"Chirp."
"Chirp."
The soft calls of birds echoed through Kafka's room. His eyes slowly opened, heavy and unfocused, before shifting toward the alarm clock.
"Eight…" he muttered, then closed his eyes again.
It was Saturday, after all. There was no reason to move, no reason to think. Just rest — quiet, peaceful, thoughtless rest.
It's better to sleep than to think… he thought, letting the weight of slumber pull him back under.
Time slipped by unnoticed. The sun climbed higher, its warmth spilling through the thin curtains until it filled the room with light.
Of course, you'd think the sun could never interrupt Kafka's sleep. Don't be ridiculous — of course it could.
Kafka stirred, then groaned softly as heat pressed against his skin. Sweat clung to his forehead, his hair damp, his bed soaked through with moisture.
"So hot…" he mumbled, voice dry and hoarse. His small electric fan did little to fight the sun's assault.
He sat up slowly, the sheets clinging to his back. When he glanced down, he noticed the faint outline of his body traced in sweat against the mattress.
"What the hell…" he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
With a sigh, he stood and made his way downstairs. The house was empty — quiet, still.
A plate sat on the table, covered with a thin film of coldness. His breakfast. Or rather… lunch, by now.
Kafka stared at it for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle.
"A supposed breakfast turned into lunch. Funny enough."
After finishing his lunch, Kafka headed toward the door. As he opened it, a blinding light greeted him.
He winced, shutting his eyes tightly. After rubbing them a few times and blinking against the brightness, his vision slowly adjusted.
"Hot…" he muttered, stepping outside.
His walk wasn't anything special — just a quiet, aimless drift. He passed by the café, the mall, and eventually found himself at the playground.
The sound of children's laughter echoed through the open space, bright and carefree. It drew his gaze almost against his will.
What am I even doing here? he thought, sighing quietly.
He walked toward the vending machine, slipped a few coins in, and pressed the button for lemon soda.
Taking a seat on a nearby bench, he popped open the can.
Psth! The soft hiss escaped into the warm air, followed by a few bubbles fizzing over the rim. He raised it to his lips and took a slow sip.
His mind drifted as he stared at the pale, empty sky — blank and endless. He didn't notice at first the faint presence beside him, wrapped in white and blue hues.
Then, a delicate scent brushed against his senses, faint but distinct. His head turned instinctively toward the newcomer.
"Columbina," he said, voice flat and unreadable.
Indeed, it was her — Columbina, dressed in a white and blue outfit that fell just past her thighs, her presence as serene as a song half-remembered.
"Hi, Kafka," Columbina said softly, her eyes still closed as always. There were a few small changes in her appearance — subtle, but noticeable. Not that Kafka was the type to compliment them.
He took another sip of his lemon soda before asking, "What are you doing here?"
"I was just passing by when I noticed a handsome, aloof man staring blankly at the sky. What can I say?" A faint smile curved her lips — or maybe it was a smirk.
"…Why are you calling me handsome all of a sudden?"
"Can't I?" she teased lightly. "I mean, you are handsome. I'm just being honest."
Kafka stared at her face — radiant and serene, smiling like sunlight through the clouds. He exhaled deeply. "Sigh."
"What are you sighing about?" Columbina tilted her head, confusion flickering across her expression, though her eyes remained gently shut.
"Nothing," he replied simply.
"Well," she said after a pause, "since you're here, how about coming with me to the library?" She stood gracefully, brushing the edge of her dress as she turned.
Kafka hesitated, then rose from the bench to follow.
As she hummed quietly, walking ahead with that effortless grace of hers, Kafka found himself speaking before he could stop. "Hey… there's something that's been bothering me for a while."
She slowed, glancing back at him. "What is it?"
He looked at her for a long moment — her calm expression, her closed eyes, the way the afternoon light seemed to soften around her.
"How…" he began, but the words faltered. He shook his head. "Never mind."
With that said, they finally arrived at the public library.
Books — that was all Kafka saw. Hundreds, maybe thousands, lined the tall shelves in perfectly neat rows. The faint scent of paper and dust hung in the cool air.
"Well, go ahead and find something you'd like to read. I'll grab mine," Columbina said softly, her tone carrying that usual calm gentleness. She drifted away toward the fairy tale section, her white-and-blue dress fluttering slightly as she moved.
Kafka turned toward the history shelves, scanning the rows in silence.
"Medieval Era… Dark Renaissance… The Epic of Gilgamesh…" he murmured under his breath, reading each spine aloud. He pulled a few volumes out, skimming their opening paragraphs before sliding them back into place.
Then his eyes caught on something different.
A worn, dark cover — its title scrawled in jagged silver letters.
"Love Craftian?" he muttered, an uneasy chill running down his spine.
A low hum filled the room. He looked up — the air conditioner groaned weakly in the corner, rattling as if struggling to breathe.
"The air conditioner's getting colder," he murmured, rubbing his arm before looking back at the book.
"This is interesting," he said quietly, almost to convince himself, and took the book in hand.
Without another glance at the shelves, Kafka walked toward the counter.
The librarian glanced up briefly as Kafka approached, her expression unreadable. She scanned the book, stamped it, and slid it back across the counter without a word.
Kafka gave a short nod in thanks, then walked toward a table near the window. The sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds, painting pale stripes across the wooden surface.
He placed the book down gently.
The cover felt oddly textured — not like leather, but something rougher, uneven. He brushed his thumb across the surface and frowned.
Opening the first page, a faint musty scent escaped, thick and aged. The ink seemed to have bled slightly over time, warping the letters in uneven strokes.
