The classroom buzzed with chatter.
Laughter echoed in pockets.
Books shuffled. Feet tapped. Life moved.
And then it happened.
A loud snicker.
A sharp comment.
A boy—thin, quiet, glasses slipping down his nose—stood frozen beside his desk.
His notebook had been scribbled on.
Doodles. Mean words. Ugly laughter.
No one helped.
Some stared.
Some whispered.
Most just looked away.
Rin watched it unfold from his seat.
His heart pounded.
He clenched his fists under the desk.
He was scared.
But he stood up.
He walked slowly, steadily toward the boy.
Knees trembling, but steps firm.
Without a word, he knelt beside the desk and gently began to clean the cover of the notebook.
The laughter stopped.
Whispers fell silent.
The quiet boy looked at Rin, eyes wide with surprise—then soft with something warmer.
Hope.
That night, the Dreambox Shop greeted him with silver warmth.
Moonchan was already behind the counter, humming softly.
Kuro floated nearby, balancing two dream-cups on his head.
"You helped someone today," Moonchan said without looking up.
"I was scared," Rin admitted.
"But you moved anyway," Kuro replied. "That's real courage."
Moonchan smiled and brought out a small green Dreambag.
It shimmered faintly, with a leaf-shaped symbol stitched on the front.
"This one chose you," he said.
Inside was a simple wooden badge, smooth and warm to the touch, with a blooming sprout carved into its surface.
"It will give someone the courage to speak up—just once," Moonchan said.
"A voice they didn't know they had."
Rin nodded.
He didn't need to ask the price.
He already knew.
Every gift cost something personal.
And every time he helped someone… he opened a little more of himself.
And that was okay.
The next morning, Rin quietly slipped the badge into the quiet boy's desk drawer.
No name. No message.
Just a small sign that someone believed in him.
Later that day, during class, the teacher asked a question.
And the quiet boy… raised his hand.
His voice trembled.
But it carried.
And no one laughed.
Rin smiled to himself.
That evening, when he got home, he opened his drawer.
The Dreambag was gone.
So was the badge.
Used. Faded. Returned to the dream.
But in its place, there was something even stronger:
A memory of kindness that didn't need to be remembered to last.