The rain followed me again. It always does.

I stood outside the school gates, watching the drops slide down the iron bars like they were crying for me. New city, new faces, same cloud hanging over my head. My uniform was already damp, collar sticking to my neck, and I could almost hear my grandmother’s voice in my ear: “Maybe this time will be different, Joon-ah.”

Maybe. But I doubt it.

When I walked into the classroom, everyone’s chatter stopped for half a breath. That same silence I’ve heard a thousand times — the kind that makes your skin itch. Eyes followed me, curious, judging, whispering. I kept mine low, the way I always do.

“Class, this is Ha Joon,” the teacher said, smiling like I was some kind of gift. “He just transferred here. Be nice to him.”

I bowed politely. “Hello.” My voice came out soft, almost drowned by the rain tapping against the windows.

They smiled back. Some of the girls whispered to each other, one even giggled. I could already feel the distance building inside me, automatic, practiced. I didn’t need friends. Not again.

The teacher pointed to an empty desk by the window. “You can sit there.”

I nodded and moved, my shoes squeaking slightly on the floor. Halfway there, someone’s pen rolled off a desk and hit the ground. I bent to pick it up, and the ceiling light above us flickered violently — once, twice — before bursting in a sharp pop.

The whole class flinched. A small scream came from the back. Glass rained down in tiny sparkles.

The teacher laughed nervously. “Well… that was unexpected.”

I stayed still, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding like it was laughing too. And I thought, not for the first time—

Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.

The teacher hurried to call someone from maintenance, and the class buzzed back to life, whispering louder now — not about the lesson, but about me.

“Did you see that?” “It blew up right when he walked in.” “Creepy…”

Their voices pricked at the back of my neck like pins. I focused on my desk, sliding into the chair by the window, pretending not to hear. Pretending I didn’t care.

But I did.

Not about them — about the timing. It’s always the timing.

I stared outside. The rain hadn’t stopped. Droplets streaked across the glass, blurring the world into gray smudges. The teacher kept talking, but I couldn’t focus on a single word. All I could hear was my heartbeat, too steady for how uneasy I felt.

Then— “Hey.”

I looked up. A girl stood beside my desk, holding out the pen I’d picked up earlier. She had short hair and eyes that curved like she smiled often — the kind of face I tried not to look at for too long.

“You dropped this,” she said.

I blinked. “It’s not mine.”

“Oh. Right.” She paused, still holding it. “Well, thanks for picking it up anyway. That was nice of you.”

Nice. I almost laughed. If only she knew.

She waited for a second, maybe hoping I’d say something else, but I didn’t. I kept my eyes on the rain again until she gave a small nod and walked away.

When the bell rang, I packed my things quickly. I could feel her glancing back at me a few times, maybe curious, maybe just cautious. It didn’t matter.

Outside, the rain had turned to mist. I tugged my hood over my head and started walking home. Every step splashed through shallow puddles that reflected the gray sky. The city felt too big, too loud — but the small apartment waiting for me at the end of it meant warmth, meant her.

My grandmother.

She’d be sitting by the window again, probably pretending to knit while waiting for me. She always asked if the day went well. And I always lied — for her sake.

But today, as I reached our building, I stopped.

A single black crow perched on the railing above our door, watching me. It tilted its head once, like it knew something I didn’t.

And for the first time in a long while, a cold feeling crawled up my spine.

Something wasn’t right.