---
The test was simple.
Too simple. That's what made it feel clever.
"We're not trying to catch a person," Kurose said, dragging a desk three centimeters to the left. "We're trying to confirm a presence."
It was nearly 5:10 p.m. The sky outside the window had turned that particular greyish blue that only exists during school-year evenings, when the building empties and no one's left except for the volleyball team and the ghosts of whoever stayed too long.
Mio watched quietly from the window seat, her tea now cold. I didn't think she minded. Her hands hadn't left her lap once in the last ten minutes.
Kurose had her hair tied back tighter than usual. She moved with quiet purpose, dragging the furniture into an unfamiliar symmetry: two desks pushed near the center, slightly overlapping; the third at a forty-five-degree angle beside them, chair turned outward; the fourth directly under the window, the plant centered precisely on top.
I placed the fan exactly halfway between two legs of the desk. The matchbook was left open, cover facing west. The tissue that had held the ring was re-folded, placed inside the drawer, and the drawer was marked shut with a strip of washi tape I found in Kurose's supply box.
"Timer is set," Kurose announced, holding up her phone. "Five minutes after we leave. Then it buzzes. Then it vibrates once every thirty seconds."
"Why?" I asked.
"So if someone enters after that point," she said, "we'll know they didn't trigger it."
"And if they enter before?"
"They'll reset it without realizing it. No one hears it the first time unless they're expecting it."
Mio nodded, as if this logic was self-evident.
I took the last sip of my own tea—lukewarm now, slightly more bitter than before—and checked the notebook. Every item, every position, every angle had been noted.
Fan: unplugged.
Curtain: tied at left, loosely draped right.
Notebook: closed, cover down.
Ring: inside drawer.
Chair: unoccupied.
We stepped out at 5:13.
Kurose locked the door behind us.
---
We didn't go far. Just down the hallway, three classrooms away, where the window overlooked the rear field.
I sat on the window ledge. Kurose stood beside the radiator, arms crossed. Mio sat cross-legged on the dusty linoleum, still holding her own notebook, scribbling something indecipherable.
We waited.
Nothing happened.
No footsteps. No voices.
Just the dull hum of the building settling into its evening silence.
"What are we expecting to catch?" I asked finally. "A student playing a prank?"
"No," Kurose said.
"A teacher?"
"Not likely."
"Then who?"
"I don't know."
I looked at her.
She was staring out the window like she'd forgotten I was still there.
Finally, she added, "But if it is someone… they want us to keep watching."
---
At 5:38, we returned.
The key turned smoothly.
Inside, nothing looked disturbed at first glance.
The fan was still unplugged. The desks were still misaligned. The curtain, plant, matchbook—all appeared untouched.
But I stepped in first, eyes on the floor.
"Wait," I said. "Chair."
Kurose blinked. "What?"
I pointed.
The chair that had been turned outward was now facing the table.
Only a slight change—but enough to register. I knew because I had passed it three times while scribbling positions. The seat had been aimed toward the corner, like an invitation to sit apart.
Now, it faced us directly.
Kurose walked over, examining the floor.
"No drag marks."
"Then someone lifted it."
"Or didn't move it at all," Mio said quietly.
We both turned to her.
She had already moved to the window. Her hand was on the curtain.
"I tied this looser," she said. "It's tighter now."
I stepped over. Looked.
She was right. The knot had shifted. Still the same general position, but the tail end of the curtain—the fray at the hem—was curled inward now. Before, it had rested on the windowsill.
"Check the drawer," I said.
Kurose crouched, peeled the washi tape gently.
Opened it.
The tissue was still there.
But the ring…
"…It's gone," she said.
I froze.
Kurose checked the floor, then inside her own bag, then behind the drawer.
"Gone."
"I folded the tissue," I muttered. "Exactly. You saw."
"I did."
Mio stepped toward the fan.
Touched the side of it.
Then held up her fingers.
"Warm again."
I turned. "That's not possible."
"No one entered."
"Then how?"
She touched her nose briefly, as if trying to scratch it, then stopped.
"I told you," she said. "She only moves the things that matter to her."
Kurose straightened. "If she's trying to communicate, why not just write something?"
"She did," Mio said. "The matchbook."
I crossed to the table.
The matchbook was still open.
But the number was gone.
The pencil mark that had read "12:47" had been rubbed out—completely, cleanly. As if never written.
In its place, a faint crease. A long-pressed fold.
"She changed her mind," Mio said.
I stared at the crease.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she said softly, "you passed the first test."
I looked up.
At her.
Then at Kurose.
Then back at the empty drawer.
The scent returned.
Faint. Just for a second.
Not jasmine, this time.
Something darker.
---