Chapter 17: A Name Like Rain
Winter crept in quietly.
There was no snow yet,
but the wind had changed
it carried with it the scent of metal and memory.
Mu Yichen had begun wearing gloves to school.
Simple black ones. Not for fashion, just for warmth.
But even in gloves, his hands moved with strange care—
as if every movement still carried weight.
Han Seri still brought the same lunch: two rice balls, an apple, a thermos of barley tea.
She still sat under the peach tree.
But now, the bark was slick with frost.
She sat with a small cushion under her, her fingers often trembling as she unwrapped her food.
No one joined her.
And that was fine.
Mostly.
They passed each other in hallways, exchanged glances in class,
but said nothing.
The silence between them was no longer empty.
It was waiting.
That Thursday, the lockers jammed.
It was after school. The halls were half-empty.
Seri stood in front of her locker, tugging gently.
It refused to open.
Again. And again.
She sighed. Not frustrated—just tired.
One hand reached up to brush hair from her face.
But her scarf caught in the hinge.
Tugging made it worse.
She tried to untangle it, then stopped,
eyes lowered.
She didn't want anyone to see her struggling.
So she stood there.
Still. Quiet.
And then
a hand reached past her.
Gloved. Calm.
Two fingers pressed against the metal.
A twist. A lift. A shift.
Click.
The locker opened.
He didn't speak.
But she looked up at him.
Mu Yichen didn't meet her eyes.
He just stepped back.
Turned to leave.
But before he could—
"Yichen."
Her voice was so soft it might've been wind.
But he stopped.
Turned slightly, eyes meeting hers for the first time in days.
"…Are you okay?" he asked, after a moment.
She nodded.
"I just…" She hesitated.
"I didn't want to leave without saying thank you."
He held her gaze for half a second longer.
Not analyzing. Not avoiding.
Just there.
"You're welcome."
Then he walked away.
And she stayed still.
The scarf slipped loose from the hinge.
But her heart stayed caught.
That night, she opened her notebook.
She wrote nothing.
But her fingers traced the letters of his name.
Over and over.
And in his old sketchpad,
Mu Yichen drew a single image:
A scarf fluttering loose from a locker door,
and the echo of a name caught in its threads.