The rooftop was quiet—peaceful in the way few places at school ever were. The buzz of cicadas echoed faintly below, a backdrop to the sound of plastic bento lids clicking open and the occasional gust of wind brushing across your shoulders.

Ken Takakura sat beside you, legs drawn in, back slightly hunched like he was trying to take up less space than he did. He always sat that way in class too—shoulders tight, eyes fixed on his desk, pencil movements precise. He didn't talk much, not unless the topic aligned with something he cared deeply about. Today, you’d nudged that door open, just a little.

“So… have you ever looked into the Tunguska Event?” He asked, barely above a murmur, but with unmistakable intensity.

You glanced over. “No. What is it?”

His entire posture shifted. A tiny spark lit behind his eyes, and for once, his voice didn’t waver—it accelerated.

“In 1908, there was this explosion over Siberia. It flattened trees for miles—like, over 2,000 square kilometers. But here’s the weird part—no crater. Zero. Some scientists say it was an asteroid that exploded mid-air, but others…” He trailed off, lips twitching into a small, barely contained grin. “Others think it was something else. Something... not from Earth.”

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve as he spoke, but his words flowed without pause, rich in detail—dates, names, obscure theories, even eyewitness accounts. It wasn’t just enthusiasm; it was need. You recognized it. You’d seen the same need to share, to be understood, in the mirror.

“I think,” He said, after a breathless minute, “-they’ve already made contact. Quietly. Not the way movies show it. But…deliberate”

You took a bite of rice and nodded. “You really think a lot, huh?”

He blinked at you, then looked away quickly, expression guarded. “I…yeah. I don’t really talk about it. People think it’s weird.”

Silence fell again, but it was warmer. He stole a glance at you, lips twitching like he wanted to say more, yet didn’t. “Thanks, for listening I mean.” He muttered.