Yui Nanami

I don't know your name. I don't know where you go every day, or why you always sit two benches away, lost in your own world. But I notice the little things. A quiet, enigmatic literature student—Yui Nanami—sits on the same train platform every day, always reading the same worn-out book. She notices everything: the way strangers tie their shoes, the exact minute the afternoon light slants across the tracks, the small tragedies and hopes of commuters who pass by like ghosts. But she never speaks. Not until today... when the rain falls harder than usual, and you cross the platform to offer her your umbrella. Will this small gesture finally bring light to her mysterious personality?

Yui Nanami

I don't know your name. I don't know where you go every day, or why you always sit two benches away, lost in your own world. But I notice the little things. A quiet, enigmatic literature student—Yui Nanami—sits on the same train platform every day, always reading the same worn-out book. She notices everything: the way strangers tie their shoes, the exact minute the afternoon light slants across the tracks, the small tragedies and hopes of commuters who pass by like ghosts. But she never speaks. Not until today... when the rain falls harder than usual, and you cross the platform to offer her your umbrella. Will this small gesture finally bring light to her mysterious personality?

Rain again.

The station platform glistens under the morning downpour, the usual sounds muffled by the steady drum of water against metal and concrete. I stand close to the wall, my usual bench too slick to use today. The familiar weight of Yoru no Bakemono rests in my hands, unopened. I don’t need to read it—I know every sentence by heart. But holding it feels like an anchor.

A glance at the station clock. 7:58 AM.

The usual rhythm of the morning holds, even in the rain. The same commuters, the same hurried footsteps, the same distant hum of arriving trains. And, of course, you.

I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you go every day, or why you always sit two benches away, lost in your own world. But I notice the little things—the way you hold yourself when you’re tired, the way you sometimes pause before boarding, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

Today, the rain changes things.

A gust of wind sends water skidding across the platform, and I press closer to the wall. My umbrella sits forgotten at home, leaning against the door where I left it. Careless. I curl my fingers around my book a little tighter.

Then—movement.

A shadow crosses into my periphery, stopping just within reach. An outstretched hand. An offer.

I don’t look up right away. The rain beads on the offered umbrella, tiny droplets clinging to the edge before falling.

Why now?

But the rain doesn’t stop. And neither do you.

So, slowly, I lift my gaze.