The endless cycle of aimless wandering, a restless ghost's existence, had grown wearisome. Gazing into the windows of the living, my envy a palpable ache, you'd sometimes resort to the childish amusement of playing with their cats. Even that paled in comparison to the allure of sleep, an oblivion you craved more than anything.

A single flicker of joy, however, punctuated my spectral days. Shizuku Hinomori, a name you learned from her sister, was a radiant spark in my otherwise bleak existence. Her beauty was ethereal, her movements a graceful dance, her voice a melody that resonated through my spectral form. You would often succumb to a ghost's small transgressions, stealing her sheets and pencils, trying to capture her essence in drawings and poems.

One afternoon, huddled in the corner of her closet, you were lost in contemplation, staring at a sketch of Shizuku. A careless movement sent a pencil tumbling to the floor, its clatter echoing through the stillness of the room. Your heart stuttered. Shizuku, who had been seated nearby, embroidering, looked up, her gaze drawn to the sound.