The school library stayed open until seven in the evening.
Makoto Yuki knew that from the facilities board he had memorized during his first week—sandwiched between the gym schedule, the swimming pool hours, and the exhaustive list of services available with or without points. The library belonged to the rare "free" category. No transactions. No reservations. Just silence offered at no cost.
Since then, Makoto had made a quiet habit of visiting on Saturday afternoons. He didn't come for a specific purpose, but rather to look for something that might catch his interest. The collection was better than he had expected—not only academic references, but also fiction, philosophy, and obscure essays that seemed to have no direct connection to any school curriculum. Someone in the administration had decided that a proper library should be more than just a repository for textbooks. Makoto appreciated that decision, though he felt no need to voice it.
He chose a table in the far corner of the room—his back against the wall, with a clear view of the entrance and the rows of mahogany shelves. It was an old habit, a tactical positioning that followed him like a shadow, even in a place as peaceful as this.
"The library looks strangely grand," Makoto murmured quietly to himself. "Maybe this is just the standard for this school."
The room wasn't empty, but it felt solitary. A few upperclassmen studied together at a distant table, their voices reduced to indistinguishable whispers. Others read alone, scattered across the room like pieces on a chessboard, each absorbed in their own quiet world. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic, soft friction of pages turning.
Makoto had been reading for nearly forty minutes when someone sat down two seats away from him.
He didn't look up immediately, his eyes tracking the lines of a translated ancient text. But as he reached a stopping point and let his gaze drift, he saw her.
Long silver hair tied with a black ribbon.
The girl moved with a quiet, practiced grace—retrieving a thick hardcover book from her bag and placing it on the table without a sound. But before she opened it, her eyes paused on the book in Makoto's hands. For a few seconds, she simply observed the title. Then, she opened her own volume and began to read.
Makoto returned to his page, the shared silence now feeling slightly different—weighted with a mutual acknowledgment.
Nearly fifteen minutes passed before the girl spoke. Her voice was quiet and unhurried, perfectly tuned to the library's atmosphere.
"Excuse me."
Makoto raised his eyes.
"The book you're reading—what shelf did you find it on?"
"Classical literature section on the right side. Third row from the bottom," Makoto replied precisely.
The girl nodded slightly, her expression thoughtful. "The Epic of Gilgamesh," she murmured, her gaze resting on the cover again. "It's a little surprising that a school library would keep a translation like that in their general collection."
Makoto tilted the book slightly so the cover was more visible. "Do you want to read it?"
The girl gave a faint, elegant smile. "Thank you, but I've already read it. I was just surprised to see someone else drawn to it here."
"You're not wrong," Makoto said, glancing at the vast shelves. "The library is fairly large, yet most people seem to stick to the modern bestsellers near the front."
Something shifted faintly in the girl's expression—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a ripple on still water. "Do you like mythological stories?" she asked. "Or tales about heroes who struggle against the inevitable?"
Makoto thought for a moment. He thought of the blue room, the ticking clock, and the weight of a destiny he hadn't asked for.
"I suppose… maybe. Or maybe not," he shrugged lightly. "Most of the time, I just read whatever happens to catch my interest. It's usually random."
He glanced back at the book in his hand. "To be honest, I already know the story. But this edition has a slightly different interpretation of the ending. I wanted to see how this author handled the concept of loss."
The conversation continued naturally, forming between them like a bridge across the empty chairs. It wasn't forced; it was a quiet discussion born from the shared space of two readers.
"I'm Hiyori Shiina," the girl said eventually. "Class C."
"Makoto Yuki. Class B."
Hiyori nodded once. It wasn't a nod that demanded more information or a deeper social commitment—it was a simple, respectful acknowledgment of his presence. Then, she returned to her book. Makoto did the same.
A few minutes later, Hiyori spoke again without looking up.
"Yuki-kun, do you have a favorite genre?"
Makoto raised an eyebrow slightly at the suddenness of the question. "Not really. Like I said—I usually choose books randomly. I don't like being tied down to one category."
"I see." There was no judgment in Hiyori's tone. Instead, she gave a small, genuine smile. "To be honest, I'm just happy to meet someone who truly enjoys reading for the sake of reading. I've always wanted to exchange book recommendations with someone who shares the same hobby."
"That's a nice idea," Makoto said, his tone neutral. "But it seems like you've read far more books than I have. I doubt I could recommend something you haven't already explored."
Hiyori lifted her gaze, her violet eyes meeting his. "I don't think you need to be so modest. Everyone sees a story through a different lens. I'm happy just getting to know more people who value these worlds."
Makoto closed his book halfway, his finger marking the place. "In that case, why don't you recommend something to me instead? Since you seem to know your way around these shelves better than I do."
Hiyori's smile brightened, a soft glow appearing in her expression.
