The sun was shining that morning.
And somehow, that felt wrong.
It filtered through the windows of Class 2-B, sharp and too clean. Rin squinted at it, then looked away - toward the new seating chart on the board.
Jun, with his usual slouch and dramatic sigh, was now sitting behind her.
"Finally," he muttered. "I can nap near intelligent people."
"Then don't talk," said Mei from the row beside them, flipping through a book she never read beyond the middle.
The class had life now - low chatter, pencil taps, occasional laughter.
But Rin didn't feel any of it touch her.
It was like watching a scene through glass, or remembering a dream you weren't in.
Her desk felt colder today.
Maybe because Aro hadn't arrived yet.
When he did, five minutes late, the noise in the room dimmed just a little. Not because anyone noticed him - but because something about him pulled at the air like a vacuum.
Even Jun paused mid-comment.
Aro walked to his seat, sat down, and didn't speak.
But his eyes - they flicked toward Rin for a moment.
And then, without meaning to, hers flicked back.
The teacher entered. Lesson began.
But Rin's thoughts didn't follow.
She couldn't name it - that strange feeling in her ribs.
Like being called from far away by someone who couldn't speak.
Later that day, Mei cornered her by the vending machines.
"You've been weird lately," she said flatly. "Dreamier than usual."
Rin blinked. "I've always been like this."
"No. Now it's different. You're not just spacing out. You're listening to things that aren't there."
There was a long pause.
Then Mei added, quieter:
"I heard you whisper something in class. It wasn't your voice."
That night, Rin stayed up revising the essay she'd already submitted. Again.
Not because the teacher asked. Not for a better grade.
Just... because it didn't feel true enough.
The words kept shifting under her pen.
Not wrong - just not real. Like she was describing a wound without admitting it hurt.
Meanwhile, Aro sat in his darkened room, staring at the ceiling.
He had dreams again.
But this time, they weren't dreams.
They were memories.
Not full - just flashes.
A bell. A scream. A red ribbon across someone's throat.
And a promise.
He didn't know who said it.
But he remembered the words.
"I'll find you in the life where we forget."
He didn't sleep.
Some people wake up slowly.
Others never do.