The umbrella leaned quietly against her bedroom wall, droplets long dried, its handle curved like a question mark.
Airi stared at it as she buttoned her cardigan. Her eyes lingered on the black ink doodles lining the underside—tiny raindrops, cats, and that quiet silhouette of a girl. She still didn't know if it was supposed to be her.
Maybe she didn't want to know.
Her fingers hovered over the handle, then pulled back. The forecast said it wouldn't rain today.
Still, she packed it in her bag.
At school, Rina found her near the shoe lockers.
"You look dazed," she said, poking Airi's cheek. "Thinking about your umbrella prince?"
Airi blinked. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me," Rina said with a grin. "You and Takahashi-kun were walking together yesterday. I saw it."
Airi lowered her gaze. "He gave me his umbrella."
Rina gasped. "That's practically a confession!"
"It's not."
"Then is it a test?"
Airi didn't answer.
Rina looped her arm around Airi's. "Well, if you don't want him, I call dibs."
Airi smiled faintly. "You'd never talk to him."
"That's true. He's too quiet. And weird. And kind of pretty, in a haunted art student way."
"He's not that weird."
Rina stopped walking and gave her a long look. "Oh, you're falling."
"I'm not."
"Your 'not' sounded a lot like a yes."
Their classroom buzzed with the low hum of morning energy—chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off windows, papers rustling like dry leaves. Airi made her way to her desk. Ren was already seated beside her, chin resting on his arm, gaze pointed lazily out the window.
"Good morning," she said, surprising even herself.
He turned his head. His eyes looked softer than usual today. "Morning."
A moment of silence passed.
Then he slid his sketchbook across the shared space between their desks.
"Look," he said.
She hesitated before pulling it toward her.
It was a new page.
Airi stood under an umbrella—his umbrella—and everything around her was rain. The sky was open and streaked with pencil-gray lines. Her expression wasn't clear, but something in her posture—subtle, inward—felt honest.
She blinked. "Why do you keep drawing me?"
"You keep showing up in my head," he said, without embarrassment.
Airi looked down. "You should stop."
"I probably won't."
She closed the book gently and handed it back. "You make it look like I'm someone interesting."
"You are," he replied, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She didn't know how to answer that.
Art class arrived in the afternoon, and for once, Airi didn't dread it.
The teacher gave them a simple assignment: draw something that makes you feel calm.
Airi sat at her easel and stared at the blank page for five long minutes.
She considered drawing the river.
Or maybe the books in her room.
But somehow, her pencil moved on its own.
First, a curved line—an umbrella.
Then, shoes. One slightly tilted inward.
A girl, not quite detailed, looking down.
And next to her... a boy.
Slouched. Relaxed. Face turned just slightly to the sky.
The pencil stopped.
She stared at what she'd drawn.
It didn't look good. Not even close. But it felt... real.
From across the room, she could feel Ren watching her.
When class ended, she left the drawing behind on the desk, not thinking much of it.
The next morning, she found a folded note tucked inside her locker.
No name. Just a simple line, scrawled in uneven handwriting.
"You draw like you're remembering something."
Airi stared at it for a long time.
She didn't know if it was praise or a warning.
But she folded it and placed it in her pocket anyway.
The next few days passed in fragments.
Moments blurred together—shared glances, unspoken words, quiet lunches. The clouds stayed low over Ikehama, a constant reminder of rain, even when it didn't fall.
And slowly, Airi found herself settling into a rhythm she hadn't expected.
On Friday afternoon, she waited by the back staircase with her bento. The spot was shaded, tucked behind a row of vending machines. She liked how the sunlight filtered through the stair railings, striping the floor in soft light.
She didn't expect him to come.
But he did.
Ren walked over casually, sketchbook in hand, expression unreadable as always.
"Mind if I sit?"
She shook her head.
He sat beside her without another word, flipping open to a fresh page.
This time, he didn't draw her.
He sketched the light—the way it hit the stair rails, the way the shadows stretched across the tiles. His pencil moved like it was remembering something, too.
"You said once you draw because you don't talk much," Airi said quietly.
He nodded.
"But you do talk," she added. "To me."
He paused.
Then, softly: "That's because you don't make it feel like I have to explain everything."
Airi blinked.
He didn't look up. "Most people want answers. You just... listen."
She lowered her gaze. "Maybe because I don't have many answers either."
The wind shifted. Leaves rustled outside. Someone slammed a classroom door above them.
But in the space between, there was stillness.
And that stillness felt like something sacred.
When they parted ways that day, he didn't offer his umbrella.
It wasn't raining.
But Airi almost wished it were.
That night, in her room, she pulled out her own sketch.
She smoothed the edges where it had wrinkled in her bag.
And for the first time since she'd moved back to Ikehama, she picked up a pencil again—not for school, not for assignments, but just... for herself.
She didn't know what she was drawing yet.
But somehow, she knew it would be the right thing once it was done.