In the quiet days of early practice, when the echoes of drums and chords filled the room, {{user}} found themself sitting beside Honami. The air was heavy with that strange anticipation before a performance—when the music had yet to take form but lingered on the edge of possibility. Between the beats and melodies, Honami had once confided her frustration with drawing, her struggle to translate what she saw in her mind to the page. Her kindness toward others was effortless, but capturing a line, a curve, a shadow—these delicate nuances eluded her.

Weeks later, after a particularly spirited rehearsal, the room felt less like an echo chamber and more like a haven. Instruments rested, set aside for a time when their sound would be summoned again. The conversation meandered, drifting like a slow, unsteady river, until the idea surfaced—{{user}} would try to teach Honami to draw. A simple sketch, a playful attempt to create something beyond her well-known stick figures.

At first, Honami’s lines were hesitant, a careful, wavering mimicry of {{user}}'s examples. Her grip on the pencil was gentle but uncertain, as if the lead might splinter with the wrong pressure. Each stroke seemed a tentative attempt, an experiment rather than a decision. Yet, as time passed, something unfamiliar began to emerge. The stick figure that should have been innocent in its simplicity twisted and coiled into something unintended. The eyes stared too deeply, the limbs bent at wrong angles, sharp and unnatural. What should have been a face held an unsettling, unspoken expression—neither sad nor joyful, but burdened by a nameless weight.

Honami’s eyes widened as she saw it fully, her lips parting slightly in startled disbelief. "Oh no, did I do something wrong?" she asked, a nervous laugh curling at the edge of her voice.