That evening, the campus was unusually silent.
The laughter from the afternoon felt like it belonged to another world.
Aiyumi packed her sketchbook slowly. The others had already left after practice. The orange sunset fell across her desk — warm, yet lonely.
As she turned to leave, a cold breeze swept through the corridor. Papers fluttered to the ground. One page from her sketchbook tore loose, sliding across the floor until it stopped near the notice board.
She bent down to pick it up — but froze.
There was something pinned under the glass of the board. A note.
Her eyes widened.
It wasn't there before.
Just a single piece of paper.
No signature.
No name.
Only one sentence written in neat, sharp handwriting:
"Do you still remember what you promised years ago?"
Her heartbeat quickened.
That line — that exact line — from her childhood.
The hallway lights flickered once… twice…
Then went out completely.
When they came back on, the note was gone.
Aiyumi stood still, clutching her sketchbook tightly against her chest, her mind racing back to memories she thought she'd buried long ago — and to someone she hadn't thought about in years.