But as Kaito slid the pick into the lock, the lights flickered on.
Kaito stood at the edge of the school rooftop, the wind pulling at his unbuttoned blazer. This was the "Aoharu" the poets talked about—not just a season of life, but a physical weight in his chest. It was the smell of scorched asphalt after a summer rain and the electric hum of a vending machine in an empty hallway. aoharu snatch new