Rain hadn't yet begun, but the air felt wet—pregnant with it. The sky was a silvery sheet, low and heavy over campus, and the sound of rustling branches passed for wind, though Mira didn't feel it on her skin.
She walked slowly toward the west stairwell of the humanities building, scanning the courtyard beyond the window for something she couldn't name. Something she didn't know she was waiting for.
In her pocket was **Letter 4**, unfolded a dozen times since dawn.
**"He's crying on the rooftop at 2:11 PM. Go."**
The message played over and over in her mind like a music loop. Not *someone*, but *he*—and she knew exactly who that was.
Sota Minami.
She hadn't seen him all week since they'd sat together. Their rooftop talk had been warm and strange and grounding in that slow, nostalgic way childhood friends never truly forget. And yet, something about the way he'd looked at her as he said "I'd believe you"—like he was offering something delicate and important—had unsettled her more than it comforted her.
She hadn't responded, not really. She'd just smiled and looked away.
And now there was a letter.
---
Mira reached the top stairwell at exactly 2:08 PM. She pushed the door open slowly.
Wind greeted her with a hush.
The rooftop garden looked emptier than before, the brittle winter stalks less playful. The stone bench sat in its usual place. So did the rusted sundial in the far corner. But this time, Sota was by the railing, arms resting on the edge, head bent low. One shoulder shook once. Then again.
He didn't hear her arrive.
She stood behind him for one full breath. Two.
The third breath carried her forward.
"Sota."
He turned his head just slightly, not startled—only wet-eyed and tired.
"I thought you might come," he said, voice rough.
Mira stepped beside him. "How?"
"Dunno." He wiped his sleeve across his eyes, embarrassed but not avoiding her gaze. "Maybe I hoped."
She wanted to ask what was wrong. Wanted to reach out. Instead, she waited.
He stared at the skyline. "Remember that bench down near the riverbank? The one we used to race to when we skipped cram school?"
Mira nodded. "You always got there first."
"Not always," he smiled faintly. "There was one time… You beat me. I was so mad. You wrote a poem about it in the sand and left before I could see it."
"I remember," she said.
"I went back that night. Tried to find the words."
"Did you?"
"No. The tide got them."
They stood in silence a moment, the quiet between them deep and full of things that had never been said.
Sota spoke again. "My father called this morning. He's getting remarried. Wants me to 'move forward,' whatever that means."
Mira's breath caught. "You okay?"
"I want to be. But it feels… like a chapter closing that I didn't agree to."
She understood that. Too well. Her own mother still didn't speak much of the past—not of her father's death, not of the year after, when Mira had felt like a background character in her own life.
"I'm sorry," she said gently.
He didn't answer, but his shoulders relaxed just slightly.
"I've been thinking about time a lot," he added after a pause. "Not scientifically. Just... personally. How sometimes a moment is louder than the rest. How it stays with you like a song you can't stop humming."
Mira opened her mouth. Closed it.
Then said, softly, "Have you ever thought maybe those loud moments… are trying to speak to us? Like echoes that haven't faded yet?"
He looked at her. Really looked. "You mean like messages?"
"Maybe."
From the future, she didn't say.
But her fingers brushed against the letter in her coat pocket.
---
Later, she sat in the library, trying to read a page three times over. Her thoughts wouldn't settle.
Sota had left the rooftop quietly. Gently. No dramatic walkout, no breakdown. Just a small nod, and a "thanks for coming," and that faint, familiar smile she remembered from childhood when he used to win card games and pretend he didn't care.
Now, alone at her study carrel, Mira pulled out the letter once more. She studied the writing. It was ink, not printed. Thin, looping. Old-fashioned. There were faint smudges on the lower edge, as if the writer had hesitated.
She turned it over.
On the back, barely visible, a faint watermark.
A feather.
Not printed. Not embossed. Just… there. Faint as breath.
She ran her fingers over it. It didn't raise from the page, but it tingled under her touch.
Mira's heartbeat quickened.
She turned back to her journal and scribbled:
**Letter 4 – 2:11 PM rooftop. Sota was crying. The letter was right again. How does it know? How does it *always* know?**
She stared at the words. Then wrote below it:
**The feathers mean something. They always show up before something changes.**
She stared out the library window. The sky had darkened while she sat. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—low, like a warning clearing its throat.
---
When Mira returned home that night, her mailbox held no new letters.
But when she entered her room, her window was slightly ajar.
And on her desk—undisturbed—sat a new envelope.
This one was different.
Thicker. Pale gray.
She opened it slowly.
There was no date.
Just a single line:
**"He remembers the dream, but not the fall."**
Mira's hands went cold.
The past wasn't done speaking.
And someone—somewhere—was still watching.
---