The bell marking the end of class rang out, and the classroom buzzed into its usual chaos. The last two periods were free, and most of the students had already begun planning their own fun. Rito, however, had a different plan.
He quietly packed his notebook and pen, ignoring Saruyama's call to join a game, and slipped out of the room. His mind wasn't in the mood for noise—it wanted words, sentences, and stories.
As he climbed the stairwell, the faint rustle of wind grew stronger until he pushed open the rooftop door and was greeted by sunlight and a serene breeze.
Suimei High School's rooftop was unexpectedly beautiful. Rows of potted plants lined the edges, and a few benches sat beneath the shade of small trees that cast moving shadows across the ground. It was quiet—peaceful. The kind of place that felt far removed from the noise of teenage life below.
Rito let out a faint sigh, a smile tugging at his lips. Perfect.
He took a seat beneath the tree, its shade shielding him from the glare of the afternoon sun. With a click, he opened a can of cold soda, the crisp sound echoing in the still air. The cool fizz refreshed his throat, chasing away the fatigue of the day.
Then, notebook in hand, he began to write.
His handwriting was slow but deliberate, lines of a new story—his story—spilling onto the page. He was drafting the second volume of his novel, the one about the "Money Bank," a system-driven tale inspired by the strange power within himself.
Each word felt heavier than the last, but in that quiet, it was just him and the sound of the wind.
He didn't notice the other presence until much later.
At the far end of the rooftop, beyond the flowerpots and the faint hum of air vents, stood a woman—graceful, composed, yet visibly burdened. Her long brown hair danced faintly in the breeze, and her soft eyes stared at the distant skyline with a loneliness that made the air itself feel still.
Tachibana Hina.
To most students, she was simply "Hina-sensei"—the beautiful, kind, and gentle literature teacher. But to Rito… she was something more. Someone whose story he already knew all too well.
Her hand trembled faintly as she dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. The glimmer of a tear slipped free, catching the sunlight before being stolen by the wind.
And fate, ever the prankster, guided that tear straight onto his notebook.
The drop landed softly, smudging his ink.
Rito blinked in surprise, his eyes lifting—and froze.
She turned at the same moment. Their gazes met.
For a brief heartbeat, the rooftop fell silent.
Rito's mind spun. Hina Tachibana… crying? He knew why—knew the reason from the memories of his past life, from the world of Domestic Girlfriend. A heart entangled by impossible love, by guilt, by dreams she couldn't confess. Seeing it now, not on a screen but in reality, was… overwhelming.
"Ah… she's crying…" he murmured softly under his breath, unaware that his voice had slipped out.
Hina flinched, quickly wiping her eyes with a shaky laugh. "Yada… being seen like this…"
Her tone was playful, but the sadness beneath it was raw.
Rito hesitated before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of tissues. "Here, Hina-sensei."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Rito-kun…? What are you doing up here?"
"The last two periods are free," he said, extending the tissues with a calm smile. "I was writing a light novel. Thought it'd be nice to do it somewhere quiet."
Hina's eyes softened as she accepted them. "Ah, writing a novel, is it? That's wonderful." Her voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying her attempt to compose herself. "You remind me of someone I used to know…"
"Hehe, thank you," Rito said, scratching his cheek shyly. "But I still have a long way to go. The story's okay, but I think I can make it better if I work harder on the words."
Hina's lips curved faintly. "That's the kind of honesty most writers forget. May I… read it?"
Rito paused, then nodded. "Sure. It's nothing amazing, but if you want to."
He handed over the first volume of his notebook. Hina accepted it gently, the paper trembling ever so slightly in her hands.
As she glanced through the opening lines, Rito spoke softly, almost hesitantly. "Also… I won't mention what I saw. But I hope, someday, Hina-sensei finds her own happiness."
Hina's eyes widened, caught between surprise and disbelief. Rito smiled faintly, his voice lowering. "Smiles suit you more, sensei."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the wind carried their silence.
Finally, Hina exhaled, a quiet, bittersweet laugh escaping her lips. She wiped the last trace of moisture from her eyes and looked at him with something warmer, something real. "You really are… kind, Rito-kun."
He shrugged, pretending to focus on his notebook again. "Not really. Just someone who's seen a story or two."
The faint hum of the city drifted between them as the sunlight began to mellow into gold.
On that rooftop, two people sat in quiet understanding—one carrying the weight of her unspoken past, the other aware of it yet choosing not to pry.
