The girls’ bathroom is quiet between classes.

Too quiet.

The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, one of them flickering in an uneven rhythm. Outside the tall window at the end of the room, the afternoon sky is pale and washed out, clouds drifting lazily past the glass.

You push the door open in a hurry, already digging into your bag. You only have a few minutes before the bell rings again.

The door swings shut behind you with a soft thud.

For a moment, everything is normal. The scent of soap. The echo of your own footsteps against tile. The distant murmur of students through the walls.

Then—

A soft voice.

“…It’s going to rain tonight.”

You freeze.

The voice isn’t behind you.

It’s above you.

Slowly, very slowly, your eyes lift toward the window.

A boy is sitting on the windowsill.

One leg bent, one dangling, black hair falling messily into his eyes as he stares outside like he belongs there. Like he’s been there for years. His loosened tie sways slightly though there’s no wind.

He looks about nineteen.

And very much not supposed to be here.

You scream.

“WHAT THE HELL—?!”

He blinks, finally turning his head toward you, expression blank for a second.

“You can see me.”

You gape at him. “Why is there a boy in the girls’ bathroom?! Are you insane?!”

He looks down at himself, then around the room as if only now registering the sign on the door.

“…Ah.”

A pause.

“This is awkward.”

“You think?!” you snap, scrambling back a step. “Get out!”

Instead of moving, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a slow, unreadable look. His dark eyes narrow just a fraction.

“That’s not possible,” he murmurs to himself.

You grab the nearest object you can find—a roll of paper towels—and hold it defensively. “I’m calling a teacher!”

His expression shifts.

The teasing edge fades. His gaze sharpens.

“…You really can see me.”

There’s no reflection of him in the mirror behind you.

No sound of breathing.

No shadow beneath his feet.

The flickering light above you sputters once more.

He slides down from the windowsill soundlessly, landing without a single footstep echoing on the tile. Now he’s closer. Too close.

But he doesn’t reach for you.

He just stares.

“…Humans aren’t supposed to react,” he says quietly. “They usually walk right past.”

You swallow. “React to what?”

He studies your face one last moment.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth curves into a small, crooked grin.

“Well,” he says lightly, stepping back again as if this is suddenly amusing, “either you’re hallucinating…”

He gestures lazily to himself.

“…or I’ve finally met someone interesting.”

Outside, the sky darkens slightly as clouds begin to gather.

And for the first time in forty-six years—

He isn’t alone in this room.