The next day, the thought of the festival group meeting sat like a stone in my stomach. The blank paper and pencil Haru had pushed towards me yesterday had haunted my restless sleep. An invitation. A challenge. A terrifying blank space waiting to be filled, or to remain as a testament to my cowardice.
I kept my hands busy during the morning classes, sketching random patterns in the margins of my regular notebook, trying to ignore the anxious thrumming beneath my skin. Every so often, I'd feel a strange warmth in my palms, a faint echo of the sensation from the day before, and I'd quickly still my fingers, terrified of another accidental… whatever it had been. The fear was a constant companion, whispering that any strong emotion, any unguarded gesture, could unleash something uncontrollable.
When the time came for group work, I walked towards their cluster of desks near the window with the slow, deliberate steps of someone approaching a precipice. Aya offered another of her gentle smiles as I sat down. Kenji was already deep in a historical text, muttering about purification rituals. Haru was looking at one of Aya's new sketches, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. The sheet of blank paper was still there, angled slightly towards my seat.
"I was thinking," Aya began, tapping her pencil on a drawing of an ornate, shrine-like structure, "if our exhibit is about protective spirits, maybe the entrance should feel like passing into a sacred space."
Kenji nodded without looking up. "Traditionally, gateways, torii, are symbolic demarcations. They signify a transition from the mundane to the sacred."
They talked, their words weaving a tapestry of folklore and design. I listened, a silent observer, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The idea I'd had – the one about using the flowing movements of sign language to visually represent a protective chant or the invocation of a spirit – kept nudging at the edges of my mind. It felt relevant, especially with Aya's talk of dynamic energy and Kenji's mention of rituals and invocations. But the fear of exposing any part of myself, any thought, was a powerful suppressant. What if it was a stupid idea? What if they laughed? What if Emi saw and had more ammunition?
Haru hadn't said much, mostly listening, his gaze moving between Aya's sketches and Kenji's books. Then, he picked up one of Aya's rougher drawings – a series of abstract swirls meant to represent a spirit's presence.
"How do we show the 'invocation' part, Kenji?" Haru asked. "Not just the spirit being there, but the act of calling or welcoming it?"
Kenji launched into an explanation of ancient hand gestures and spoken phrases, none of which felt particularly dynamic for a visual exhibit.
Aya sighed. "It's hard to make that visually exciting without it looking… I don't know… cheesy?"
This was it. The opening. The small, almost invisible gap in their discussion where my idea might, just might, fit. My heart hammered. My palms were damp. I glanced at the blank paper, then at my own hands, which I quickly pressed further into my lap. No. Don't be ridiculous. They don't want your ideas.
But then Haru did something. He wasn't looking at me, still studying Aya's swirls. He just said, very quietly, almost to himself, but loud enough for me to hear clearly from his lip movements and the faint vibration of his voice, "It needs a different kind of language, maybe."
A different kind of language.
My breath hitched. Was he…? Could he possibly…? No. It was a coincidence. It had to be.
But his words, combined with the expectant stillness that seemed to fall over their small group, the way Aya and Kenji both paused, created an almost unbearable pressure. The blank paper seemed to glow.
Slowly, tentatively, as if it weighed a thousand pounds, I reached for the pencil Haru had left. My fingers trembled as I gripped it. My mind was a blank, roaring chaos. I couldn't write words. Not yet. The memory of Emi's voice reading my poem was too vivid.
But an image… maybe an image.
My idea was about the flow of signed words, the way they carved shapes in the air. Protective signs often involved strong, sweeping motions.
With my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears, I put the pencil to the paper. I drew a single, arcing line. A curve that started small, swelled, and then tapered off, like a shield being formed, or a gentle, encompassing embrace. It wasn't much. It was abstract, hesitant. It was barely anything.
I stopped, my breath held tight, convinced they would laugh, or worse, ignore it completely. I couldn't look up. I stared at that single, lonely line on the vast expanse of white paper.
Silence.
Then, Aya's soft voice. "Oh… that's… interesting." She leaned closer. "What does it represent, Minami?"
I flinched at my name, at the direct question. My gaze flickered up to her kind, curious face, then to Kenji, who was looking at the line with a puzzled frown. Finally, my eyes landed on Haru. He was looking at the line, then at my hand still resting near the paper, then back at the line. His expression was still thoughtful, but there was a new element there, a flicker of something I couldn't decipher. Interest? Understanding?
I couldn't explain it in words, not easily. I pointed to the line, then made a small, encompassing gesture with my other hand, trying to convey 'protection' or 'barrier' without using a formal sign that might trigger another terrifying spark.
"A shield?" Aya guessed, her brow furrowed in thought. "Or a ward?"
Kenji stroked his chin. "Hmm. The curvature implies deflection… or perhaps containment. Many ancient warding symbols utilize encompassing shapes."
Haru was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on my simple line. Then he said, his voice still quiet, "It feels… active. Like something being formed. Not just static."
Active. Formed. He… he almost understood.
A tiny, fragile warmth spread through my chest, so unexpected it almost made me gasp. It wasn't the frightening heat in my hands from before; this was different. Softer.
I risked another quick glance at him. He met my eyes for a fraction of a second, and this time, I thought I saw the barest hint of a smile, a ghost of one, at the corner of his lips before he looked back at the paper.
The bell rang, signalling the end of the period. The spell, if there had been one, was broken. I pulled my hand back from the paper as if it were scorched, my cheeks burning again, but this time, the heat was mixed with a confusing swirl of emotions.
Aya gathered her sketches. "That's a really interesting starting point, Minami. We can explore that more tomorrow." She smiled at me again, a genuine, open smile. Kenji was already absorbed back in his book.
I mumbled a nod I wasn't sure they even saw and practically fled, my bag clutched to my chest. I didn't stop until I reached the cherry trees outside, their petals now mostly gone, replaced by young green leaves.
I had drawn a line. A single, stupid, shaky line. And they hadn't laughed. Haru had… he'd looked at it like it meant something. Aya had called it interesting.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was, perhaps, the bravest thing I had done all week. And as I stood there, the faint, phantom warmth still lingering in my chest, I wondered if a single line could be the beginning of a different kind of whisper.