"And from the sea of nothingness, they shall awaken — eyes that dream beyond dreaming."
He blinked, reading the sentence twice.
"Eyes that dream beyond dreaming…" he repeated under his breath.
A faint sound of humming reached his ears — soft and distant, yet familiar. He turned his head slightly and saw Columbina sitting a few tables away, her hands folded over an open book, her lips moving ever so slightly as she hummed a tune he couldn't quite place.
It was a calm melody, but somehow… dissonant.
Kafka tore his gaze away and returned to the page.
More lines followed — incoherent, abstract verses that blurred the boundary between poetry and prophecy.
He didn't realize how quiet the library had become until the sound of his own breathing filled the silence. Even the air conditioner had stopped its rattling.
Then, from somewhere within the aisles, came a soft thud.
Kafka froze, eyes darting toward the rows of books. Nothing moved. No footsteps followed.
"Probably just a book falling," he muttered to himself — though his tone was uncertain.
Closing the strange tome, he leaned back against the chair and exhaled slowly.
When he looked toward Columbina again, she was no longer at her table.
But the humming continued — faint, echoing from deeper within the shelves
Kafka continued skimming through the book, each page descending further into tangled chaos. The deeper he read, the less sense it seemed to make — yet somehow, he understood.
Cosmology. Madness. Abominations. The Silver Key.
"Interesting concept—" he muttered, tracing a finger along the curling script.
Then, a soft breeze brushed the back of his neck.
He froze.
The air conditioner wasn't running.
Kafka's shoulders tensed as he turned sharply — and nearly stumbled in surprise.
There stood Columbina, her eyes still gently closed, her serene smile never faltering.
He blinked once, twice. "What was that for?" he asked, the edge in his voice slipping through despite his effort to sound calm.
"For what?" she replied lightly, tilting her head, her tone soft and teasing. "You looked… so absorbed. I thought I'd remind you you're still here."
Kafka frowned slightly. "You could've just said my name."
"Would that have been as effective?" Columbina giggled softly — yet there was something strange in it, like an echo, faintly distorted.
He looked down at the book again, then back at her.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," he said.
"I didn't sneak," Columbina said simply, taking a step closer, her voice low enough for only him to hear. "You just didn't notice me."
Kafka didn't reply. For a moment, they both stood there — the silence between them heavy, almost tangible.
Then, Columbina's expression softened. She reached out and brushed a bit of dust off his shoulder, whispering with that same calm, lilting tone:
"Be careful with that book, Kafka. Some stories don't like being read."
She turned and walked away, her white-blue dress fluttering lightly as if stirred by a breeze that no longer existed.
Kafka stared after her, his pulse steady but his thoughts unsettled.
The words had changed.
"And THEY shall smile, even when the world ends."
Kafka closed the book with a soft thud, unaware of the line that had rewritten itself. He exhaled quietly, stood up, and followed after Columbina.
Her faint humming guided him through the silent corridors of shelves — gentle, melodic, yet threaded with something bittersweet. The notes lingered in the air like fragments of a fading dream.
Her wing-shaped hairclip caught the light as she walked ahead, fluttering ever so slightly whenever a breeze passed through the open windows. The way it shimmered — delicate, ethereal — drew Kafka's eyes in spite of himself.
For a while, they didn't speak. The sound of her humming and the soft rhythm of their footsteps became the only conversation between them. Eventually, the quietness of the library gave way to the sound of the city outside — cars passing, voices, and the distant chirping of cicadas.
The sunlight outside was warmer now. Columbina stepped into it gracefully, her hand brushing through her hair as she turned to him.
"Are you done reading for the day?" she asked, smiling faintly.
"Yeah," Kafka replied, his gaze fixed ahead. "That book… was something."
Columbina tilted her head, her smile deepening. "Books usually are. Some just stay longer in the mind than others."
Kafka didn't respond, only giving her a small nod as they began walking down the street.
The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and fresh bread from a nearby café. Children ran past them, laughing, while an old woman fed pigeons by a fountain. The world felt normal — almost deceptively so.
Then, just ahead, they saw her.
A woman standing still before a clothing store window, holding a paper bag loosely in one hand. Her violet hair was tied into a low ponytail, though several strands fell freely around her face.
Her expression — quiet, distant — mirrored a kind of grief that no words could hide.
Raiden Mei.
She seemed… thinner than before, more fragile. The light in her eyes carried the dull ache of someone trying too hard to stay composed.
Columbina's humming faded into silence as they approached.
"Mei?" Kafka said softly.
She turned slowly, her eyes widening just a little at the sight of them. Then, a small, polite smile found its way onto her lips.
"…Kafka. Columbina," she greeted, her voice calm but faintly trembling.
"It's been a while," Columbina said kindly. "You look tired."
"I've just been… busy." Mei forced a faint laugh, glancing down at the paper bag in her hand. "Groceries. It's the only thing keeping me from thinking too much lately."
Kafka's eyes lingered on her for a moment.
A pause — the kind that carried too much inside it.
"…Yes," she murmured. "How about you two, what are you doing here together? "
She asked softly, her eyes darted between Kafka and columbina.
"We were at the library and was just about to go home" Columbina replied and followed by Kafka,
"Hm. It was interesting, I guess."
Columbina stepped forward, her tone gentle. "Since we're here, why not let's walk together?"
Mei blinked, startled, before letting out a small breath — part sigh, part relief. "…Thank you."
So they walked — Kafka slightly behind, Columbina at Mei's side — the three of them moving quietly through the afternoon crowd.
The sun hung low, painting the streets in amber light. For a brief moment, it almost felt like peace — fragile, fleeting, but real.
[END]