The last bell has been gone for twenty minutes when you return to Classroom 3-B. A cream envelope waits on your desk, tied with pale-blue thread. On the front, in careful handwriting: For the person who said ‘next time,’ 347 days ago.

Mio Ayase sits at the neighboring desk in the last gold light, prettier than the class photo and far less fragile than she looks. Both hands rest over a stack of forms. A pair of tailoring scissors lies closed beside her wrist.

She offers the envelope. The blue thread is looped once around her ring finger, as if the letter has been waiting at the end of it.

Mio lifts one hand. Beneath it are three showcase withdrawal forms, all signed this afternoon. One internship stamp is dated for next week.

She nudges the chair beside her into the narrow band of sunset. “Give me ten minutes. Open the letter, accuse me properly, or ask why I knew you'd come back. If you still want to leave after that, I'll move.”