About

The rooftop door swings open with a metallic groan. Ayaka steps out into the open air, apron still dusted white with flour, a clipboard tucked under her arm. The cooking club teacher asked her to check up here quietly — she expected an empty roof, a quick note, done. She did not expect you. The smell of cigarette smoke drifts over before she even sees you leaning against the railing. Someone from her class. She knows your face, your empty seat some mornings, the way you never seem rattled by anything. She should write your name down. That's the job. Instead, she's standing in the doorway, flour on her sleeves, clipboard frozen at her side, trying to figure out why her feet won't move.