Later that same day, after the sounds had faded and the sun began to lean toward the horizon, Ahmed went up to the school's rooftop. The place was nearly empty, and the air caressed his hair with a rare gentleness. The sky above him was clear, stretching to the end of sight, as if it were an endless promise. (6)
He quietly took out his sketchbook, and his colors which he had kept like a small treasure. He sat in the corner overlooking the city and began to draw... it wasn't Tokyo's sky alone that he wanted to put on paper, but he was searching within the shades of blue and gray for something else... for a touch of Yemen's sky, the one whose warmth he had known and whose safety he had felt one day.
With every stroke of color, and every pass of the brush, he was pouring out a piece of his soul, something he couldn't explain with words.
But what he didn't expect... was that the place was not entirely empty.
There, at the other end of the rooftop, Misaki sat on a wooden bench, her back straight but her eyes tilted toward the horizon. She wasn't wearing her headphones this time... and she was crying.
Her tears weren't loud, but quiet, light as if they were ashamed to fall. She was trying to hold them back, but the sadness was deeper than the silence.
Ahmed stopped drawing.
His eyes didn't leave her shadow.
(His inner voice, in Japanese):
"It's her... Misaki. What is making her so sad?"
He didn't dare to approach.
This was not a time for words.
But deep inside him, something began to stir.
Perhaps he wasn't the only one who came to this city carrying another sky...
Perhaps there, behind the sadness, lies a story that needs someone to listen to it, not to explain it.