Natsuki's POV
The rooftop door groans as I push it open. Below us, the tennis team's afternoon
practice has descended into chaos—Tanaka is dramatically clutching his knee after a
failed dive, while Haru stands over him, hands on hips.
"You call that a return? My grandmother has better footwork!" Haru's voice carries up to
us, sharp and teasing.
Aoi doesn't turn, but her pencil stops moving when the team erupts in laughter. The
wind flips a page of her sketchbook—just for a second, Mirai's grinning face appears
between the fluttering papers.
"You draw her better every time," I say, leaning against the railing.
She slams the book shut. "It's just lines on paper."
Below, Coach Kubo blows his whistle. "Tachibana! Stop terrorizing the first-years and
show them that spin serve again!"
Haru salutes and bounces a ball on his racket—once, twice. The team falls silent as he
tosses it up.
Aoi's breath catches when his racket connects.
The ball arcs high, then drops sharply just inside the service line—Mirai's signature twist
serve. On the court, the team bursts into applause. Suzuki claps so hard he drops his
racket.
"Damn," Tanaka whistles, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's exactly like Saito-san's—"
A chair screeches as Aoi stands abruptly. Below, Haru's head snaps up toward the
rooftop, as if he sensed the movement.
"Tell him I'm not here," Aoi whispers, her voice raw.
On the court, Haru shades his eyes against the sun, searching the rooftop. The team
follows his gaze.
"Is that Minami?" someone asks.
The murmurs start:
"Thought she quit..."
"...never comes to the courts..."
"...heard she can't even look at a racket..."
Natsuki—ever observant—nudges Haru and points right at us. He grins and waves both
arms overhead like a lunatic.
Aoi steps back from the railing, but not before Tanaka cups his hands around his mouth:
"Hey Minami! Your boy here needs a doubles partner!"
The team erupts in laughter and catcalls. Haru flips them off good-naturedly, but his
eyes stay locked on Aoi.
I place the tournament flyer on the railing. "They remember her too, you know."
Aoi's fingers tremble as she stares at the dates—one week before the anniversary.
Below, the team has started chanting:
"Mi-na-mi! Mi-na-mi!"
Coach Kubo joins in, clapping rhythmically. Even stoic Natsuki is smiling.
Aoi turns away, but not before I see the tear tracking through the graphite smudge on
her cheek.
The wind steals the flyer from the railing, sending it spiraling down toward the courts.
Haru catches it mid-air, his grin fading when he sees the circled dates.
When I look back, Aoi is gone.
But her sketchbook remains on the table, open to a fresh page.
And for the first time in four years, it's blank.