Natsuki Watanabe has never liked rain. She matches her school life with cloudy moods. Some days, she skips class for the library. Most call her shy, but there’s more under the surface. She presses flowers into her notebook, every petal holding a memory.
Miyako, transfer student from Osaka, bursts into Natsuki’s world by claiming her desk on a wet April morning. “Are you Watanabe? You draw?” Miyako’s accent and wide eyes catch Natsuki by surprise. There’s kindness there, but it feels loud to Natsuki, who winces and looks away. What would you do, faced with energy that doesn’t back down?
Miyako starts to hang around Natsuki during class breaks and in club rooms left alone by louder clubs. Natsuki quietly sketches, while Miyako tries her best to draw the school mascot—badly, ends up covering herself in blue ink. Natsuki lets out a real laugh, first in months.
Rain falls most days that month. Natsuki and Miyako walk home side by side, music through earbud halves. Old city, slick pavement, two umbrellas, cherry blossoms fading but still afloat in puddles. Miyako asks about the flower pictures stuck in Natsuki’s books. “Why save such small things?” she asks, tip toeing over a puddle. Natsuki shrugs, but the truth peeks out—”They’re memories that won’t fade.” Ever had an object that keeps your past alive?
The school festival deadline comes close. Their class is supposed to set up an art wall. Few care at first; most only want to slack or hang back. Natsuki wants to join, but her doubt hangs heavy—memories of being mocked last year still sting. Is that only her barrier now?
Miyako pushes, “Let’s turn the wall into a garden! Live flowers, pressed flowers—mix their stories.” Others slowly join. Wild sketches, clumsy collages, colors everywhere. An older boy named Haruki signs on after Miyako swipes leftover street chalk from the art supply cage. Tiny teamwork builds.
Soon, Natsuki is called to draw the centerpiece: a mural of a flower blooming through rain. Hands shake. Brushes drop. “Fail again, huh?” classmates mutter. Natsuki tries to tune them out, but red heat in her cheeks proves hard to ignore. Miyako says, “Failing is part of growing. Give me the brush so I can mess up next!” Annoyed, Natsuki gives her the black paint and laughs.
The wall goes up the next day. Odd petals, colors offbeat, Miyako’s odd mascot grinning out of one corner. Natsuki’s pressed flower cards, set in tiny pockets below the painting. The festival crowd stops and looks.
One old woman finds her glued picture. She recognizes the bluish bellflower. She leans closer. “My sister grew these, long ago.” Natsuki talks with her for a beat. Sketch walls hold old pain and new hope.
Total peace doesn’t last. Prep kids break some of the flower displays at dusk. Rain outside smells strong. Natsuki nearly cries, but Miyako pulls her toward the center. “You kept the petals, didn’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
“Then let’s remake it.”
With eighty minutes till the floor opens again, they stay side by side, fixing, cutting, patching flecks of petal to card.
The principal strolls by just as students laugh at their own world upturned. He’s shocked, then confused. “Who did all this fixing? Fight over art? Unheard of.” Natsuki looks away, eyes wet, but students push her forward. For the first time, her voice doesn’t tremble as much. “I only wanted memories not to be lost.”
The rain stops outside. Strong sun glints in through the window. Do you remember your own shy wins?
As the festival closes, Miyako gives Natsuki a card, blue-ink mascot doodle in the corner. ‘Thanks for saving rainy days.’ Natsuki’s hand tightens. “Want to try drawing with me again next week? Let’s make something nobody’s seen.” The shot cuts from the crowded gym to damp, shining pavement—they step forward without talking, knowing the next school chapter is wide, good, open. But the school announcement bell rings loud and sharp. Someone screams. Fade to black.
Will the next chapter be peaceful for Natsuki and Miyako? Why did someone shout? I’d keep reading if I were you—it isn’t over yet.
