The rain started sometime after noon.
Zen stood by the vending machine outside Lecture Hall 3, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding a warm can of coffee. The quiz was long over, but the questions—if they even existed—still echoed in his head.
11.
The girl.
And that blank test paper.
He didn't even remember turning it in.
He sipped slowly, eyes scanning the quad. Students rushed between buildings with umbrellas overhead, some laughing, others soaked. No one looked like they'd just seen a disappearing girl or a paper crane vanish into nothing.
Maybe he was just tired.
He pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to the last page.
The same door.
Still there.
Still scribbled in his handwriting, as if his hand knew something he didn't.
A soft thud behind him broke his thoughts.
He turned.
She stood under the awning, a few feet away.
White blouse, same blue ribbon, hair slightly damp from the rain.
Expression unchanged—unbothered, unreadable.
Yura.
Zen didn't know her name yet. No one had introduced them. But it was her.
She wasn't carrying anything. No umbrella. No bag. Just standing, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning the wet concrete like she didn't want to be there. Or maybe she was just waiting for something to pass.
He glanced at her, then back to his can of coffee.
He didn't know why he said it.
"You disappeared earlier."
She didn't react.
"Last row," he added. "You were gone before the quiz ended."
Still nothing.
Zen hesitated, then gave a faint smile. "You know, most people at least lie when they ghost class."
She finally looked at him.
Her eyes were darker up close. Not black, but so deep they almost pulled focus away from her face. Not angry. Not confused. Just quiet.
"I don't take that class."
Her voice was soft. Clipped. Like each word cost her something.
Zen raised an eyebrow. "You were there. I saw you."
"No. You didn't."
A pause stretched between them. Rain tapped louder on the roof above.
He tilted his head, studying her.
"I'm Zen," he offered.
She said nothing.
"Okay. Not a fan of names. That's cool." He looked away. "But if you're going to keep appearing in rooms you don't belong in, people are going to start talking."
"I don't care if they do," she replied.
Something about her tone made it clear: she meant it.
"Right," Zen said slowly. "So… was that a paper crane earlier?"
She turned her gaze back toward the quad.
"You've been dreaming," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Zen's breath caught in his throat.
"How do you—"
"You shouldn't talk about it here," she cut in. "Not with strangers."
He narrowed his eyes. "You know something."
She stepped forward, closer to the edge of the awning, letting the rain mist touch her arms. Her voice lowered.
"If you saw Exit 011… it means you're already inside."
Zen blinked. "What?"
"You think you're awake, but the moment you noticed the number, the dream started. That's how it works. The first memory always feels real."
"I'm not dreaming," Zen said, almost to himself. "I'm standing right here."
"Are you sure?"
She met his eyes again.
And for the briefest second—he wasn't.
The rain felt… wrong.
The world too quiet again.
Yura stepped back under the awning, closer now.
"There are three kinds of people," she said. "Those who never see the exit, those who get out, and those who stay too long."
Zen swallowed hard. "Which one are you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned and walked away.
Zen didn't follow.
But his fingers tightened around the sketchbook in his hand.
When he looked down, a new page had been torn halfway from the spine. He didn't remember doing it.
Folded neatly on the bench behind him—
Was a paper crane.
To be continue....