The next few days passed without incident.

  That alone unsettled Aira.

  She had expected something—whispers, curiosity, the sharp edge of attention—but nothing came. Her classmates remained the same. Conversations flowed easily, laughter rose and fell, and the class continued to function with its familiar rhythm.

  Too familiar.

  Sunlight poured through the classroom windows each morning, tracing slow paths across the desks. Aira noticed it more than usual now. She caught herself watching how it shifted, how it warmed the wood, how it lingered on the backs of chairs before fading.

  She told herself it meant nothing.

  Ren kept his distance. He didn’t speak to her unless necessary. He didn’t look at her longer than anyone else. Yet his presence felt deliberate, as if he were giving her space rather than ignoring her.

  That, somehow, made her more aware of him.

  During lunch, Aira sat alone as usual, notebook open but untouched. Around her, the class buzzed with casual conversation. Someone mentioned a test. Someone else complained about the weather.

  Then she heard it.

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  “…Sunlight.”

  The word slipped through the noise, soft but unmistakable.

  Aira’s fingers tightened around her pen.

  Two students near the window were talking animatedly.

  “Thirteen days,” one of them said. “That’s all we have before the festival. We need something that stands out.”

  “We’ve got ideas,” the other replied. “But nothing solid.”

  Aira stared at the page in front of her as thoughts began forming automatically, connections sparking, solutions aligning.

  Sunlight. Thirteen days.

  Her mind worked faster than she wanted it to.

  She sketched quietly—angles, pacing, timing. She mapped out how light could be used, not as spectacle, but as atmosphere. Something gentle. Something intentional.

  Something safe.

  Ren noticed the change instantly.

  Not the writing—he didn’t look at her notebook—but the way her posture shifted. The way her shoulders loosened when she focused. The way her breathing steadied.

  Later that afternoon, the teacher announced the upcoming cultural festival project.

  “Each class will present something unique,” she said. “You’ll have thirteen days to prepare. Use them wisely.”

  A ripple of excitement passed through the room.

  Aira felt the ripple like a wave approaching shore.

  Thirteen days of sunlight, she thought.

  The phrase formed unbidden, settling somewhere deep in her chest.

  After class, Ren caught up to her in the hallway.

  “You’re already thinking about it,” he said.

  She didn’t deny it. “…It’s just a structure.”

  “Structures matter,” he replied.

  She stopped walking.

  “You called it sunlight earlier,” she said quietly. “In class.”

  He nodded. “Because that’s what it feels like.”

  She turned toward the window, where late afternoon light spilled across the floor.

  “Sunlight doesn’t last,” she said. “It fades. And when it’s gone, people notice the dark.”

  Ren followed her gaze.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they remember the warmth.”

  Aira said nothing.

  But for the first time, she didn’t immediately retreat from the light.