That tiny, treacherous seed of hope, once planted, refused to stop growing. All afternoon, it coiled in my stomach, a tangled mess of excitement and terror.
A flicker. A look. She kept the gummy bears.
These were not facts. They were not evidence. They were whispers, crumbs for a starving man. But I devoured them anyway.
The final bell of the day was less a release and more a starting gun. My mind was racing, turning over a new, reckless idea. For seventy-eight days, I had built my plans around being a charming, unforgettable stranger. My success was measured by how perfect I could make a single day, knowing it would be erased.
But what if I changed the objective? What if, instead of creating a brand-new memory, I tried to... resonate with a buried one?
It was a crazy, high-stakes gamble. If I was wrong, if I pushed too hard and made things weird, I wouldn't just lose Day 79. I could make her uncomfortable, make her actively avoid the strange boy who seemed to know things he shouldn't.
My heart pounded at the thought. The risk was enormous.
But the ghost of her déjá vu was a siren's call.
I found her packing her bag by her locker. The hallways were already clearing out. This was my chance. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic thrumming in my veins.
"Tough forecast for tomorrow," I said, leaning against the locker next to hers. My attempt at a casual opening sounded strained even to me.
She jumped slightly, not having noticed me approach. When she saw who it was, her small, shy smile returned. "Oh. Hey, Mr. Meteorologist."
"Kelin is fine," I said, my own smile feeling stiff. "But I'm serious. My meteorological senses are telling me... it's going to be a good day."
"Oh yeah?" she asked, closing her locker. "What's your 'unconventionally brilliant' science telling you?"
She remembered the phrase. My heart skipped a beat. She was quoting me from this morning. It wasn't a flicker from a forgotten yesterday, but it was still a thread. A tiny thread of connection from this one, precious day. It was enough. I had to do it.
"My science," I began, my voice dropping, becoming more serious, "tells me that sometimes... a song can feel familiar, even if you've never heard it before."
I held my breath. I had just laid my cards on the table. It was a direct callback to our conversation this morning, and a massive, unsubtle reference to the song in the record store on Day 78.
Her smile faltered. That familiar, confused frown creased her brow. "A song?"
"Yeah." My hands felt clammy. I shoved them in my pockets. "There's this little place. A record store. 'Lost Sounds.' They have these old listening booths..." I was rambling, the words tumbling out too fast. "And there was this one song... a piano melody... about waiting for the sunrise."
I stopped. I'd said too much. The look on her face wasn't intrigued anymore. It was wary. Her amber eyes were guarded, confused. I had pushed past 'charming and weird' and was heading straight into 'creepy and unsettling.'
I had messed up. I had lost the day.
"Sorry," I backpedaled quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded like a bark. "That was... random. My brain makes weird connections. Gummy bear thermodynamics, remember?"
She didn't laugh. She just watched me, her expression unreadable. An awkward, painful silence stretched between us. It was a thousand times worse than the quiet on the bridge yesterday. This was the silence of a connection breaking.
"I should go," she said, her voice soft, but distant. She clutched her bag to her chest and turned to walk away.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. Idiot, idiot, idiot!
But then, she stopped. She hesitated, her back still to me.
Without turning around, she spoke, her voice so quiet I almost couldn't hear it over the pounding in my own ears.
"The singer," she said. "Was it a man's voice? In English?"
The world stopped spinning.
Time froze. The air solidified in my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
All I could do was stare at her back, at the cascade of pale lilac hair, and try to comprehend what she had just said.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A fact she somehow knew.
"How..." I choked out the word, my voice a strangled whisper. "How did you know that?"
She finally turned to face me. Her face was pale. The confusion in her eyes was now mixed with a spark of fear, of awe. She looked as lost and terrified as I felt.
"I don't know," she whispered, shaking her head slowly. "I... When you said 'piano' and 'sunrise'... I just... heard it. A piece of it. Just for a second."
She looked at me, her eyes wide, searching my face for an answer she desperately needed, an answer I couldn't give her.
"Who are you, Kelin Ishida?"
The question wasn't a flirtatious challenge anymore.
It was a genuine, terrified plea. And for the first time in seventy-nine days, I had absolutely no idea how to answer.