After class, Ayanokōji remained behind.
The others had already left, yet the air still felt heavy — thick, as if it carried the residue of smoke.
He could still hear the echo of the piano in his mind — each note breaking apart into ash.
If it was a dream, he thought, why did everyone see it the same way?
And why do I still smell the burning?
He walked through the dim corridors, until something drew his attention — the old music room.
The door was ajar.
Inside — silence.
A single grand piano sat in the middle of the room, half-hidden in shadow.
He stepped closer.
His fingers brushed the keys.
One of them — a black key near the center — was charred, its surface warped and darkened, as if touched by fire.
Beside it, a faint trace of ash.
Real.
Not imagined.
He bent down, breathing in. The smell was unmistakable — burnt varnish, smoke, the acrid tang of something that should never have burned.
His heartbeat quickened.
Then it wasn't a dream.
Behind him — a sound. Soft, almost polite.
Ayanokōji turned sharply.
Ichigo stood in the doorway.
That same faint smile curved his lips.
— Were you here? — Ayanokōji asked quietly.
Ichigo tilted his head.
— Maybe.
Or maybe… I just never left.
He stepped forward, laid his hand on the scorched key.
A thin wisp of smoke rose where his skin met the surface.
— You left this, didn't you? — Ayanokōji pressed.
Ichigo's eyes didn't flicker.
— Me? No.
He paused.
— We.
Ayanokōji's grip tightened on the notebook in his hand.
His mind ran cold calculations — but beneath them, something else began to stir.
A feeling he didn't have a name for.
Material evidence.
Possible anomaly.
Kurosaki — the center.
Ichigo smiled faintly.
— If you've started writing it down, that means you're already inside.
— And once you're inside a dream, it's not that easy to wake up.
He pressed the key.
A single note sounded — low, mournful.
Cold air trembled.
The faint scent of smoke returned.