The sweet shop stood along an old-fashioned street in the little town near the airport, where the stone path curved between low wooden fa?ades and early-autumn leaves. The maples hadn’t fully changed yet; only a few edges carried a rust-red tint, like the season was still hesitating before turning. A bright red paper parasol leaned beside a weathered stone lantern, and the garden around it felt old enough to belong to another era.

  They stepped through the wooden door with warm cedar tones, the scent of roasted tea. Low windows opening onto the garden, so close the greenery felt almost inside the room.

  They settled at a small table by the window. From that seat, the moss, the lantern stone, the flowers - everything outside was framed like a painting. And in a place this calm, every small movement felt amplified. Mira sat down and suddenly became aware of how close their chairs were. There was hardly any space between them at all.

  But a moment later - once the tray arrived - the sweetness in front of her simply erased everything else.

  The presentation was almost too pretty.

  Little scoops of ice cream lined up in soft pastel colors, the red bean glossy, the strawberry bright and fresh, the jelly cubes catching light like tiny gemstones. The wagashi on its small plate looked shaped by someone with patience - the soft pink curve almost like a closed blossom resting before bloom. Even the black syrup in the tiny pitcher felt like part of the art, not just topping.

  Mira watched Adrian lift his spoon and taste the matcha ice. The green spread through the shaved ice in a soft gradient, and her attention moved toward him - the shape of his nose, the fall of dark hair near his brow, the way his eyes rested when he focused on something close, the broad line of his shoulders in this small seat.

  A soft sense of familiarity rose in her.

  His outward composure, the calm tone he carried, the gentle kindness beneath it, his care for plants, that sharp mind, his preference for tea over sweetness-all of it aligned in a way that felt strangely known. She hadn’t even noticed it when she was beside him; being near him felt natural, effortless, as if it had always been that way for years.

  She had wondered this once before too-whether she kept searching for one person she once knew, or if her heart had simply always chosen the same kind of presence, the same type of soul, without changing at all.

  For a moment, the present dissolved.

  She reached before she even understood what she was doing.

  Her fingers brushed the frame of his glasses, light as the thought passing through her mind, and she slid them from his face with a care that felt instinctive.

  Adrian’s hands remained on the table, and his eyes-without the layer of glass-met hers directly. He gave her that space without any resistance, as if granting her permission to look at him the way her memory demanded.

  Mira’s heart stumbled.

  The sunlight through the window, the reflection of the garden, everything layered over another scene she could almost recall: a botanical garden far away, the smell of soil and green stems, snacks shared under a shelter of woven leaves, two children sitting side by side.

  “Is it just me,” her voice came out softer than she expected, “or have we met before… long ago?”

  The pause between them was small, yet it felt wide enough for meaning to settle.

  Adrian finally spoke.

  “Does it remind you of your first love or something?”

  The words landed like a key turning in the wrong door. Mira blinked, the spell cracking beneath the unexpected angle of his reply.

  “What? No...”

  She shook her head lightly, more out of instinct than embarrassment, as if trying to reorient herself from a dream she hadn’t meant to speak aloud. Her hand returned his glasses to the edge of the table, fingers brushing the lenses once before letting go.

  “Do you have siblings?” she asked after a moment. “Twins?”

  His answer came without hesitation. “No.”

  Then he looked at her, then said, with a tone gentler than before:

  “Isn’t it improper to sit here talking to someone and asking about someone else?”

  Mira exhaled, a little too fast. The truth was that she didn’t know who she had been asking about.

  She dragged her eyes back to her own bowl, to the bright strawberry, the pastel scoops, the jelly cubes that looked like tiny sweets made for fairies.

  Focus on the strawberry ice cream, Mira.

  Control yourself.

  Mira’s chest warmed and her thoughts turned into strange little sparks the way they often did whenever her feelings came too close. Her mind never chose the direct road in moments like this, odd ideas appeared out of nowhere, tiny details catching her attention for reasons she could never explain properly.

