and where the raindrops fell in a steady cadence.
Eventually, without looking at him, she opened her lunch.
Rice, omelet and pickled daikon.
After a moment, she set half the tamagoyaki on the lid and slid it toward him.
Kyo accepted it without a word. Ate slowly. Carefully.
The rain drummed in soft patterns, like witnessing something about to take place.
They walked home the same direction that day.
Kyo didn't speak—but when they passed a flickering streetlamp and the wind caught her jacket, he noticed she didn't have an umbrella.
He stopped. Opened his. Tilted it towards Lisa.
She didn't look surprised. She just stepped under it like she'd expected him to.
They walked the last six blocks in silence.
No words. Just rain.