The school library was quiet, the scent of old pages drifting through the air like a forgotten memory. It was late—most students had gone home—but Herin Rai sat alone at a corner table, scribbling furiously in a leather-bound notebook.
She didn't notice the time, nor the fading light outside the tall windows. Her eyes were fixed on the paper, her thoughts entirely on Kai Hitari—his silence, his strength, the sadness behind his calm face.
Herin was writing her book.
She'd decided to call it Crimson Veil, a name that came to her when she first saw the bloodstained edge of his sword, gleaming beneath the twilight sky. But her pages weren't filled with battles or swords alone. They were filled with questions she couldn't ask him out loud, and hopes she was too afraid to say.
Who are you, really? Why do you carry so much pain? Why won't you let anyone close?
She didn't realize tears had begun to fall onto the pages.
"You're crying."
The voice startled her.
She looked up, and there he was—Kai, standing a few feet away, his sharp eyes watching her with quiet curiosity.
"I... I didn't hear you come in," she said quickly, wiping her face.
"You didn't answer," Kai said, walking closer. "Why are you crying?"
Herin closed the notebook slowly, clutching it to her chest. "It's nothing."
Kai didn't believe her. "That book... is it about me?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. But it's not just a story. It's how I try to understand you."
Kai remained silent. His gaze drifted to her notebook. "So? What did you write that made you cry?"
Herin looked down. "I wrote about your loneliness. I imagined what it must be like to carry that sword, knowing what it's done. And how people look at you—not like a person, but like a weapon. I wondered if you ever wanted someone to just... see you, not your blade."
For a moment, Kai didn't know what to say. No one had ever said something like that to him—not even Rekha.
Herin wiped her eyes again. "Sorry. I guess I'm a little emotional."
"You're not wrong," Kai said finally. "It's hard being seen as something you're not."
She looked at him, surprised by his honesty.
Kai continued, "I've lost more than people know. I've fought more than I wanted to. And yes, I carry pain. But I carry it so others don't have to."
A quiet moment passed between them.
Then Kai added, "You're not the only one who writes things you can't say out loud."
Herin blinked. "You write?"
"No. But I remember."
Their eyes met, something soft and unspoken passing between them. The veil of mystery between them didn't lift all at once—but it shimmered, just a little.
Herin smiled faintly. "Maybe... you could help me write it. Your story, I mean. Not just what I imagine."
Kai looked away. "We'll see."
But he didn't say no.
As Herin packed her things, she gently placed the notebook in her bag—now marked by a single teardrop stain and a memory she'd never forget.
And for the first time, she didn't feel like she was writing about a mystery.
She was writing about a person.