The distant chirping of sparrows, filled the evening.

  Sounds of brass musical instruments. Trombones, Tubas, Trumpets, somewhere across the school yard, practicing.

  The distant screeching of shoes, the rhytmic thudding of basketball being bounced at the gymnasium below.

  The rhythmic scratching of a paintbrush against canvas filled the small room, each stroke deliberate, each movement lost in the rhythm of creation.

  The room smelled of acrylics and turpentine, a scent that Haruki had come to associate with freedom—a freedom she rarely felt outside these four walls.

  In the center of the room stood a girl, her figure silhouetted by the golden light of the setting sun streaming through the window. Haruki Fujiyama, her dark hair tied loosely in a ponytail, stood before an easel, her paintbrush moving almost instinctively across the canvas. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line as she lost herself in the world she was creating.

  To anyone watching, it might have seemed like she was painting a ndscape or a portrait, but to Haruki, it was something more. It was a world—a world where the colors bled into each other like emotions, where the lines blurred between reality and imagination. A world where she could be anything.

  She stepped back for a moment, tilting her head as she studied her work. The painting was abstract, a swirl of blues and purples with streaks of gold cutting through like sunlight breaking through a storm. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it was hers.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered if such a pce could exist. A pce where she didn’t have to argue with her father about art school, where her mother didn’t gently suggest she consider a “more practical” career. A pce where she could just be, without the weight of expectations pressing down on her shoulders.

  Her brush hovered over the canvas as her thoughts drifted. What would it be like to live in a world where her dreams weren’t just dreams? Where she could paint all day, every day, and no one would tell her it was a waste of time? Where her father’s stern face would soften with pride instead of disappointment? She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. Maybe such a world only existed in her paintings. Maybe it was foolish to hope for anything more.

  Before she could sink deeper into her thoughts, the door behind her creaked open, pulling her back to reality. The sound of footsteps and the faint jingle of a charm bracelet broke the silence.

  Before she could sink deeper into her thoughts, the door behind her creaked open, pulling her back to reality. The sound of footsteps and the faint jingle of a charm bracelet broke the silence.

  “Haruki-chan!” a sing-songy voice called out, bright and cheerful. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Haruki didn’t hear her at first. Her mind was still lost in the world of her painting, far removed from the Art Club room. She was thinking about the shadows—how they should fall, how they should interact with the light. Should the reds be warmer? Did the greens csh? She murmured to herself, her brush hovering uncertainly over the canvas. “Maybe if I add a touch of ochre here…”

  The girl, standing by the door with her hands on her hips, frowned when Haruki didn’t respond.

  “Haruki-chan!” she called again, louder this time. Still, Haruki didn’t turn.

  The boy, standing beside Aiko with arms crossed, let out a quiet sigh. “Aiko, don’t,” he warned, already sensing what she was about to do.

  Aiko fshed him a grin, ignoring his disapproving tone. “Oh, come on, Akihito. She’s too in her head again.”

  Akihito adjusted his gsses, exasperation flickering across his face. “So? Let her concentrate.”

  “Or,” Aiko said mischievously, “I could bring her back to reality in the fun way.”

  Quietly, Aiko tiptoed across the room, her sneakers making no sound on the wooden floor. She crept up behind Haruki, her hands poised to strike.

  Then, with a dramatic flourish, she cpped her hands on Haruki’s shoulders and shouted, “Boo!”

  Haruki jumped, her paintbrush slipping from her fingers and smearing a streak of green across the canvas.

  “Aiko!” she excimed, spinning around to gre at her friend. “What was that for?!”

  Aiko burst into ughter, doubling over as Haruki scowled. “You should’ve seen your face!” she wheezed, clutching her stomach. “Priceless!”

  Akihito let out another sigh and shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, walking over to inspect the damage. “And now she has to fix that.”

  Haruki groaned, turning back to her painting. “Ugh, Aiko! This was almost done!”

