Night.
The dormitory was silent — only the hum of the ventilation and the soft ticking of a clock.
Ayanokōji sat at his desk, a single lamp casting light across the pages of his notebook.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees.
He began to write.
"Observation Log — Day 17.
Subject: Ichigo Kurosaki.
Current status: unknown.
Last sighting — classroom, 12:45 p.m."
He paused, looking at the page for a long time before continuing.
"Phenomenon appears to have ceased.
No recurring hallucinations reported in Class D or other sections.
Sleep patterns — normalized.
Odor of smoke — gone.
Yet, during moments of silence, a faint tone is still audible.
Frequency resembles the lowest key of a piano."
He set the pen down, fingers tapping absently on the table — slow, deliberate, almost rhythmic.
In the quiet, the rhythm sounded like footsteps fading down a long hallway.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed.
If none of this was real, he thought, then why do I remember the heat?
Why does my body still flinch when I hear that sound?
He opened the drawer, pulled out the small scrap of paper he'd found earlier that day — the corner of a music sheet, charred at the edge.
The title was barely legible. Only one word could still be read:
"Requiem."
He turned it over.
A faint scent of ash lingered on his fingers.
For a moment, he thought he saw movement — a flicker of orange light on the far wall.
But when he looked up, there was nothing.
Only the quiet.
He wrote again.
"Conclusion:
If the dream was a reflection, then reality has been permanently altered by contact.
Kurosaki remains the key — or perhaps the door itself."
He closed the notebook and turned off the lamp.
The room sank into darkness.
Through the window, the moonlight fell across his desk — illuminating the faintest trace of smoke curling up from the notebook's edge.
And somewhere, far below, from the direction of the empty music room — a single piano note echoed once, then faded into silence.