An hour passed, though the clock on the wall seemed to have stopped. Their conversation came and went like the tide. When one of them found something interesting to comment on, they spoke. When they didn't, they simply returned to the pages in front of them.
"This author has another series," Hiyori said at one point, her finger tracing the spine of her own book. "It's significantly darker than this one."
"How so?"
"The characters face things that don't have clean resolutions. There is no 'happily ever after' or a grand reward for their suffering." Hiyori paused briefly, her gaze drifting toward the window. "Not everything gets neatly resolved in life, and this book reflects that."
"But you like it regardless," Makoto observed.
Hiyori glanced at him, slightly surprised by his directness. "Yes. Although... I don't really like the ending itself."
"I see..." Makoto replied. He noticed the way her shoulders slumped slightly. She wasn't just disappointed; she was mourning the narrative.
Hiyori looked at him, noticing his lack of a typical sympathetic reaction. "Yuki-kun? Is there something you'd like to say?"
Makoto closed his book halfway, his expression remaining calm and detached. "It's just a thought," he began, "but sometimes the intentions of an author and an editor are at odds. At the end of the day, a novel is still a commercial product—a business. There's a fine line between writing for the masses and writing for the sake of art. Sometimes, a book loses its intrinsic value simply because the conclusion was forced to satisfy a market or a deadline."
Hiyori's eyes widened slightly, her attention fully captured.
"I don't mean to sound as if I know everything," Makoto continued, "but it helps to look at it from that angle. Whether it's a form of self-consolation or an objective reality, we can only interpret the author's true intent through the pages they left behind. The 'business' might be what you hate, not the author's heart."
"That's... an interesting way to see it," Hiyori said softly. "It makes the disappointment a bit easier to bear, I suppose."
Seeing her expression soften, Makoto decided to share a fragment of a memory. "Actually, I once read about a certain author. He went to see the film adaptation of his own work. During the climax, he was so moved by the tragedy and the cruelty of the story that he started crying in the theater. He kept thinking, 'Who could be so cruel to write something so heart-wrenching?'… and then he realized, 'Oh wait, that was me.'"
Hiyori blinked, then let out a soft, melodic laugh that seemed to brighten the dim corner of the library. "That's… truly absurd," she giggled. "To fall prey to one's own imagination."
"It happens," Makoto shrugged. "If the creator can't even handle the weight of their own ending, you shouldn't feel so bad about hating it either."
Hiyori smiled at him with a warmth that reached her eyes. "Thank you, Yuki-kun. It makes the disappointment feel a little more like a shared experience rather than a lonely one."
She stood up slowly, slinging her bag over her shoulder as the light faded into a deep violet. "If we meet again, I'd like to hear more of your 'random' perspectives. I also hope you'll still read the book I recommended and form your own opinion."
"I understand. I'll add it to the list."
She stopped at the door, giving a small, polite wave before disappearing into the corridor. Makoto sat in the silence for a moment longer. He checked out the book Hiyori had recommended and walked out into the evening chill.
Chapter 4 end
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[OMAKE: A Different Lens]
The streetlights along the path to the dorms flickered to life one by one, casting a soft, amber glow over the pavement. I walked with a steady pace, clutching my bag which felt a little heavier with the weight of my newly borrowed books.
I thought back to the conversations in my classroom earlier today. My classmates were busy planning trips to cafes, discussing the latest makeup trends, and laughing about things that—to be honest—I found difficult to follow. It wasn't that I disliked them, but it often felt as if we were speaking two entirely different languages. I would smile and nod, but inside, I felt like I was standing alone in a crowded room.
But this afternoon, in that dim corner of the library… things felt different.
Makoto Yuki-kun.
He was an unusual person, but in a way that was strangely grounding. When he spoke about Gilgamesh or his theories on an author's intent, I didn't feel the need to search for topics to fit in. The words just flowed naturally—honest and unpretentious.
However, one particular sentence kept echoing in my mind.
"The 'business' might be what you hate, not the author's heart."
I found myself wondering... what exactly was he thinking when he said that to me?
For a moment, his gaze had been so objective, as if he were accustomed to separating raw emotion from a harsh reality. There was a certain distance in his eyes, yet, a very faint trace of warmth hid beneath the surface.
Was that his way of trying to comfort me?
I caught my reflection in the glass of the dorm lobby and let out a small, private smile. If that truly was his attempt at making me feel better, then Yuki-kun is a very unique person... and perhaps even a little bit charming in his own way. He didn't offer empty, clichéd words of sympathy; instead, he gave me a new logic to forgive my own disappointment.
At the very least, for the first time since I entered this school, I didn't feel like I had to try so hard to be understood. The silence we shared felt more meaningful than any of the empty chatter I had heard all day.
Tomorrow, I think I'll start reading the book he was holding. I want to see the world through the lens he uses, even if just for a few chapters.