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"We watch them unfold," she said.
The words hung there, like she hadn't just said them aloud but had released them gently into the air for inspection. She didn't blink. Her fingers curled slightly around her cup.
I didn't reply right away. Instead, I reached for the tea she'd poured.
Still warm. Not burning, but fresh. Jasmine. Faint hint of citrus—probably yuzu, not lemon. It didn't match her, somehow.
I took a sip.
"You're good," she said, quietly.
"At what?"
"Playing dense."
I let the silence settle again. Then I asked, "What club is this, really?"
Her eyes flicked toward mine. I saw the faintest twitch in the corner of her brow, like something had been triggered—barely.
Then: "It's the Literature Club."
"You make guesses for fun?"
"We call them conclusions."
"That sounds cultish."
She smiled again, wider this time. Her teeth were small and sharp like her words. "That's only because you're not initiated yet."
The chair creaked slightly as she shifted. Her blazer slipped from one shoulder a little. She didn't fix it.
"Besides," she added, tilting her head, "aren't you curious why the form says 'Provisional Approval'?"
"I assumed you submitted it late."
"I didn't submit it at all."
I blinked.
She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The soft scent from her tea rose again, mingling strangely with that synthetic perfume.
"Tell me," she said, "do you believe in people who don't exist?"
"You mean like imaginary friends?"
"No." She folded her hands. "Like students who attend this school, take classes, speak to teachers, but aren't in the system."
"I believe in attendance errors and paperwork incompetence."
"Unromantic."
"Unprovable."
She chuckled. "There's a third-year girl people keep mentioning. But she isn't on any of the class rosters."
"What's her name?"
She tilted her head. "That's the thing. Everyone says a different name. But they all think they're talking about the same person."
"Sounds like a shared delusion."
"Or an intentionally constructed one."
I looked toward the window. Rain still tapped against the glass like fingernails. The plant on the sill had tipped slightly to the right, though I hadn't seen it move.
When I turned back, Kurose was staring at me.
Not at my eyes—at the side of my face. Just above the cheekbone.
"Have you always had that scar?" she asked, gently.
I froze.
She didn't smile. Didn't press.
I touched my cheek, unconsciously. "It's not a scar."
"Then what is it?"
"An old line from someone else's story."
"That's very literary of you."
"Are you being sincere or sarcastic?"
"Yes."
The room had warmed slightly, or maybe I'd just acclimated. My shirt clung to my back where it had gotten wet earlier. I shifted in my seat, noticing her gaze flicker briefly to the hem of my sleeve where it stuck to my wrist.
"Is this what the club does?" I asked. "Sit in a warm room and talk in circles?"
"If that bothers you," she said lightly, "you can leave."
She made no motion to stop me.
I didn't move.
She sat back again, arms folded. Her shirt pulled slightly across her chest. I looked away, but slowly—so she could see me look away.
That was when she reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
She didn't hand it to me. Just set it on the table, halfway between us.
It was sealed with clear tape. Old tape—slightly yellowed. The paper looked handled, folded and re-folded dozens of times.
On the front, in fine black pen, a single line:
"The room only smells when no one is in it."
I stared at it.
She didn't blink.
"Who wrote this?"
"I found it under the fan."
"Today?"
"Two weeks ago."
I looked up. "Then the scent—"
"—has appeared four times since," she said. "Always after a weekend. Always on Monday mornings. Always gone by lunch."
"And no one else knows?"
She shrugged. "I'm telling you."
"Why me?"
She smiled faintly. "Because you touched the fan."
"That doesn't seem like a rigorous screening process."
"It's more thorough than you think." She tapped her temple. "You're the first one who didn't pretend not to notice."
I looked at the note again. The ink had bled slightly around the curves of the letters. Someone had written it in a hurry, or while hiding. Or both.
"It's a warning," I said.
"Or a confession."
"Or both."
We stared at the note in silence.
Then, softly, Kurose asked, "Do you believe me?"
Her voice was lower now. Not quiet—just less armored. I glanced at her, surprised. The flirtation was gone. This was something else. Not vulnerable, exactly. Just... uncovered.
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think you want me to believe you."
She tilted her head.
"I think you want me to stay curious."
Her gaze held mine a second too long.
Then she said, "You catch on faster than most."
I leaned back slightly. "You said that like you've done this before."
"I have."
"And?"
She smiled again. "They left."
"Why?"
"They stopped asking questions."
I picked up the note.
On the back, in smaller writing, barely legible:
"If you find this, leave it where you found it."
I looked up.
Kurose was still watching me.
"You didn't leave it," I said.
"I never follow instructions from people who write in passive voice."
I set the note down carefully.
She rose from her chair, brushing off her skirt with the flat of her hand.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
I blinked. "For what?"
"You'll figure it out." She moved to the door, then paused. Without turning: "If you smell it again... try not to breathe too deeply."
She slid the door open and stepped into the hallway.
The scent lingered behind her. Jasmine. And something else.
I wasn't sure if it was from the tea.
Or from her.
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