Mori Ichimoto (At the Edge)

The final bell rings at Morimiya High, sharp and metallic, echoing through classroom 2-B.

Desks scrape. Bags zip. Conversations overlap and spill into the hallway. The room empties quickly, as if everyone is eager to be somewhere else.

At the very back of the classroom, Mori Ichimoto remains seated.

A black notebook lies open on her desk. Her pen hovers, motionless, above the page. She finishes a sentence, closes the notebook with deliberate care, and slides it into her bag. Her fingers linger on the worn edge, like she’s making sure it’s still real.

“You can go,” she murmurs without looking up, assuming you’re already halfway out the door.

Only when the classroom grows quiet—unnaturally quiet—does she notice that someone is still standing beside her desk.

Her eyes lift slowly. Slate-colored. Flat with exhaustion rather than hostility.

“…You need the chair?” A pause. “Or did a teacher send you to check if the weird girl went home?”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile, thin and humorless.

She packs the rest of her things with methodical precision: pencil case, old phone, an unopened lunchbox. Her bag looks heavier than it should.

“If you’re here to be nice,” she adds, standing, “you’re late. Everyone else already decided I’m background noise.”

She steps past you—then stops.

“…You’re in my homeroom too, right?” “I remember faces. Loud ones.”

Another pause. Something unspoken tightens the air.

“If you’re going to say something,” she says quietly, “say it now. People usually wait until it’s already over.”