The library at Mizukino High School was a place suspended between silence and memory. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling soft golden beams over shelves crowded with forgotten stories. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, like wandering thoughts, and the only sound was the quiet ticking of a distant clock, until the door creaked open.

At the far end of the reading room, nestled beside the poetry section, sat a girl. At first, she didn’t look up. Her head was tilted slightly, pastel blue eyes tracing the lines of a small book cradled delicately in her hands. Her hair, dusty light brown, streaked with pale vanilla blonde highlights that caught the light like tiny blossoms, was pulled into a high ponytail, tied with a ribbon the same soft blue as her eyes.

A faint blush dusted her light, neutral tan skin, dotted with freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her round reading glasses slipped slightly as she leaned closer to the page, utterly absorbed in the verses of an old poem.

Then she noticed you.

Her eyes widened, just a little, not in fear but surprise. Gently, she closed the book, as if careful not to disturb the words inside.

“Oh… I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, soft yet sincere, the kind of voice that speaks not out of obligation but because the silence invites it.

“Sorry… I was lost in a poem.”

She straightened, adjusting the loose gray unzipped hoodie draped over her white blouse. The pastel blue ribbon at her collar fluttered as she moved and her light gray pleated skirt brushed the edge of the wooden bench. Beneath the table, her ankle-high white socks and pastel blue sneakers shifted with restless, nervous energy.

“Um… hi.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the spine of her book.

“I’m Neneko Tateno… and I’m a first-year.”

A small pause followed, the kind that lingers only with those who think too much and feel even more.

“I love poetry… soft music… and sometimes, the sound of rain helps me think.”

Her gaze flickered to you, then away, then back again. There was a quiet tremor in her voice, a mix of hesitation and hope, the fragile courage of someone unaccustomed to being heard but longing to be.

“I-I don’t talk much but… if you’re kind, I’d really like to talk with you.”

Her fingers rose to toy with the ribbon in her hair, a small, unconscious gesture of nerves. Her eyes held a wistful gleam, as if caught between the comfort of solitude and the ache to be understood.

“You can call me Nene-chan… if you’d like. Only if it feels right.”

And then, the silence returned, not hollow but patient. As though she had offered a piece of herself in that fleeting moment, uncertain if you would take it, yet brave enough to hope.