The red roofs of Aoumi High blurred into gray shapes as fog crept in from the coast.
A week had passed since the opening ceremony—speeches about "future leaders" and applause that felt rehearsed. Posters in the hallways still read GLOBAL EXCELLENCE in block letters, edges already curling.
The school had reshuffled everything starting today.
Two new elite sections: ES1 and ES2.
Top students pulled from regular classes and dropped into advanced tracks. The halls buzzed with speculation.
"International lists."
"College scouts."
"PR move."
I'd spent my middle school years skating just above average to stay invisible. Landing in ES1 anyway felt wrong—like stepping into a trap I hadn't seen.
How did they even choose who made it in? Entrance exam scores? I hadn't scored high enough for this, and it's not even close.
Something didn't add up.
I kept moving.
My new classroom sat in Building D—all glass and fresh paint, set apart from the rest of campus. Tension hit me at the doorway before I'd even stepped inside. Everything was an upgrade from where I'd been last week. It smelled like fresh flowers, cutting through the uneasiness. The desks looked brand new and well-polished, as if I were the first to use them.
The students here were prim and proper—none of the noisiness from my old room. But it felt fake, as if they were all trying to read each other.
I took the seat farthest from the board. Then I saw her.
Hani Sakurai.
She was sitting in the second-to-last row, head bent over her notebook, writing something. Lines of text filled the margins—lyrics, maybe, or notes. I didn't look close enough to tell.
The cube in my pocket stopped turning.
She used to do that back then—fill pages while I worked through puzzles and riddles under the acacia tree in the old neighborhood. She'd write, I'd solve. I knew what filled those pages, but that was her world, not mine. She was just there, keeping me company while I puzzled things out.
Then the city rezoned everything. Her family moved across the bay.
We said we'd keep in touch.
We didn't.
Our eyes met. I froze for too long, and her leaf-shaped pen slipped and clattered to the floor.
I could've picked it up, said her name, closed the distance. But I stayed frozen.
She hesitated, hand hovering, then grabbed the pen herself. Her cheeks flushed before she looked away, then back to me.
Before we could say anything to each other, the door opened.
Ms. Song entered.
"Welcome to the elite section," she said. "Monthly rankings will be posted. Fall behind, and you're reassigned. No exceptions."
A guy in the front row laughed under his breath. "Finally."
Click. Clack.
I twisted my cube one-handed under the desk.
The room had mixed reactions. I was still wondering how I'd ended up here.
I glanced at Hani. Ending up in the same elite section felt too convenient. I wondered how she'd been all these years we'd been separated. But seeing her here, in the elite section—she was doing well, at least.
Maybe that was enough for one of us.
The morning went too fast. Subjects I hadn't seen in any standard curriculum. Ms. Song's warnings echoed under everything. My classmates leaned in where I would've leaned back.
Lunch came. The fog had thinned, but the sun was still weak. I was the first one out of the room.
I headed for my new locker in the east wing of Building D to grab my lunch.
I spun the dial.
Inside, on top of my books, sat a folded note that wasn't mine.
The paper was thick. Clean. Black print:
"Petals Around the Rose. Room 722. After Class."
At the bottom, neat handwriting:
- Michi N.
Michiko Nagano. Could it be her? I'd been hearing her name since I applied to this school. The only student who got accelerated to second year after scoring perfectly on the entrance exam.
Why slip this into my locker?
"Petals Around the Rose."
A riddle? A test?
If I ignored it, I'd think about it all week. If I took the bait, I'd get pulled in.
---
The school day dragged on. Recitations where students tried to show off. In poetry, Hani answered a question about rhythm—something about syllable stress in song lyrics. Her voice carried a quiet melody of its own, steady until it wavered at the end. A few students turned to look at her. I might've listened longer, but Michiko's note kept pulling me back.
The final bell emptied the halls fast. I looked up Room 722—library building, second floor.
I should've left it alone.
But I didn't.
I headed there instead of toward the school gates. Turning a corner, I almost ran into Hani. She stopped short, fingers clenched around a familiar piece of paper.
"Eiji?" Her voice sounded careful.
She glanced toward Room 722, then back at me. Shadows under her eyes hinted at rough nights.
My gut tightened. Hani, of all people. We hadn't talked since before the rezoning—promises that had faded with distance.
Seeing her here with the same note felt too convenient.
"You got one too," I said. Not a question.
She nodded.
We were both caught in the same pull.