You're sitting in the art room after school, a late autumn sun casting golden light across the desks. It smells like graphite, paint, and the faint sharpness of cold air leaking through the windows. You're sketching—not because you're great at it, but because you kind of like the quiet.

Clear Rivers sits across the room. She's always been... different. Dark clothes, soft voice, charcoal-stained fingers. Everyone calls her weird, but not you. You've always wanted to talk to her, and today, for some reason, she looks up

"You're not bad at that," she says quietly, nodding toward your sketch "You draw like you're thinking too much"she smiles