Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Koudo Ikusei High School library, weaving long bars of gold between the towering bookshelves. The air was steeped in the quiet perfume of aged pages, soft ink, and polished wood—a sanctuary untouched by the noisy pulse of campus life.
Shiina Hiyori walked alone through this forest of books.
Her silver hair—soft as moonlight—was loosely tied in two knots at the back of her head. Stray strands brushed her fair cheeks whenever she tilted her head. Her violet eyes, calm yet focused, swept across the spines arrayed before her.
Wrapped in the burgundy school uniform, her steps were so light they seemed absorbed into the silence itself. Surrounded by shelves stretching upward, she looked like someone naturally born into this quiet world.
She was in search of a familiar friend.
Raymond Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely.
A book she cherished enough to reread, wanting its words to accompany her into this new chapter of her student life.
Her fingertips slid along the rows of spines. Eventually, in the "European and American Mystery Novels" section, she found it: the black cover with its subtle gilded lettering.
It was high—too high.
Hiyori stretched, rising onto the tips of her sock-clad toes. Her fingers reached, strained, hovered…
Still several centimeters short.
She tried again, a small, controlled hop that barely made a sound. The silver strands of her hair swayed with her effort—like a small woodland creature trying to reach a berry on an overhanging branch.
But even earnest attempts bore no fruit.
A faint sigh escaped her lips. She lowered her hand, ready to search for a librarian.
Then—
A quiet shift in the light. A presence.
Someone had appeared beside the next bookshelf, so naturally it was as though he had always been part of the scenery.
Hiyori turned slightly.
A black-haired boy stood there, posture straight, burgundy uniform immaculate. The gaze behind his black-rimmed glasses glided across the shelf, pausing exactly at Farewell, My Lovely.
Sakamoto.
Hiyori lowered her hands, her expression composed. She nodded gently—an unspoken greeting—before turning to step aside.
Yet he did not simply pass.
Instead, Sakamoto lifted his gaze to the high shelf and moved with fluid certainty.
He did not reach clumsily.
He did not fetch a step stool.
He extended his right hand upward, slipping two fingers into the thin gap between the wood panels above the shelf with the ease of sliding a key into a lock. Then, with a soft tap of his toe—so light it barely stirred the dust—his body rose as though freed from weight.
His left hand darted up, fingers closing on the spine of the book with the precision of tweezers plucking a single thread.
Not a sound.
Not a wasted movement.
It looked more like the controlled pantomime of a seasoned performer than something done in a school library.
Before Hiyori even fully processed the motion, he had already descended, perfectly balanced, book in hand.
He didn't hand it over right away.
Instead, he gently brushed the top of the spine with a fingertip, clearing away a faint layer of dust with the care one gives a treasured artifact.
Only then did he turn, extending the book toward her with a calm, understated grace.
"Student," he said softly, "is this the one?"
Hiyori blinked.
Her violet eyes flicked from the book to his face, replaying the movement she had just witnessed. No ordinary person retrieved a book like that. No ordinary student moved like that.
She accepted the book with both hands, careful and respectful.
"…Thank you," she said, her voice light as drifting paper, "This is it."
Sakamoto nodded slightly, as if that confirmed the completion of a small, simple duty. He looked ready to leave.
But for once, Hiyori was unable to remain silent.
"You…"
Her fingers tightened faintly around the hardcover. Her violet eyes lifted, curiosity shimmering in their depths.
"Do you also like mystery novels?"
His precision, his quiet presence, the way he handled the book—it reminded her of detectives in classic literature: meticulous, composed, and unshakably self-possessed.
She waited, her question hanging gently in the air between them.
Sakamoto paused mid-step.
He turned back, his gaze briefly settling on Farewell, My Lovely in Shiina's hands. The faintest curve appeared at the corner of his lips—so subtle it was almost a shadow.
"Raymond Chandler," he said in a calm, measured tone. "A pioneer of hardboiled detective fiction. Philip Marlowe… a man who clings to principle in a corrupt world. That stubbornness—and loneliness—has a certain charm."
Shiina's fingers tightened around the book.
She hadn't expected that he would not only recognize the novel, but articulate its core with such clarity. The distant indifference in her violet eyes softened, replaced by a restrained spark of curiosity.
"You like Marlowe too?"
Her voice rose a touch—the slightest tremor of excitement beneath her usual gentleness.
"I admire how he holds onto his ideals, even knowing the ending may not be a good one."
"Principles," Sakamoto replied, "are like lighthouses. Even if the path ahead is certain to strike a reef, they illuminate the way. Perhaps that inevitability is part of what makes them beautiful."
He paused, fingers lightly tapping the spine of the book.
"Like in The Big Sleep. Marlowe understood the truth would only bring ruin, yet he voiced it anyway. 'To say goodbye is to die a little.'"
Shiina's heart skipped.
He quoted Chandler as if reciting something woven into his bones. And he understood it—not just the words, but the weight behind them. Her expression remained serene, but the light in her violet eyes grew brighter, as if something long dormant had stirred awake.
In a school filled with "elite students" yet so few genuine lovers of mystery fiction…
She had just found someone who resonated with her.
"Your perspective on mystery novels is… unique," she murmured. Her fingertips traced the embossed title on the cover. "You focus on more than just the plot—you look at the soul of the story."
"The plot is a skeleton," Sakamoto said. "Characters and ideas breathe life into it."
Silence drifted between them again, but now it was warm, not distant—like two readers quietly sharing the same page.
After a moment, Shiina drew a soft breath and raised her eyes.
"My name is Shiina Hiyori. Class 1-C."
She hesitated, then added quietly,
"A mystery-novel enthusiast."
Sakamoto inclined his head, posture flawless as always.
"I am Sakamoto. Class 1-A."
"Sakamoto-kun…" She repeated the name softly. Recognition flickered in her eyes.
So he was that Sakamoto—the one whose name had already spread across the first-year classes.
Her fingers tightened around the book. The longing for a like-minded companion finally outweighed her usual aloof reserve.
"Um…"
A strand of silver hair slid across her cheek as she lowered her head slightly.
"If it's not a bother… may we… exchange contact information? So we can talk about novels."
Her voice faded to a whisper. A faint pink warmed the tips of her ears.
Sakamoto took in her shy posture—her lowered gaze, the book hugged slightly closer to her chest. His expression remained composed, but a trace of gentleness lingered behind his glasses.
He reached calmly into his uniform pocket and brought out his phone.
A few precise taps. Then he turned the screen toward her: a blank contact page, cursor blinking patiently at the "Name" field.
"Of course," he said. "I would be glad to discuss the world of detective fiction with you, Shiina-san."
Shiina blinked, startled by the smoothness of it all.
She hurried to retrieve her own phone and typed her name, fingers trembling ever so slightly. She handed it to him.
Sakamoto entered his number into her phone with the same effortless grace as before and returned it to her.
"This is my number."
He showed her his own screen briefly for confirmation before sliding the phone back into his pocket.
A soft nod, and an almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"You're welcome. I hope you enjoy your reading."
With that, he offered a flawless bow and slipped away between the tall bookshelves—light steps, quiet presence, like a passing breeze that left no trace yet somehow changed the air.
Shiina remained standing in place.
She held Farewell, My Lovely to her chest, and her fingertips brushed her phone inside her pocket—warm now, as if storing the memory of a moment that had just become special.
The library's stillness embraced her once more.
But this time, that silence felt different—
as though a new chapter had just begun.