  Her eyes went toward the pumpkin display outside, one wore a crooked witch’s hat, another had a plaid scarf and sunglasses, and that silly image claimed her focus instead of the tension between them.

  Mira, seriously… you are thinking about pumpkin ghosts right now? She scolded herself.

  “Do you think ghosts get cold?” she asked, the sentence rising before she even thought it through.

  Adrian paused mid-bite. “...What?”

  She turned to him.

  “I mean, they’re always in those thin white sheets. No socks, no scarves, just floating around draughty castles and abandoned buildings. That can’t be comfortable.”

  “Maybe that’s why they wail. Cold air, no circulation.”

  Mira snorted. “That makes too much sense.”

  He nodded solemnly, gaze flicking over her shoulder.

  “And some just stand still, staring at you.”

  She froze. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” he replied, eyes wide, voice calm as ever. “The one by the window’s been there a while now. Thought you knew.”

  She blinked. “Adrian..Remind me never to sit by the window with you again.”

  Adrian arched a brow, still completely deadpan. “You’re the one who brought up ghosts.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t expect a live commentary on spectral sightings.”

  Before he could speak again, Mira shifted slightly, her scarf brushing against the table. “You’ve been at Vermillion for two years, right? Have you ever noticed anything strange?” she asked. “Not academically strange. I mean, unusual. Like… unexplainable.”

  He leaned back just a little, thoughtful. “I’ve always hoped to,” he said. “But no. Why?”

  She continued, more carefully. “Have you ever been inside the Meridian Hall?”

  This time, Adrian didn’t reply immediately. Something in the question made him still, just for a second, like a thought had slipped loose that he hadn’t planned to examine.

  He turned to her fully. “What about the hall?”

  Mira hesitated. “Maybe it was just stress. Or a hallucination. I was pretty sure I walked there, trying to cool off after… you know, the whole magazine photo thing. I remember the hall. The air. The floor. But when I woke up, I was already back in my room. No signs I’d gone anywhere. Like it never happened.”

  She let out a short breath, trying to laugh it off. “Does that count as déjà vu? Or something else?”

  She tried to brush it aside.

  “It’s probably nothing, just… dreams.”

  But her tone didn’t sound as light as she wanted.

  “They’ve been strange lately. Early morning lucid ones… more often than usual. And there’s this voice sometimes, calling me, I wake up with the feeling still stuck in my chest.”

  She hesitated, fingers tightening a little on her fork, not sure if she was crossing a line by saying this out loud.

  “Is that… something I should actually worry about? Book a brain scan?”

  She wasn’t sure she even wanted the answer.

  “Meridian Hall is the oldest building on campus. If there’s any place that holds something... strange, it would be that one.” Adrian said calmly.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mira looked at him. “So you believe me?”

  “I believe it doesn’t hurt to check. If you want to go back sometime, I’ll come with you."

  “You’re volunteering to explore haunted buildings now?”

  “I’ve done worse.”

  She let out a small breath of a laugh, then frowned again. “And the brain scan?”

  “Have you ever had one before?”

  That caught her a little off guard. She hadn’t expected him to go straight there.

  “Uhmm… yeah. A few times.”

  She shifted in her seat, eyes dipping down. “When I was a kid. Nothing dramatic, just ‘over-reactive,’ ‘hyper-sensitive,’ whatever labels they used, some strange voice and strange dream happened over years, then one day they just disappeared. All the tests came back normal.”

  She paused, searching his expression before she continued:

  “They just told me to avoid caffeine. Practice breathing.”

  This time, his voice shifted, warmer and reassuring. “You’re remembering something your brain stored in the back corner for a while. Might be something you saw years ago. Or something that just feels close to it. When we get back, we can do a full check-up again. Just to be sure.”

  She looked at him, uncertain. “That’s it?”

  He gave a slight nod. “Memories don’t always arrive in order. Doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

  “But… do you actually believe in ghosts?”

  Adrian glanced at her, a bit amused. “No. I believe in electrical impulses, neurons, and decaying organic matter. That’s about it.”

  She smirked, not surprised. “So… where do you think our soul goes when we die?”

