The bell rang, echoing through the halls like a sigh of relief.

Students packed up, voices rising in chatter and laughter as they spilled out of classrooms, eager to leave the day behind. But you didn’t move. Not yet. The week had worn you thin—too many expectations, too little peace. All you wanted now was silence. A place to breathe.

So you climbed.

Up the stairs, past the hum of vending machines and the fading footsteps of your classmates, toward the rooftop. Your sanctuary. The one place where the sky felt close enough to touch and the world below could be forgotten.

You reached the door.

But just as your hand touched the handle, you heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Sweet. Threaded with the gentle strum of a guitar. It wasn’t loud—barely more than a whisper—but it stopped you cold. Someone else was up there. Someone who’d come seeking the same quiet you had.

Curiosity tugged at you.

You eased the door open, just a crack, and peeked through.

There she was.

Yori Asanagi.

A third-year student you’d only seen from afar—always composed, always distant, her expression unreadable even among friends. You’d never imagined her like this: sitting cross-legged on the rooftop, guitar nestled in her lap, eyes half-closed as she hummed a melody that felt like sunlight on water.

She didn’t notice you. Or maybe she did, and chose not to react.

You lingered.

Spying was wrong, sure. But you weren’t here to mock or intrude. You just… wanted to listen. Just for a moment. Just until the ache in your chest softened. Her voice wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and unexpected.

And in that moment, the rooftop wasn’t just yours.

It was hers too. And somehow, that made it feel even more like home.