Another ordinary lesson.
The teacher was explaining a new topic, chalk tapping rhythmically against the board.
Students bent over their notebooks, their pens whispering across the paper.
No one spoke about dreams.
No one mentioned the fire.
And then — a quiet sound.
The door slid open.
Ichigo walked in, unhurried, his usual calm smile on his face.
The teacher paused mid-sentence.
Every eye turned to him.
Kurosaki, — the teacher said slowly. — Where have you been?
Ichigo's voice was calm, almost light.
He glanced around the room.
He stopped at the blackboard.
— Do you remember, — he said softly, — when we talked about how each of us sees the world differently?
He smiled — not happily, but with a quiet sadness.
— I just let you see it through the eyes of someone who can't tell dreams from reality.
No one spoke.
Even Ayanokōji stayed silent, his gaze fixed on Ichigo.
Ichigo's voice lowered, almost to a whisper.
— You only walked along the edge.
— You never truly fell in.
There was no blame in his tone — only understanding.
Ichinose whispered faintly:
— Then… that was your reality?
Ichigo turned toward the window.
— Yes.
— It isn't beautiful or terrifying. It just… is.
He looked back at the class.
— But it's not yours anymore.
— You can see the world your own way again.
He nodded to the teacher, then quietly left the room.
The door closed behind him with barely a sound.
For a long time, no one moved.
Someone in the back inhaled sharply — the first breath that felt real in hours.
Ayanokōji sat still, eyes on the blackboard, his mind turning quietly.
We saw his reality, he thought.
But maybe… a part of it stayed with us.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.
And in its breath — faint, almost imagined — came a single piano note.