"Sometimes, words don't need an address to find where they belong."
Ren didn't plan to write back.He never did.
But that night, with the wind tapping gently against his window and his sketchbook open beside him, something felt unfinished.
There were two letters now — maybe three, depending on how you counted silence.
And though none had names… every word seemed to carry weight.
So, for the first time, Ren wrote.
Not in a sketch, not in lines and shapes — but in language.
He didn't start with "Dear you."He didn't end with a name.
He simply wrote.
"You asked if silence hides more than noise ever could.I think it depends on who's listening."
He paused.
Thought about Sayaka's voice. The way she didn't quite look at him when she spoke. The pause in her breath before walking away.
He thought about Hana, too. The way she watched him draw, but never asked questions. The way her eyes sometimes flickered, like she was trying to solve a riddle without disturbing it.
And then he kept writing.
"There are people who speak without sound.And there are those who scream with their eyes.I'm not sure which one I am yet."
He stopped.
No flourish. No sign-off.
Just a folded page — plain, careful — left inside the same mailbox the next morning.
No one saw him place it.
Or so he thought.
Sayaka stood on the rooftop staircase, just out of sight.She hadn't meant to follow him — really.But after their conversation in the hallway, something in her heart wouldn't quiet.
And when she saw him place the letter…
She didn't feel triumphant.
She felt included.
For the first time.
Later that day, Hana checked the mailbox.Routine now. Ritual.
But this time, the paper she pulled out felt different.Not because of the words.
Because of the way they were written.
The same stillness. The same care. But the voice behind the words…
It was his.
Ren's.
She read it once.Twice.
And something tightened in her chest.
Because this wasn't a letter for her.It wasn't a letter for anyone.
It was a letter from him.But she didn't know to whom.
She didn't ask.She didn't tell him she read it.
But that day, she sat farther from the tree than usual.
Not angry. Not sad.
Just… uncertain.
That night, Ren noticed the space between them growing again.
And across the school rooftop, Sayaka wrote once more.
"I think I heard you.Even if the words weren't for me."
She folded it.Paused.
Then left it in the mailbox — not to be found.Just to be felt.