Ayanokōji opened his eyes slowly.
Above him — the familiar ceiling of Class D.
The faint scrape of chairs, the rustle of pages, the scent of chalk in the air.
Everything looked normal.
No fire.
No music.
No white void.
He sat still for a moment, breathing carefully, as if any sudden motion might break the illusion.
Then he caught it — a trace in the air.
Smoke.
Not harsh, but faint, distant — the kind of scent left behind after something had burned long ago.
And somewhere, beyond the open window, a sound drifted in.
A single piano note.
Soft. Pure.
Almost like a sigh.
He turned his head — but there was no one there.
So I woke up, he thought.
Or maybe… I just learned how to live inside his dream.
He closed his eyes again, letting the silence settle.
Everything seemed normal — desks, light, the rhythm of ordinary life.
But the normal had shifted, ever so slightly.
As if the world itself now carried a memory of fire.