“The color,” Mei replied softly. “It’s getting stronger. Like a stain on the sky.”
She closed her eyes, letting the eyepatch snap back into place. Tomorrow, the deaths would begin again. For now, she would just be the girl who wasn't there, drawing pictures of dolls that couldn't feel the rain. Misaki Mei
“It’s a pointless tragedy,” Mei murmured, her voice lost to the wind. “But the show must go on.” “The color,” Mei replied softly
Mei finally looked back, but the doorway was empty. Only a single, stray feather from a crow drifted onto the wet concrete. She thought of Kouichi Sakakibara, the transfer student who had broken the rules by talking to her. He was the only one who saw her as more than a ghost, yet his kindness was the very thing pulling the thread of the curse tighter. Tomorrow, the deaths would begin again
She adjusted the white patch over her left eye. Beneath it lay the glass eye her mother, Yukiyo, had crafted—a doll’s eye that could see what others couldn't: the Color of Death . Lately, the hue wasn't just clinging to people; it was seeping into the very architecture of the school, pooling around the empty desks of Class 3-3.
The rain in Yomiyama never feels like water; it feels like weight. Mei Misaki stood on the rooftop of North Yomi Middle School, her black hair whipping against her eyepatch in the sudden gale. In her hands, she held a sketchpad, though the page remained blank. “You’re still looking for it, aren’t you?”
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