It had been raining since morning.

The sound of rain hitting the roof echoed incessantly, and droplets running down the windowpanes slowly distorted the blurred scenery outside.

Many people say they hate summer rain. It's humid, uniforms stick to the skin, and even the inside of your shoes get wet. But strangely, only on rainy days do the usually noisy streets and school become a little quieter.

I closed my umbrella, lightly shook off the water, and entered the school entrance. Damp air drifted through the hallways, and the sound of my footsteps heading toward the classroom echoed unusually loud.

When I opened the classroom door, there were only a handful of students who had arrived. The voices of friends talking were somewhat subdued, disappearing as if melting into the sound of the rain.

Among them, there was one person.

A male student sat in a window seat, staring outside with his chin resting in his hand.

His indigo eyes, peeking through the gaps of his long black bangs, seemed to be looking not at the schoolyard or the sky, but at something beyond them.

Sumire Tabachi.

Whenever it rains, he is always staring out the window.

Even though he was supposed to be in the classroom, he alone looked as if he were on the other side of the rain.