---
"For the one who forgot,
If you find this—if anything still reaches you—then maybe some part of you still remembers.The sound of spring wind. The silence before goodbye.The way the world softened, if only for a moment.
This story is for you.A memory, a dream,
a world not meant to be."
---
The classroom buzzed with the quiet sounds of almost-ending—the ticking clock, the faint scratch of a pen, a sneeze muffled into a sleeve. Outside the wide windows, the light shifted to a golden hush, casting long shadows across the floor like soft-spoken reminders that the day was fading.
Moore sat at the back, by the window, his desk perpetually askew from the others, a quiet rebellion no one bothered to correct. His posture was relaxed in a way that didn't look comfortable—arms crossed over the edge of the desk, his head tilted just enough that his eyes could follow the drifting clouds outside. But there was no focus in that gaze. Just glass and sky and something far beyond them.
A breeze flicked the corners of a forgotten worksheet near his elbow. He didn't notice.
The chatter in the room was low, scattered. A few students packed up early, rustling bags and zipping jackets.
"Hey, Moore," a voice said, not unkind. A boy with too much energy for the time of day leaned into his desk row, hopeful. "We're heading to the café this weekend—gonna hang out, maybe hit the arcade after. You wanna come?"
Moore didn't look at him.
The hopeful boy hesitated, then glanced back as his friend tugged at his sleeve."Don't bother," the friend muttered, not quiet enough. "He never comes. Just forget it."
The hopeful boy blinked, half embarrassed, half sorry, then gave a shrug and a small laugh, as if to say I tried, before turning away.
The clock ticked on.
Someone yawned. Chairs scraped against the tile as the bell finally rang—shrill, final, too loud for the soft hour. Students filed out in uneven waves, their footsteps echoing through the hall beyond. The classroom emptied in moments, leaving behind only the low hum of the lights and the faint scent of pencil shavings.
Moore remained.
Still at his desk.
Still looking.
But not really seeing.
---
The door gave a soft click as it opened again.
Not loud. Not rushed. Just a small sound that settled in the quiet room like a leaf landing on still water.
She didn't announce herself. She didn't need to.
Ronell stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, the other tucked into the pocket of her blazer. Her gaze found him easily, the way one finds a star in a familiar night sky. The teacher had already gone. So had the noise. Only they remained. She waited.
A beat. Two. Long enough to respect the silence he lived in, but not long enough to be pushed away by it.
Then she stepped forward.
Her footsteps were light, deliberate. She walked as if she'd done this many times before—crossed this room, approached this desk, watched the quiet boy who never quite looked back. She didn't speak when she reached him. Instead, she paused just beside his desk, letting her hand brush against the edge of it.
Moore blinked slowly, his gaze still caught somewhere between the clouds and the fading sun. But he shifted. Only slightly. A breath deeper than before. A flicker in his brow.
He noticed her.
He always did.
And that was enough.
She offered a faint nod—half invitation, half question. He didn't nod in return. But after a few seconds, he stood. No words exchanged. None needed.
They moved together toward the door, the way people do when they've walked the same path a hundred times.
Outside, the light had softened to a kind of hush. Petals danced on the breeze. The day was ending, but this was how they began again.
Together. Quietly.
---
Not even their walk invited much conversation.
The gravel path beneath their feet crunched in soft rhythm. Leaves whispered overhead. It was the kind of silence that didn't beg to be filled—one that allowed thoughts to drift gently, like dandelion seeds in late spring.
They didn't walk side by side, not quite. Ronell kept just a step behind, letting Moore set the pace, as if instinctively understanding how much space he needed. He didn't glance back. He didn't need to.
There was something almost dreamlike in the way the light filtered through the treetops—drowsy gold and dusty pink, painting everything in stillness. The wind tugged faintly at Ronell's skirt, played with the edges of Moore's hoodie.
It felt like walking through a memory they hadn't spoken aloud.
And then, they reached it.The tree.
Tall. A little crooked. Blooming softly with the season's first blossoms, scattering petals like quiet confessions. It stood at the edge of the hill, where the world fell into sky. The grass around it was worn, familiar.
Moore sat first, his body curling in as he leaned against the trunk—arms draped over his knees, head dipped low. He didn't speak. His eyes remained half-lidded, distant, watching the valley but not really seeing it.
Ronell lowered herself beside him, her blue dress pooling gently in the grass. She opened the notebook resting in her hands, its pages already marked with looping lines and fragments of half-formed thoughts.
A black cat padded over the hill and settled beside them without sound.
She began to write.
And beside her, Moore began to breathe a little easier.
---
And finally, he spoke.
Not much—just a whisper, really. A sound barely carried on the wind, easily mistaken for a thought spoken too softly to be heard.
"…You came."
His eyes didn't lift, but his voice held a weightless truth. Not gratitude. Not surprise. Just a quiet recognition, like a thread gently tying her to the moment. It was not an invitation, nor a dismissal. It was enough.
Ronell paused in her writing, pencil still against the paper. Her head tilted slightly toward him. She didn't smile—but something in her shoulders softened, as if his words were a hand reaching through the fog.
"I always do," she said, barely audible.
And then silence settled again—not empty, but full. Of breath, of presence, of something unspoken blooming between them like the petals above.