The sound of his own crying startled him more than the loneliness ever had.
He hadn't heard that sound—his sound—in so long that it felt foreign, like listening to someone else weeping through a wall. His shoulders trembled, not from cold, but from something deeper—an ache with no name, building for years, silently demanding release. Tears streamed down his face in silence, mixing with the mist clinging to his skin, indistinguishable except for the heat they carried.
He hid his face against his arms.
No one would find him. No one ever did.
He believed that with certainty.
Until—
"Are you… okay?"
Sozuki froze.
His breath caught mid-shiver.
The voice was soft. Young, but not childish. It wasn't bright like laughter nor heavy like pity—it was something else. Something gentle. Something uncertain. Something… careful.
He did not lift his head.
He didn't trust what he heard.
Rain pattered against the ground. Festival music murmured faintly in the distance. For a moment, he wondered if the voice belonged to memory, or dream, or some fragment of his own imagined hope cracked open by tears.
Then—
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
The voice came closer.
Soft footsteps pressed into wet grass, slow and hesitant.
Sozuki's fingers dug into his sleeves. His heart trembled like a frightened animal caught between fleeing and freezing.
The footsteps stopped beside him.
No one ever stood beside him.
People glanced, stared, waved from afar, or avoided him altogether—but no one came close.
He waited for her to leave.
She didn't.
Instead, very quietly, she said:
"It's okay if you don't want to talk. But… if I sit here, will it bother you?"
Sozuki hesitated.
His voice came out small. Fragile.
"…No."
The grass shifted as she lowered herself beside him.
Not directly in front of him.
Not behind.
Beside.
As though she had silently understood that facing him might overwhelm him—and ignoring him would hurt.
She sat close enough that he could sense her warmth, even though he could not feel it.
They stayed like that for a long while.
She didn't speak.
She didn't move.
She didn't sigh, or shuffle, or make any sign of impatience.
She simply stayed.
Sozuki's sobs faded naturally, not because he willed them to stop, but because—without warning, without reason—he no longer felt entirely invisible.
Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head.
He turned to look at her.
She was older than him—perhaps sixteen. Their hair the color of sepia satins, slightly damp from the mist.
She wore no umbrella. No coat. Her hands rested gently in her lap. Beside her lay a sketchbook, its edges worn, a pencil tucked neatly in the binding.
Her face was calm. Not smiling. Not frowning. Simply present.
Quiet.
Real.
She turned her gaze to him.
Her eyes were soft. Not wide with surprise or narrowed with suspicion. Just open.
He flinched.
Not because she frightened him—but because being seen so directly felt too much like sunlight on long-neglected skin.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Do you feel better now?"
He blinked.
No one had ever asked him that before.
Not even in his faint memories. People asked him where he was from, where his parents were, why he was alone—but never how he felt.
He lowered his gaze.
"…A little."
A faint smile curved at the corner of her lips. Not triumph. Not satisfaction.
Relief.
"I'm glad," she said softly.
He stared at the grass.
He didn't know what to say. He was afraid that if he said too much, she would vanish. If he said too little, she would lose interest.
So he said nothing.
She seemed to understand silence better than words.
After a moment, she leaned forward slightly, hugging her knees close to herself. Not mimicking him—but matching him.
"You were crying a lot," she said gently. "It sounded like it hurt."
He swallowed.
"…It did."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He hesitated.
"…No."
She nodded once. Not disappointed. Not discouraged.
"Okay."
The breeze stirred again, brushing past them like a ghostly hand. Lantern light flickered in the distance. Fireworks crackled faintly above the clouds, their glow melting into the mist like distant stars.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sozuki did not feel like part of the background.
He felt… witnessed.
She picked up her sketchbook and laid it gently on her lap.
Without looking at him, she asked quietly:
"Can I draw you?"
He stared.
The question was so unexpected that it stunned him more than any personal inquiry could have.
"…Why?"
She looked up at the sky.
Her answer came with no hesitation.
"Because I want to remember you."
The words struck him like thunder beneath still rain.
No one had ever said that to him.
People forgot him.
Always.
Even those who noticed him briefly would lose him like a detail in a dream by morning. He was a fleeting presence, a momentary blur, a coincidence of vision quickly dismissed by logic.
No one wanted to remember him.
His voice trembled.
"You… won't forget?"
Her answer was immediate.
"I don't want to."
She met his eyes.
"And even if I do someday… I'd rather have proof that you were here."
His throat tightened.
Something hot stung his eyes again—but this time, the tears didn't carry loneliness.
They carried disbelief.
He nodded slowly.
"…Okay."
A gentle smile touched her lips—not bright, not dramatic, just real.
She opened her sketchbook.
The pencil began to move.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Her movements were precise but unhurried. She didn't draw like someone rushing to capture a face. She drew like someone listening.
Occasionally, she glanced up—not at his features, but at his expression, as though she wanted to understand what he was feeling rather than what he looked like.
He watched her hands.
They trembled once. Only slightly. Not from cold.
From care.
He didn't realize how intently he was staring until she spoke quietly without lifting her gaze.
"You have sad eyes."
He blinked.
She continued tracing gently.
"But they're not empty."
He swallowed.
She smiled faintly.
"Sad eyes that still hope for something… are the most beautiful to draw."
He didn't know what to say to that.
No one had ever called anything about him beautiful.
No one had ever described his sadness so kindly.
He lowered his gaze.
"…What's your name?"
It came out timid, but she looked up with softness.
"Hana Misori."
He absorbed the name like a warm sip of tea. Soft. Floral.
He opened his mouth.
"...I'm—"
"Sozuki Yamagaki," he said.
She froze.
Her heartbeat jumped in her heart.
"Thats... a nice name Sozuki!"
She lifted her sketchbook and turned it toward him.
He gasped.
His name—Sozuki—was written faintly across the hem of his shirt in her drawing. She had captured how the wet fabric clung. How his hair fell. How his gaze wavered. But around his outline… she had drawn something else.
A faint haze. Almost imperceptible. Like mist rising from his skin.
He stared at it.
She lowered the book.
"I saw it when I walked up. Only for a moment. A kind of shimmer around you."
He didn't speak.
She looked at him—not with fear. Not with disgust. Not with confusion.
With understanding.
Or perhaps—not understanding yet.
But willingness to understand.
Her voice came soft. Careful.
"Sozuki."
He held his breath.
She met his eyes.
"Do you… know what you are?"
His heart lurched.
He shook his head.
"I… I don't know."
She nodded gently, as though confirming something she had long suspected.
She closed her sketchbook slowly.
"I don't know either."
His shoulders sagged.
But then she continued.
"…But if you're okay with it…"
She smiled. A little sad. A little hopeful.
"…can I stay with you until we find out?"
He stared.
For a long time.
Long enough that the fireworks faded.
Long enough that the rain finally stopped.
Long enough that the night felt like it was holding its breath.
His answer came not as words.
He simply nodded.
And for the first time since he could remember—
Sozuki Yamagaki was not alone.
End of Chapter Two