  “Rex, rex! You can totally turn that into, uh…” Aiko squinted at the streak. “A tree branch? A shadow? A really abstract emotion?”

  Akihito pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or you could just not ruin her work in the first pce, Aiko.”

  Haruki sighed, rubbing her temple. “You two are exhausting.”

  “See?” Aiko grinned, nudging Akihito. “She means you too.”

  Akihito simply crossed his arms. “At least I’m not the one causing her problems.”

  Haruki shook her head, but despite herself, a small smile tugged at her lips. The three of them were an odd bance—Aiko’s chaos, Akihito’s restraint, and her own quiet focus—but somehow, it worked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Aiko said, still giggling. She stepped closer, peering over Haruki’s shoulder at the painting. “Whatcha painting there, Picasso?”

  Haruki didn’t look up, her focus returning to the canvas. “Komorebi,” she said simply. “I need practice painting light.”

  Aiko tilted her head, studying the painting. It was a tree, its leaves dappled with sunlight that seemed to shimmer even in its unfinished state. “Whoa, that’s awesome!” she said, her voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Is the light going to be brighter than your future?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s just a painting.” Haruki chuckled despite herself, shaking her head. “Why the weird question?”

  Before Aiko could answer, Akihito cleared his throat from where he stood, arms crossed. “Speaking of your future,” he said, his tone even but pointed, “you still haven’t filled out your Career Pns paper.”“Mrs. Kitagawa has been asking about it all day. You’re one of the st people who haven’t submitted it.” He reached into his neatly organized bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “You left this at your desk this morning.”

  Haruki’s smile faltered as she looked at the paper. “Oh, yeah,” she said quietly, setting down her painting knife. She peeled off her paint-stained gloves and apron, then took the paper from Aiko. The words “Career Pns” were printed in bold letters at the top, and the sight of them made her stomach twist.

  “So, have you thought of any?” Aiko asked, leaning casually against the table. Her tone was light, but her eyes were curious, searching Haruki’s face for an answer.

  Haruki sighed, setting the Career Pns paper down on the table. “No… I’m not sure.”

  Akihito, who had been re-organising his bag, gnced up. “What about Tokyo University?” he suggested. “You’re one of our best painters in the Art Club. Their fine arts program is one of the best. My older brother goes there to study computer science, he

  says the professors are amazing, and their alumni do well in the industry.”

  Haruki hesitated, her fingers tightening around her paintbrush.

  Aiko perked up at the idea. “Ohhh, that’s a great idea! You’d totally get in,” she said, nudging Haruki with her elbow.

  But instead of excitement, Haruki’s shoulders slumped. She turned back to her painting, brushing light strokes onto the canvas as if to distract herself. “You know my dad,” she murmured. “He’d rather I become a doctor or something ‘respectable’ than go there.”

  Akihito frowned slightly but didn’t push. Aiko, on the other hand, scoffed. “Pfft, respectable? As if painting isn’t just as important!”

  Akihito gave her a pointed look. “That’s not how the world works, Aiko.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Aiko waved him off before turning back to Haruki. “But seriously, Haru-chan, don’t let your dad kill your dreams.”

  Haruki swallowed, eyes lingering on the painting in front of her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe it’s not a dream if I can’t even say it out loud.”

  Aiko frowned, crossing her arms. “Why not? Didn’t one of the seniors from Art Club go there?” She tapped her chin, trying to remember. “I think she used to be the vice president of the Art Club back when we were first-years.”

  Haruki paused, her brush hovering over the canvas. “Matsuda-senpai?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah! Yaeko Matsuda!” Aiko said, snapping her fingers. “Her paintings were gorgeous. Didn’t she go to Tokyo University to pursue fine arts?”

  “Aiko… Didn’t you know?” Akihito said, “She never enrolled.”

  “Wait,” Haruki swiftly turned to him, for a second, she abandoned her painting to fully turn towards them. “What do you mean?”

