"We don't choose where spring begins. But sometimes… it chooses us."
Mio Hanabira hated first days.
New shoes always felt too tight. Uniforms never sat perfectly straight, no matter how many times she ironed them. And someone always asked the question she couldn't answer without lying.
> "What kind of girl are you?"
She smiled anyway. Because girls who smile aren't questioned too much.
Himawari Girls' Academy stood like a modern castle — all white walls, glass corridors, and a quiet chill that never left, even in spring. It was elite, quiet, and expensive. Perfect for girls who were expected to become someone.
Mio walked toward the dorm block, suitcase dragging behind her like a regret she hadn't unpacked yet.
Room 3-C. Top floor. Shared.
She didn't like sharing.
When she opened the door, she expected noise—giggling, gossip, maybe even perfume.
Instead, there was silence. Heavy, waiting silence.
The first thing she saw was the piano.
A real one. Not a keyboard. Black. Elegant. Sitting beside the window like it owned the sunlight.
The second thing she saw was her.
A girl sat there, eyes closed, headphones on, fingers frozen above the keys. Her long silver hair draped over her uniform like moonlight. She looked like a painting that didn't know it had been finished.
Mio stood there awkwardly until—
> "If you stare any longer," the girl said without opening her eyes, "I'll start charging rent."
Mio blinked. "Sorry. I just—uh, I didn't know we had a pianist."
> "We don't." She finally turned, pulling off her headphones. Her eyes were a shade of stormy gray, bored and blunt. "I play because silence annoys me."
> "I'm Mio Hanabira," she said, trying not to shrink under the gaze. "Transfer. Third year."
The girl gave a tiny nod. "Aika Yukishiro."
That was it.
No "nice to meet you." No handshake. Just the name — tossed like a worn coin.
The third bed was still untouched.
Mio glanced at it. "There's… someone else?"
> "Yeah. Sora. She'll come when she feels like it. Don't ask questions. She doesn't like them."
> "Right."
Mio walked to her bed, the one in the middle, and sat down. The mattress was too soft. The space too small. The silence too loud again.
> "You transferred late," Aika said suddenly.
> "Yeah. Family stuff."
A pause. She could feel Aika watching her, the way a cat watches a closed box.
> "You smile too much," Aika said.
Mio smiled again. "Everyone says that."
> "It's exhausting. Don't."
They didn't talk for another hour. Aika went back to her music. Mio unpacked her sketchbook, hiding it under the pillow like a secret diary. The third bed remained untouched.
Later That Night
The third girl arrived at 10:37 PM.
She didn't knock. She didn't greet. She walked in like a ghost returning to its own room.
Shoulder-length black hair. Oversized hoodie. No eye contact.
> Aika just said, "Hey."
> The girl grunted back. "Mm."
Sora.
Mio watched her climb into bed, curl up with her back to the world, and vanish beneath the blankets.
The room was full now.
But it had never felt emptier.
First Day of Class
Their homeroom teacher was five minutes late. The girls whispered theories.
> "She's probably hungover."
"Or hot. I heard she's young."
"I bet she's one of those teachers…"
Then the door opened.
And everything stilled.
She walked in like she wasn't walking — she was performing. Heels clicked like punctuation. Long black hair. Crimson-framed glasses. A white blouse tucked into a slit black skirt that moved like smoke. And eyes that looked like they'd seen things no textbook could teach.
> "Good morning," she said, voice calm like poetry. "I'm Miss Reika Kamizawa. I'll be your homeroom teacher, literature instructor, and the only adult in your life who won't pretend to know everything."
Mio blinked.
She knew that voice.
Somewhere. From somewhere she wasn't supposed to remember.
Reika scanned the room… then paused.
Their eyes met.
For just a second, Reika's calm wavered. Something flickered. Surprise? Recognition?
Then it was gone.
> "Let's begin."
After Class
Mio approached her.
> "Excuse me, Miss Kamizawa… I think I've—"
> "No," Reika cut in, smiling faintly. "You haven't. And it's better if you don't."
> "But—"
> "You transferred from Shirosaki Private, didn't you?" Reika asked, voice too soft.
> Mio stiffened. "Yes. How did you—?"
> "Read your file," she said.
Then, very gently, she leaned closer.
> "Some stories are better left unread, Miss Hanabira. Especially when they involve people like us."
And with that, she walked away.
Later That Night
Mio sat on her bed, sketching. Her pencil shook.
> "You okay?" Aika asked without looking.
> "I don't know," she whispered.
Aika looked over. "That's okay too."
Outside, cherry blossoms kept falling, even though the wind had died hours ago.