The rain had begun before dawn — soft at first, like whispers against the windows.By midday, it was steady and unrelenting, drumming over the academy rooftops, turning the courtyards into pools of silver ripples. The air was thick and cold, heavy with the smell of wet stone.
Classes had been dismissed early. Most students had retreated indoors — the library, dorm halls, anywhere warm and bright. But Asher didn't mind the rain. He liked the quiet it brought. The world always seemed less noisy when it rained — like even the chaos outside his mind took a breath.
He walked slowly beneath the covered walkway leading toward the east courtyard, his hood pulled low, a book in one hand. Advanced Runes of Compression and Containment. He'd been rereading it for the third time that week.
Lightning flashed briefly beyond the academy walls, illuminating the empty grounds. He paused for a moment, taking in the rhythm of the raindrops falling against the marble tiles.
That's when he heard it — faint, fragile. A sob. Not the loud kind, not the broken wails of grief — but something quieter. Controlled. The kind of sound that escaped only when someone tried not to cry.
He stopped.
The sound came from the old glasshouse at the edge of the courtyard — a dome of crystal panes now fogged with mist and rain. Students rarely went there anymore. It had once been used for botanical research but was now little more than a storage space for unused plants and ancient soil samples.
He hesitated for a second. He wasn't the type to intrude. But the sob came again, muffled this time.
He sighed quietly and adjusted his hood. "...Typical," he muttered under his breath and walked toward the glasshouse.
The door creaked open with a reluctant groan.
Inside, the air was warm and damp. The smell of rain-soaked soil filled the space. The plants — long neglected — dripped with condensation. And near the far wall, sitting against a low wooden bench, was a girl.
Her silver hair clung to her cheeks, rain still dripping from her cloak. Her knees were pulled close, hands clasped tightly around them. Her eyes were red but not swollen — the kind of tired red that came from holding too much in for too long.
She didn't notice him at first.
He stood there, quiet, just watching her for a moment — not with pity, not with curiosity. Just… watching. Then, softly, he said, "You'll catch a fever if you keep sitting in wet clothes."
The girl startled slightly, her head snapping up. She blinked, eyes wide. "Wh— who—?"
Asher lowered his hood, his hazel hair sticking slightly to his forehead from the rain. His tone remained calm. "Relax. I'm not here to lecture you."
She stared at him for a second, confused. "You're… Ernstein, right? The first-year from Class 1-C?"
He tilted his head slightly. "And you're Fiona Aldrane."
Her eyes widened a little more. "You know me?"
"Everyone knows you," he said simply. "You're hard to miss."
Something in his tone made her pause — not admiration, not flattery. Just a fact, spoken plainly. It was the first time she'd heard someone say it without any hint of desire or envy.
He looked around, then walked over to one of the old benches and sat down — not too close, not too far. The rain pattered against the glass roof above them, filling the silence.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Asher reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a handkerchief — plain white, folded neatly. He tossed it lightly across the space between them. It landed on her knee.
"Clean your tears," he said.
She hesitated, staring at it, then at him. "You're… not going to ask?"
He glanced up, his blue eyes faintly reflecting the rainlight. "If you wanted to talk, you'd have started already."
Fiona blinked, then let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "You're… strange."
"I've heard that before."
She picked up the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, looking away. "It's just… everything's been—"Her voice caught. She stopped herself, exhaled slowly. "Never mind. It's stupid."
He tilted his head slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "If it made you cry in the rain, it's not stupid."
That silenced her. The sincerity in his voice was quiet, unforced. He wasn't trying to comfort her — he was just being honest. Somehow, that was even more comforting.
After a long pause, Fiona said softly, "I just… hate it. The way people look at me. Like I'm something to be owned or admired. Not… a person."
Asher didn't answer immediately. He looked out the glass panes instead, watching the rain slide down them in silver trails.
When he finally spoke, his tone was measured. "So stop giving them permission."
Her brows drew together. "What?"
"You don't have to prove anything to them," he said. "If they only see the surface, that's their limitation, not yours."
Fiona blinked at him. The simplicity of it struck her harder than any elaborate comfort could have.
He looked back at her, his expression unreadable but not cold. "Besides," he added, "the people worth keeping don't care how you look. They care how you think."
Something in her chest eased at those words. Maybe it was because he said it so casually, like it was obvious. Maybe because he truly meant it.
She smiled faintly — the first real smile in days. "You really don't care, do you?"
"About what?"
"About me being… well, me."
He shrugged. "You're just another person trying to figure things out. Like everyone else."
She laughed quietly, a soft sound that mingled with the rain. "You're terrible at compliments."
"I'm terrible at pretending."
That made her laugh again, a little brighter this time. She leaned back against the bench, looking up at the gray sky through the fogged glass. "You know… you're easy to talk to."
Asher raised an eyebrow. "I barely said anything."
"Exactly," she said with a small smile. "You listen."
He said nothing to that — just opened his book again and continued reading. But she could tell from the slight upward curve of his lips that he didn't mind her company.
The rain went on for a long while. Neither of them left.Sometimes they spoke — about books, mana theory, the academy's ridiculous dorm policies. Other times, they just sat in silence, letting the rhythm of the rain fill the spaces between their words.
When the storm finally began to lighten, Fiona stood. Her cloak was still damp, but her eyes no longer carried that same dull sheen of sadness. She folded the handkerchief carefully and set it beside him.
"Thanks," she said softly.
He didn't look up from his book. "Keep it. You'll need it again."
She blinked. "Are you saying I'll cry again?"
"I'm saying life doesn't stop raining just because you dried off once."
That earned him another laugh — quiet, but warm.
She stepped toward the door, then paused and turned back. "Hey, Asher?"
He glanced up.
"Do you… want to walk back together?"
He closed the book with a soft thud and stood. "Sure."
(Note : His response came after millions of calculations in 0.5 seconds.)
They left the glasshouse side by side, the last drops of rain falling softly around them. Neither said much on the way back, but something unspoken had settled between them — an understanding. Not attraction. Not obligation. Just quiet trust.
And though neither of them realized it at the time, that rainy day — that quiet meeting in a forgotten glasshouse — would be the beginning of something far stronger than either of them expected.