A week had passed.
The school had returned to its rhythm — ordinary, quiet, predictable.
Students laughed again, quarreled, whispered over lunch, planned for exams.
No one mentioned the dreams anymore.
No one spoke of fire, or music, or the silence that had once swallowed everything.
No one — except Ayanokōji.
That evening, as he walked through the empty corridor, he noticed that the door to the old music room stood ajar.
It was supposed to be locked.
He hesitated for a moment, then pushed it open.
The room greeted him with its usual stillness — cool air, the faint scent of dust and varnish.
The piano stood where it always had, dark and solemn, its surface reflecting the last light of the setting sun.
Ayanokōji stepped closer.
Something was lying on the keys — a single sheet of music paper.
He picked it up.
Only a few bars of melody — spare, haunting, familiar.
The same tragic harmony that had burned itself into his memory.
At the top, written in a careful hand:
"For those who still see."
— Ichigo
Ayanokōji studied the notes. They looked ordinary.
Yet when he touched the paper, his fingertips brushed a thin layer of ash — faint, almost weightless.
The mark it left on his skin resembled a wing.
He lifted his hand to the light.
For a moment, the gray trace shimmered — like the fragile outline of something trying to take flight.
He smiled slightly.
— You never left, did you?
Placing the sheet back on the piano, he pressed one key — softly.
A single, pure tone rang through the room, then faded.
Outside, the evening sun poured through the tall windows, catching the dust in its glow.
For an instant, every speck of light flickered — like tiny embers suspended in air.
Ayanokōji turned to leave.
At the door, he paused and whispered, barely audible:
"Maybe your dream never ended.
Maybe now we're all inside it."
The door closed behind him.
Silence settled once more.
Then, in the empty room, the piano — untouched — played a single, final note.