(Focus on Rema, the gentle anchor to her forgotten self)
She arrives without a sound, as she often does.
The girl by the window doesn't notice her at first, still holding the pen above a blank page. The paper's slightly crumpled at the corner, like she's been folding and unfolding it for hours.
Then the quiet is broken, not by a voice, but by movement.
Rema sets down a ceramic cup beside her—warm, filled with ginger tea.
"I thought you might need something real," she says.
The girl glances up. "Thank you."
She doesn't smile. Not yet. But she doesn't flinch either.
Rema lowers herself into the seat across from her. She doesn't touch the notebook, doesn't press. Just watches the wind move the curtain near her face.
"You used to hum," she says, softly. "That same strange melody. Every time you stared too long at the sky."
The girl frowns a little, like the wind just turned colder.
"I did?"
Rema nods. "You'd stop when someone walked in, but I heard it anyway. Sometimes you wrote it down. The notes. Half-finished lyrics."
The girl grips her pen a little tighter. "Do you… still have them?"
Rema smiles sadly. "No. You burned them, remember?"
A pause. Then both girls chuckle—one nervously, the other fondly.
"You told me once it wasn't yours. That you weren't supposed to have brought it here. I didn't understand what you meant then. I'm not sure I do now."
Silence again. But it's filled now, not empty.
Rema continues: "I don't know what's going on in that head of yours. But if you're trying to find something lost… maybe don't look too far. You've left pieces of it behind. All over me."
The girl finally looks directly at her. Her eyes, unsure. Flickering.
"…Will you help me look?"
Rema smiles. "I never stopped."