The next morning, Mei stared at the ceiling like it might whisper secrets.

The knock was real. She didn’t dream it. She didn’t imagine the smudge on the sketchpad. The quiet footsteps above her were no longer just “neighbor sounds” — they were clues.

She hadn’t told anyone about Aoi. No friends, no forums, no online posts. The character existed only in her private notebooks and her mind.

And now, somehow, in her world.

Still wrapped in a blanket, Mei opened her sketchpad again. The drawing she made last night — Aoi in the hallway — was still there, slightly blurred around the edges. She traced the lines with her finger, half-expecting them to move.

She flipped a few pages back.

Aoi, leaning over a railing, lost in thought — just like Ren on the balcony.
Aoi, wearing a chipped silver keychain — the one she saw flash on Ren’s hip.
Aoi, sipping from a mug — Mei now recognized it from the morning coffee scent wafting through the floorboards.

Too many coincidences.

Her doorbell rang.

She jumped, then scrambled to the entryway. Heart thudding, she opened the door.

It wasn’t Ren.

It was the delivery guy, holding a box.

“For Tanaka Mei?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

He handed over the parcel — medium-sized, no sender. Mei signed for it and thanked him before gently closing the door.

She hadn’t ordered anything.

Sitting on her futon, she hesitated for a full minute before unsealing the box.

Inside, wrapped in brown paper, was a first edition volume of her favorite manga series — Sakura Wolf. She gasped. It was rare, out of print, and expensive. On top of it sat a tiny note written in blocky handwriting:

“You left this behind. – R”

Mei’s hands trembled. How did he know? How did he even know she loved this manga?

Then she remembered — in her sketches, she had once drawn Aoi reading Sakura Wolf at a train station, holding this exact volume.

Her mouth went dry.

He knew her drawings. He’d seen them.

But… how?

She bolted upright and rushed to her window. The balcony above hers was empty, but his curtain was slightly open.

Mei stared at the box again. Was it a joke? Was he stalking her?

But no — nothing about Ren’s energy felt threatening. If anything, he seemed careful. Gentle. Like he was keeping distance on purpose.

Her fingers itched again. She grabbed her sketchpad.

This time, she drew something else. Something new.

Aoi, standing in a hallway, reaching toward a girl’s door — but hesitating. Not knocking. Just standing there, uncertain.

She looked up at her apartment door, then whispered to the ceiling:

“You don’t have to be afraid. If you’re real… talk to me.”

No knock came this time.

But she didn’t feel alone, either.

That night, when she was brushing her teeth, she heard something — the sound of soft movement on the stairs. Curious, she cracked open her door.

Ren was there.

He hadn’t seen her. He was walking past quietly, holding a plastic bag and looking tired. He paused in front of his own door… then turned and looked back — at hers.

He stared at her door for a long moment.

Then — with a smile that looked both sad and fond — he whispered something too quiet for her to hear.

And disappeared inside.