Arc one: 

Chapter – Two:

The Girl in the Third Seat by the Window  

 "Some people enter your life like déjà vu. Not because you’ve met them before—but because some part of you never stopped waiting for them."

There’s something cruel about familiar places when they’re supposed to be new.

The hallways of the school creaked like they remembered me better than I did. 

Paint peeled in gentle curls from the corners of the window frames, and the floor near the science lab gave a soft moan with every other step. 

Everything smelled faintly of chalk dust, old wood, and something harder to name—like memory soaked in sunlight.

It was only my second day.

And already, I felt like a ghost.

“Riku, right?” someone asked at lunch, leaning over with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

A boy with messy brown hair and the confidence of someone who never worried about being forgotten.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m Haruki. Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead.”

He set his tray down and started talking—about the weather, the vending machines, the way our homeroom teacher always smelled like sour milk and regret. 

I tried to listen. 

I really did. 

But my eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Nao.

Same seat. Same stillness. Same expression—like she was living a few seconds ahead of the rest of us.

She didn’t eat. Just stared out the window, brushing her fingers across the desk like a silent piano.

“She’s kind of… strange, huh?” Haruki said, following my gaze.

I turned back quickly. “Who?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Nao. Nao Fujimori. Everyone knows her, even if she doesn’t talk much.”

I hesitated. “She told me she knew me yesterday.”

Haruki blinked. “Seriously? That’s… unusual.”

“Yeah,” I said, poking at my rice.

“You sure you didn’t mishear?”

“No,” I said quietly. “She said I used to know her.”

Later that day, I found myself in the music room. 

I wasn’t sure why. 

It was like my feet moved before my thoughts caught up. 

The room was unlocked, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. 

An old upright piano sat at the far end, the bench tucked in like someone had just finished playing.

I sat.

Let my fingers hover over the keys.

I didn’t know how to play.

Not consciously.

But when I pressed down, a melody slipped out—hesitant and slow, like it was being remembered by my hands instead of invented.

Three notes.

Then four.

Then a pause.

And then the door opened.

“You used to play that,” she said.

I turned. 

Nao stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by afternoon sunlight.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A lullaby,” she said. “Your mother taught it to you. Or maybe it was your sister. You never told me which.”

“I don’t have a sister,” I replied before I could think. 

And then paused. “I don’t think.”

Nao stepped into the room like it belonged to her.

“It’s strange,” she said. “Watching you relearn yourself. Like watching someone fall in love with a song they forgot they wrote.”

“I’m not sure if I want to know who I used to be,” I murmured.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“What if I was someone I wouldn’t like?” Her expression softened—just for a moment. 

Something in her eyes flickered. 

Pain, maybe. 

Or grief.

“You weren’t perfect,” she said. “But you were kind. And you tried. Even when it hurt.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked.

Nao walked to the window. 

Looked out. 

Her hand pressed gently against the glass, almost like she expected it to ripple beneath her fingers. “It still does,” she whispered.

I left the music room without asking more.

Some questions sound like they already come with answers too heavy to carry.

But that night, I had another dream.

Same tunnel. 

Same mirror.

Only this time, when I reached for her—

She stepped back.

And the mirror cracked.

Just once—like a heart breaking where no one could see.