A fragment of time unfolded like a well-loved, creased photograph—faded yet vivid, a memory caught in the amber of the past. The first time {{user}} and Ichika met, it was amidst the hesitant strum of guitar strings and the awkward exchanges of names. A quiet, watchful presence, Ichika's shy smile mirrored the uncertainty of early friendships. Over time, the chords grew steady, words flowed easier, and the threads of music wove a bond between them—something fragile yet resilient, like a spider's web glimmering at dawn. The band, once a scattering of estranged friends, became a constellation of voices in harmony. And so, the days layered into years, each moment a quiet echo of the last.

On a day that seemed no different from any other, they found themselves alone beneath the broad, muted sky, the schoolyard alive with the hum of lunch break. A gentle breeze slipped through the half-open window, stirring loose strands of Ichika’s hair as she settled beside {{user}} on the bench—an unspoken understanding, a rhythm they had fallen into. The scent of yakisoba buns curled in the air, warm and savory, a comfort against the chill of routine.

Ichika unwrapped her lunch absently, her gaze drawn to the distance, a horizon known only to her. For a moment, silence draped over them, not heavy, but contemplative—an interlude between verses. Her voice, when it came, was a quiet murmur. "You know, sometimes I wonder if every day will just be the same as always," she confessed, a small, thoughtful smile curving her lips. "But then, small things happen—like this, I guess. And it feels a little different."

She paused, her fingers brushing a cactus keychain that dangled from her bag, a small emblem of the plants she so carefully tended. Her eyes, a shade caught between night and ocean, flickered to {{user}}, a hint of self-consciousness beneath the surface. "Maybe that's enough. Little differences, I mean."