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"You're late."
Her voice was low, almost lazy—without surprise or urgency.
I slid the door open just enough to see her.
Same seat. Same desk arrangement. Curtains drawn a little further this time, letting in a narrow band of late afternoon light that crossed diagonally over her lap. Her legs were crossed, one hand balanced against the rim of a porcelain cup.
"I wasn't aware there was a schedule," I said, stepping in.
"There wasn't," she replied. "Until you broke it."
The same smell—not strong, but familiar. Jasmine and yuzu again. Maybe a little weaker today. I glanced toward the plant on the windowsill. It had been trimmed. The leaves looked recently watered. The pot had shifted a centimeter.
The chair across from her was already pulled out.
I paused.
"You expected me."
She didn't answer. She gestured toward the chair. "Sit. Before the second cup gets cold."
There it was again—that peculiar rhythm she had. Like everything was already preordained, and I was just catching up.
I sat.
A cup waited on the desk—plain white, same shape as hers. A thin chip on the rim, like someone had bitten it once out of spite.
I picked it up carefully. Still warm. Slightly more bitter today. No sugar.
"You didn't sweeten it this time."
"I wanted to see if you'd complain."
"I didn't ask for it yesterday either."
She sipped hers, watching me over the rim. "But you noticed."
We drank in silence for a few moments.
The air in the room was heavier than yesterday. Rain had stopped, but the heat hadn't broken. A fly bumped against the inside of the window once, then again.
"Did you leave the hairpin?" I asked.
"No."
I waited.
When she didn't elaborate, I said: "Then who did?"
"That depends."
"On?"
She turned her head slightly, enough to catch the light on her cheek. Her tone shifted—lower, more deliberate.
"On whether you think it was meant for you."
I stared at the pin, still resting where I'd seen it earlier—neatly positioned near the table's center, like a placeholder for a memory.
"I don't recognize it."
"That doesn't mean it wasn't meant for you."
"Are you going to keep talking in riddles?"
"Yes," she said plainly.
I drank the tea.
"You don't drink like someone who hates riddles," she added.
"You don't make tea like someone who wants me to leave."
That earned me a proper smile. Quick, unguarded, too brief to catch unless you were watching her mouth.
Which I was.
She reached into her bag and set something between us.
A notebook. Small, black, spiral-bound. No markings on the cover.
"This isn't mine," she said. "It was in the clubroom drawer this morning."
I didn't reach for it.
"Go on," she said. "Read page seven."
I opened it.
The handwriting was uneven. Not rushed—just... unsure. Like someone trying to write in a language they only half-knew.
7 April — Someone else opened the window. I didn't. But it was open when I arrived. I heard a voice outside the door, but when I opened it, no one was there. It smelled like citrus. I stayed ten minutes and left. I think she was there. But I don't know who 'she' is.
I looked up slowly.
She was watching me closely. Elbows on the desk now, fingers laced. Not smiling anymore.
"I didn't write it," she said.
"You found it today?"
"Drawer was locked. But the key was sitting on top of the kettle."
"Convenient."
"Too convenient."
I flipped the page.
10 April — I moved the fan again. I think she knows I do that. I didn't plug it in. But it was warm. I drank the tea. I shouldn't have.
I closed the notebook.
My hands felt colder than before.
"Are you sure no one else uses this room?" I asked.
"No one officially. No one consistently."
"And unofficially?"
She held my gaze.
Then said, "That depends on how you define 'uses.'"
I took another sip of tea.
"You shouldn't drink that so easily," she said softly.
I paused, cup halfway to my lips.
"Why?"
"Because you don't know what I put in it."
"You drank it too."
"I have immunity."
I smiled faintly. "You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious," she replied.
There was a long silence then—longer than usual. Not uncomfortable, but... stretched. Like something underneath the conversation was waiting to surface, and neither of us wanted to be the one to acknowledge it first.
Finally, I asked:
"Did you know the person who wrote this?"
"No."
"But you think you've met them."
"I think," she said carefully, "that I've heard their voice."
"In this room?"
"Outside the door."
She watched me react to that.
I didn't flinch. But I wanted to.
She leaned forward slightly. "What did you hear before you came in today?"
I hesitated. "Just you."
"No one else?"
"No."
She leaned back again, folding her arms. "You're lucky, then."
"Why?"
"Because the others who heard something," she said slowly, "don't talk about it afterward."
I stared at her.
She sipped her tea calmly.
There was a knock at the door.
We both froze.
It was soft.
Just once.
Then nothing.
Kurose didn't move.
Neither did I.
The clock on the far wall ticked—just once.
She exhaled.
"It's not locked," she said.
I looked at her.
She met my eyes, but something behind them was moving—calculating, bracing.
Then, from the other side of the door, a voice:
"Is this the Literature Club?"
Female. Soft. Slightly amused.
Kurose stood.
Walked to the door.
Paused.
Then slid it open.
Outside stood a girl in the first-year uniform. Petite. Pale. Straight-cut hair down to her chin. In her hands, a small, cloth-covered notebook.
She looked directly at me.
Then said, without blinking: "You were supposed to smell it again today."
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