  “Although my brother didn’t study fine arts there, he is studying computer science,” Akihito expined. “I asked him about Matsuda-senpai once, just out of curiosity. But when he checked, she wasn’t on any student lists. None of the professors had heard of her, and even the students she was supposed to be friends with had no idea where she went.”

  Haruki fell silent, her expression darkening. The room seemed to grow colder, the cheerful chatter of the brass band outside, the rhytmic thudding, screeching and cheer from the gymnasium below fading into the background. She set her brush down and turned fully to face him.

  Aiko blinked, confused. “Wait… so what are you saying?”

  Akihito exhaled, folding his arms. “I don’t know. Just that she disappeared before graduation, and nobody—not her cssmates, not even her close friends—knows where she went.”

  Aiko’s pyful demeanor flickered, repced by unease. “Are you implying that she—?”

  Haruki didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the brush in her hand. Disappeared? That couldn’t be right.

  Her gaze drifted past Akihito and Aiko, toward the wall of poroid photos behind them. The Art Club’s memories, snapshots of their weekly plein-air painting sessions, their shared ughter, the occasional paint-smudged chaos. Her eyes scanned over familiar faces, frozen mid-ughter, mid-brushstroke, before nding on one particur photo.

  Yaeko Matsuda.

  Her hair was tied in a neat braid, round gsses perched on her nose, a gentle yet confident smile on her face. Below the picture, scrawled in thick marker, were the words: Fight on, Vice President Matsuda!

  Haruki’s throat tightened. Back when she was a first-year, she had looked up to Matsuda more than anyone. It was Matsuda who had trusted her, who had passed on the role of Vice President before her graduation. Haruki had always believed that Matsuda was out there, pursuing her dreams, painting, creating—just as she had always encouraged Haruki to do.

  But what if she never made it?

  “No…” Haruki swallowed, her fingers loosening from the brush. “That can’t be right.”

  She tore her gaze away from the photo, but the weight in her chest remained. The room felt colder, the usual warmth of the Art Club repced with something hollow and uncertain.

  For a moment, none of them spoke. The distant sound of the brass band outside felt oddly out of pce, as if the world beyond their quiet art room had no idea that a mystery had just settled in the space between them.

  Then, Akihito exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said, offering a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to make the room feel like a horror story.” He leaned back against the table, gncing between them. “It’s probably just a rumor, anyway. A big university like Tokyo? My brother might’ve just had bad luck trying to find her.”

  Haruki let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The tension eased, if only slightly. “Yeah… maybe,” she murmured.

  Aiko, sensing the shift, cpped her hands together. “Alright! Enough ghost stories before sunset.” She stretched, her usual energy returning, though there was still a flicker of unease in her eyes.

  Haruki forced a small smile. “I’ll tidy up for a bit, then I’ll meet you at the bicycle park.”

  “Got it!” Aiko chirped, her usual sing-songy voice back in full force. But as she turned to leave, she paused at the doorframe, gncing back at Haruki. “Hey, Haruki-chan.”

  Haruki raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

  Aiko grinned. “Have you thought of any career path, just off the top of your head?”

  Haruki tilted her head. “Off the top of my head—?”

  “Quick! Answer, no time!” Aiko teased, rocking on her heels.

  Haruki hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “Art school,” she said firmly. “That’s what’s on the top of my head.”

  Aiko’s smile widened, and she gave Haruki a thumbs-up. “Then write it on your paper and submit it before Mrs. Kitagawa continues nagging me about it!”

  Haruki ughed, the st remnants of tension finally lifting. “I will, I will. Now go on, I’ll catch up.”

  As Aiko disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly, Haruki turned back to her painting. The komorebi—the sunlight filtering through the leaves—seemed to glow brighter now, as if reflecting the spark of determination in her heart. She dipped her brush into the thinner, cleaning it carefully before putting everything in its pce.