The morning sun softly illuminated the riverbed of the Nishina River. Early April. Cherry blossom season. 紗彩 put on the navy suit she'd had dry-cleaned. It had been five years since she'd worn it last. As she lifted it from the hanger, she let out an involuntary breath. (It's fine. There's no reason to be nervous over something like this.) She stood before the mirror, unconsciously touching the faint bruise on her left wrist. She straightened her short hair. Deep brown eyes looked back at her—a version of herself that seemed more composed than usual. 凛人 arrived. Her seven-year-old son, dressed in his new school uniform, looking a little self-conscious. "Mom, you look cool," "Thank you. You look like a proper first-grader now," Mother and child. Hand in hand, they made their way to Kasumigaoka Elementary School. --- The gymnasium was bright and festive. The smell of new classrooms, parents' smiling faces, children's tense expressions. Cherry blossoms drifted through the gymnasium doors on the wind. 紗彩 sat beside 凛人. She looked around. Couples everywhere. Fathers placing hands on their children's shoulders, mothers holding cameras. In the midst of all those scenes, 紗彩 was alone. Five years of suppressing herself to protect 凛人. That reality became all the more apparent in this moment. (This is fine. This is how it should be.) She told herself that. But somewhere deep in her heart, there was a small ache. Principal Miyazono Etsuko delivered the opening remarks. "In this new environment, you will all grow tremendously." Listening to those words, 紗彩 gazed at 凛人's profile. (For this child. I'll move forward.) --- The ceremony ended, and the new students headed to their classrooms. Class 3-2 was at the east end of the second floor. From the windows, you could see the Nishina River's riverbed. Blue sky, green embankment, the faint sound of the river's flow. It was a good environment. That's what 紗彩 thought. The homeroom teacher, Kitazawa Taisuke, stood at the front. Thirty-two years old. Taciturn, with an expression difficult to read. A man with a quiet atmosphere about him. And yet, there was a certain sincerity in his bearing. "I'm Kitazawa Taisuke. I hope to learn alongside all of you for the next year," he said. His voice was low and calm. His suit was navy. His hair was cut short and neat. Behind his glasses, deep brown eyes gazed at each student. Kitazawa knelt down in front of the children, bringing himself to eye level with 凛人. "You're 凛人, aren't you? I look forward to working with you," 凛人 nodded. His tense expression softened slightly. Kitazawa's attentiveness had eased the child's anxiety. 紗彩 watched the scene unfold. (He's a good teacher.) That's what she thought. At the same time, something stirred in the depths of her heart. A complex emotion—anxiety and anticipation mingled together. --- The explanation continued. It was time for remarks to the parents. Several fathers asked questions. "What's your teaching philosophy?" "How much homework will you assign?" Ordinary questions. But Kitazawa's answers were different. "While valuing each child's individuality, I focus on establishing foundational academic skills. I adjust homework based on each student's learning situation," Each word was careful and deliberate. Not blunt. But not overly gentle either. Balanced, professional language. 紗彩 found herself drawn in by the way he spoke. As the explanation meeting ended and parents began to leave, Kitazawa approached 紗彩. "You're 凛人's mother, aren't you? If you ever have any concerns, please feel free to consult with me anytime," In that moment, Kitazawa's gaze met hers directly. Deep brown eyes. A calm, clear light. Something leaped in the depths of 紗彩's chest. "Thank you very much," She replied briefly, modestly. But that response didn't fully express what she was truly feeling. Kitazawa continued. "I imagine it must be difficult doing this alone," The words trailed off. Kitazawa fell silent. Yet that very consideration tightened around 紗彩's chest. (He knew. He knew I was alone.) It wasn't a shameful fact—it was simply an inescapable reality. But the fact that this reality had been recognized by another person shook 紗彩's heart. In the hallway as they parted, 凛人 spoke cheerfully. "Mom, Kitazawa-sensei seems really kind," "Yes. I'm glad he's a good teacher," But 紗彩's heart was complicated. Kitazawa's words, his gaze, his very presence—they lingered strangely in her mind. On the way home, she thought of him again and again. --- Night. After putting 凛人 to sleep, 紗彩 sat alone on the sofa. Outside the window, the Nishina River's riverbed lay dark. The sound of the river's flow drifted from a distance. The spring night breeze was cold. She thought back to Kitazawa. His quiet voice. His sincere words. His eyes that looked directly at her. "I imagine it must be difficult doing this alone"—the way those words had trailed off. (Why does it stay with me like this?) She questioned herself. He was just her son's homeroom teacher. Nothing more, nothing less. He was simply being kind so that 凛人's school life would be fulfilling. And yet. Why. She unconsciously touched the faint bruise on her left wrist again. The wound from five years ago. The pain of divorce. (I won't open my heart to anyone ever again.) She had decided that. Her own feelings came second. Her only role was to protect 凛人. But beneath that resolve, a small flutter refused to fade. Kitazawa's gaze crossed her mind once more. A sensation she had never felt before. Something close to fear, yet at the same time sweet, dangerous. (No. I can't think like that.) 紗彩 exhaled quietly. The next morning. Class 3-2 at Kasumigaoka Elementary. Kitazawa observed the students' learning. He carefully recorded each child's name, personality, learning style. Among them, he watched 凛人. He thought of the boy's mother. That moment when their eyes had met—her reaction. (A complicated person.) That's what he thought. Someone in whom strength and weakness coexisted. Someone whose sense of responsibility mingled with small, unspoken wishes. But Kitazawa couldn't organize his own feelings either. Something precious had begun to move quietly within him. He couldn't yet put it into words. Only this was certain: something had begun to change.