And for the first time that day, Hina-sensei's smile—small, genuine, and fragile—found its way back.
Hina-sensei adjusted her glasses slightly as she sat down beside Rito, the soft rustle of paper mixing with the gentle wind brushing across the rooftop.
She had accepted his notebook more out of curiosity than expectation. After all, he was just a high school boy—one of those who daydreamed about heroes and fantasy worlds. She didn't expect much, maybe a few clumsy sentences, a bit of self-insert adventure, or some childish plot about saving the world.
But as her eyes began to move across the page… her assumptions began to crumble.
At first, it did start like a standard light novel—a protagonist suddenly transported to another world, strange rules, a foreign kingdom, and an unfamiliar danger. It was simple, familiar… comforting, even.
Yet, as the story unfolded, the atmosphere shifted.
The tone darkened. The writing grew heavier. The warmth of adventure turned into the chill of despair.
The protagonist's death—his helplessness, the crushing weight of his failure, and his cursed return to the same moment again and again—it was far too raw for a story written by someone his age. The pain was human, not fantasy.
Hina found herself unconsciously gripping the notebook tighter, her chest tightening at the quiet horror in the boy's words.
Why does it hurt this much?
Her eyes darted across the lines, tracing the protagonist's fragile hope as it broke and mended again, like a candle flickering in the dark.
"Isekai… but not the kind that glorifies the other world," she murmured softly, her brow knitting. "He's not escaping—it's like he's trapped inside his own pain."
For a moment, she forgot she was on a school rooftop. She forgot that the writer beside her was just a student. Her world narrowed to the trembling sentences in front of her.
And the name that appeared again and again within the pages… Subaru.
The looping pain, the invisible struggle, the quiet persistence—each emotion struck deeper the further she read.
This… is more than just a fantasy. It's a mirror.
When she finally lifted her gaze, the school bell was already ringing faintly in the distance. The sunlight had shifted from bright gold to the gentle orange of late afternoon.
She blinked, a bit dazed, before looking toward Rito.
He was still there, leaning against the railing, his pen dancing across another page in a fresh notebook. Completely absorbed, completely unaware that the teacher beside him had just been shaken by his words.
"…So this is what you've been writing all this time," she said softly.
Rito looked up, surprised. "Ah—didn't notice the time, huh?" He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, his usual easy smile returning.
Hina exhaled, setting the notebook gently on her lap. "Rito-kun, this is a great story. Not just for your age—it's genuinely impressive."
Her words carried no trace of flattery.
He blinked, slightly embarrassed, rubbing his neck. "Eh… really? I just wrote what came to mind. Guess it got kind of dark halfway through."
Hina chuckled lightly, though her eyes still held that faint, unsettled gleam. "Dark, yes… but beautifully so." She paused, hesitating for a heartbeat before asking, "Would you mind if I borrowed this for a little while? I… want to finish it properly."
Rito smiled, relieved. "Sure, you can have it. I have another copy saved anyway."
Her expression softened at his easy trust. "Then I'll take it tomorrow in class. For now, it'll give me something to look forward to."
She stood, brushing off her skirt, her tone turning teasing as she added, "But tell me honestly, Rito-kun… are you sure you wrote this yourself?"
The question caught him off guard. "Huh? Why the doubt?"
Hina tilted her head with a playful grin. "Because it's far too mature. The pacing, the emotions, even the subtle realism in the suffering—it feels like someone who's lived through much more than a student could imagine."
Rito laughed awkwardly, trying to sound confident. "Of course it's mine! Who else but the great Yuuki Rito could write something that amazing?"
His shameless boasting made her burst into a light, genuine laugh—one that carried away the heaviness from earlier.
"Alright, alright, 'great author'," she teased, smiling warmly. "Just don't let fame get to your head before you even publish it."
They both laughed softly, the sunset painting long shadows across the rooftop. But as the laughter faded, Hina found her thoughts returning to the story—its despair, its fragile hope, and that single word looping again and again: Return by Death.
As she glanced at Rito once more, still scribbling with quiet focus, she couldn't help the faint chill that ran through her chest.
Could a normal boy really write something like that…?
She smiled, hiding her unease behind her usual composure, and began walking toward the rooftop door.
Yet even after she left, her mind refused to quiet. Each word she had read echoed faintly in her heart, stirring something she didn't quite understand.
A story about suffering, resilience, and finding light again.
A story written by one of her own students.
"…Yuuki Rito," she whispered to herself as she descended the stairs. "Just who are you, really?"