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"She only leaves things behind when she wants to be found."
No one responded to Mio's words.
Kurose remained standing, the matchbook pinched between her fingers. She hadn't opened it yet. She stared at the cardboard cover like she expected it to dissolve under her gaze.
I looked from the matchbook to the empty fan in the corner.
Something about the line Mio had spoken—it wasn't the content that disturbed me.
It was the certainty.
"You said she left something here," I said carefully. "The girl before you. You meant that?"
Mio tilted her head, eyes never leaving the steam rising from her teacup. "I didn't mean anything."
"You sounded like you did."
"She wants to be found. But not yet."
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
Kurose snapped the matchbook open.
Inside: five matches left, one torn. The remaining five had faint fingerprints on the sticks, pressed into the wood like someone had fidgeted with them. There was a number scribbled in pencil on the inside flap.
"12:47"
Just the time. No date. No initials.
I leaned closer.
"Lunch break," I muttered. "Middle of the day."
"Maybe," Kurose murmured. "Or maybe it's when she disappeared."
"Or appeared," Mio added.
We both looked at her.
She didn't blink.
I turned back to the matchbook. It was warm in Kurose's hand.
Not room temperature.
Warm.
Kurose passed it to me without comment.
I touched the inside flap.
Still warm.
I looked at the fan.
Unplugged. Cord coiled neatly beside it.
I stood and walked over to it.
Held out my hand.
Warm.
Not hot. Not recently used. But just enough to register.
I crouched beside it.
There was a folded tissue behind it. Clean. Tucked slightly into the crack where the back grate curved. I pulled it out.
Unfolded.
Inside, something small and hard: a thin silver ring, no stone, slightly dented along the band.
Kurose was suddenly beside me. I hadn't heard her move.
"That wasn't there yesterday," she said flatly.
"I wasn't looking for it."
"You would have seen it."
"I didn't."
"That worries me more."
I held up the ring.
Mio remained seated. "She's getting braver."
Kurose turned sharply. "Stop saying that like she's a real person."
Mio finally looked up.
"She is."
The air seemed to shift slightly.
Kurose stepped back.
I set the ring down on the desk.
Then I said, "We should record everything. Everything we've found. Every day. Time, date, temperature. Scents. Sounds. Changes in the room. Even what we think we remember."
Kurose was watching me carefully.
I didn't know what she was measuring.
After a long moment, she gave a single nod.
Then said, "Start now."
---
I wrote for seven minutes straight.
The date. The time. The temperature in the room, measured by the little analog thermometer on the windowsill. The fact that the fan was warm. That the tea had been jasmine and yuzu again. That the matchbook was found under the desk. That the matchbook had "12:47" written inside. That Mio had arrived uninvited. That she brought a notebook full of unreadable symbols. That she drank the tea. That a ring was inside a tissue behind the fan. That no one saw anyone place it there.
I wrote it all.
Kurose didn't speak.
Mio sipped her tea again, eyes drifting back to the window.
The rain had returned—light, rhythmic, barely audible against the glass.
When I finished, I looked up.
Kurose sat across from me again. Arms folded, expression unreadable.
She tapped the desk with one finger, once. "So," she said. "What's our first inference?"
I looked at Mio.
She looked at me.
And said, quietly:
"She left it for you."
I blinked. "The ring?"
"No. The time."
Kurose narrowed her eyes. "Why would she leave a time?"
"Because she knew he'd find it." Mio's voice didn't waver. "And he always checks the details."
"I only noticed it because I touched it."
"She knew you would."
"That assumes she's watching me."
Mio looked back at her tea.
"She is."
That was when the lightbulb above us flickered.
Just once.
Faint. Weak. Like a breath being sucked out of the room and then pushed back in.
None of us moved.
Then—
A soft, electronic tick.
The fan's switch turned. By itself.
Still unplugged.
Kurose stood again. "That's not possible."
The fan didn't spin. But the switch had clearly clicked forward.
I walked over.
Turned it back off.
Unplugged.
"Okay," I said slowly. "So. Either we're being messed with…"
I turned back to the others.
"Or there's someone else with a key."
Kurose's jaw was tight. "Nobody has the key. Not even the club advisor. I have the only copy."
"No," Mio said softly.
We both looked at her.
"She does."
---