The corridor outside the classroom felt longer than usual.
Students had already dispersed, their whispers thinning into echoes that clung to the walls. Tobi walked without direction at first, hands in his pockets, his mind still stuck on the word priest—on the way Simuya had said it like a curse, like something rotten that refused to die.
Light priest.
He stopped when he noticed someone sitting near the window at the end of the hall.
Sumi.
She hadn't gone with the others. She sat on the floor, back resting against the wall, knees drawn close—not hiding, not waiting. Just… existing. The late afternoon sun spilled through the glass, soft and pale, touching her hair without burning it.
For a moment, Tobi didn't move.
He remembered the way Simuya had grabbed her collar.
The way Sumi hadn't flinched.
The way she hadn't looked surprised—only tired.
He took a step closer, then another, until his shadow brushed against the light near her feet.
"Are you… okay?" he asked again, quieter than before.
Sumi looked up.
Her expression was gentle, but not fragile. There was something calm in her eyes—something that felt older than the school, older than the moment. She nodded once.
"I am," she said. Then, after a pause, "Thank you. For earlier."
Tobi scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "I didn't really do anything."
"You did," she replied softly. "You stood there."
That made him look at her.
She shifted slightly, making space beside her—not an invitation, not a demand. Just room. After hesitating, Tobi sat down, leaving a careful distance between them.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was… warm.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Inside, the school felt like it was holding its breath.
"Do they always treat you like that?" Tobi asked, his voice low.
Sumi didn't answer right away. She watched the dust floating in the sunlight, tiny specks drifting like stars that had lost their way.
"Not always," she said. "But often enough."
Tobi frowned. His chest felt tight in a way he didn't understand.
"I don't get it," he muttered. "If priests are supposed to be… you know, good—then why—"
"Because light doesn't always mean kindness," Sumi said gently, cutting him off without harshness. "Sometimes it just means power."
He turned toward her fully now.
She wasn't angry. That was the strangest part. No bitterness. No hatred. Just acceptance—like someone who had already cried all the tears they were allowed.
"That must be hard," he said.
Sumi smiled faintly. "It can be."
Another pause.
Tobi's fingers curled against the floor. "If… if you ever don't want to be alone after something like that," he said, choosing each word carefully, "you don't have to be."
She blinked, surprised—not by the offer, but by how sincere it was.
"…Thank you," she said again.
This time, the word lingered between them.
The sun dipped lower, painting the corridor gold. Their shoulders didn't touch, but they were close enough to feel each other's presence—steady, quiet, real.
Tobi didn't see her as a priest in that moment.
Just a girl who carried something heavy and never complained about the weight.
And Sumi, watching the light fall across his face, thought—just briefly—that maybe not all swords were meant to cut.
Some were meant to stand between.