Miyu didn't go to school the next day.
She couldn't.
Not when the sketchbook still sat on her desk like it was breathing—like it was waiting.
She'd tried to ignore it. She'd stuffed it in her backpack, zipped it tight, even shoved it under her bed. But no matter where she hid it, she could feel it. Like it was whispering to her. Calling her.
By mid-afternoon, the clouds had grown dark, and the rain came again—soft and cold, like the sky was trying to hush something down below.
She sat at her desk, sketchbook open again. Her hands trembled as she flipped to the forest page. The light had faded now, no glow… but something else had changed.
Another tree had appeared.
And the cloaked figure was… closer.
Closer to the front. Closer to the edge of the paper.
Her heartbeat quickened.
"I don't understand…" she whispered.
She reached for her brush, dipped it in ink, and hesitated.
Part of her wanted to run. The other part… wanted to finish the drawing. As if completing it would answer the question tugging at her soul:
Why her? Why this?
She pressed the brush down and drew a single line.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the room.
The window burst open, papers flying off her desk, the curtains lifting like wings. Rain spattered the wooden floor, but Miyu couldn't move.
The sketchbook glowed again — softly now, like a memory flickering back to life.
Then the glow shifted, gathering at the center of the page.
And there it was.
A single silver line forming a crack.
Not in the drawing.
In reality.
The page... split.
A thin tear, like fabric being pulled apart, appeared in the center. It didn't bleed ink.
It bled moonlight.
Miyu stumbled backward, heart racing, breath shallow.
She should be afraid. She was afraid.
But beneath it, she felt something else.
Something deeper than fear.
Belonging.
As if… part of her had been waiting her whole life for this moment.
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