  He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Depends if you believe we even have one. But biologically?” He paused, then spoke in his usual calm, clinical tone.

  “As the brain shuts down, neurons misfire. You might see things. Feel things. It’s like the mind creating its own final hallucination. Then… nothing.”

  Mira watched him carefully.

  “And right before that—what happens in the brain? When the soul—or, well, consciousness—is about to leave?”

  He hesitated for a beat. Then:

  “There’s a surge. Sometimes called the ‘last burst.’ Brain activity spikes before total failure. A kind of... neural storm. All the systems letting go at once.”

  She stared at him, both spooked and fascinated.

  “That’s kind of beautiful. And sad.”

  Mira leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table. “Is there any other brain research right now that could be, like, totally groundbreaking—helping people—but also dangerous if misused?”

  Adrian tilted his head at her. “Are you thinking of changing your major now? No more saving the world through international policy and humanitarian diplomacy?”

  She gave him a dramatic shrug. “Of course I still care about world peace. That’s why I’m asking. If your brain is misused… the world might end up in war.”

  Adrian choked slightly on the shaved ice.

  He reached for his water quickly, coughed once into his fist, then looked at her—really looked—and saw her eyes still wide, gleaming with curiosity, genuinely expecting an answer. She wasn’t teasing.

  He tried—tried—not to smile, but the corners of his lips betrayed him. “You’re serious.”

  “As a nuclear code,” she replied.

  Adrian gave in, setting his fork down. “Alright. Yes. There are a few areas of neuro-research that toe that line—between benefit and risk.”

  “Like?”

  He folded his hands together lightly, his tone returning to that clinical, calm rhythm she’d started to recognize. “For example, brain-computer interfaces. BCIs. They can help patients with paralysis control prosthetic limbs… or even communicate using thought alone.”

  Her eyes widened even more.

  “But the same tech,” he continued, “could be used for surveillance. Manipulation. In military settings, there’s already interest in enhancing reaction speed, pain tolerance, memory recall. And if someone could influence brain signals remotely…”

  He let the implication hang in the air.

  “Thought control,” she whispered, almost to herself.

  Adrian rested his fingers on the rim of his bowl, his voice quiet but steady. “Some projects are working on memory manipulation—not just reading or recalling, but rewriting them. Theoretically, it could help trauma patients, erase painful experiences…”

  “Helix,” she said softly. “The one at the summit… is it one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if it’s been stopped?” she asked. “Or... how far they’ve already gone?”

  “I know what stage it reached when the internal review flagged it,” he said. “Early application testing. It wasn’t supposed to move further until the ethics panel approved phase two.”

  “And did they approve it?”

  “No,” Adrian said. “But that doesn’t always matter.”

  Her stomach tightened. “So it might still be running.”

  Adrian’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Not openly,” he said. “They won’t move it forward on a national scale. The backlash was too strong, too public.”

  He continued, his voice low. “But that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Programs like Helix don’t always die. Sometimes they’re shelved, renamed, or handed off to private contractors. Buried under different protocols. Disguised.”

  “They’ll keep it secret,” he said. “Smaller-scale, off the radar. Testing in places where no one’s looking too closely.”

  A chill slipped down her spine. “That’s…”

  “Horrifying,” Adrian finished for her. “It’s why we need to be careful with it. Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should." He paused again, his mind drifting to the ethical boundaries he had to constantly navigate.

  And for a moment, Mira couldn’t tell if what unsettled her more was the project itself—or the way he said it so clearly, like someone who already knew where the shadows were.

  “Adrian… You talk like someone who’s seen it up close… Did you—ever build something like that? One of the things they had to shut down?”

  “Don’t let any of them stay in your thoughts, Mira.”

  But she didn’t look away. “I’m serious,” she said. “Shouldn’t you have been in some kind of genius… highly protected program? Instead of just—studying, and… uh, wandering around like this?”

  Adrian looked at her, something dry and unreadable passing through his expression. “Are you expecting some government to keep me locked up as a high-stakes hostage? In a cell for the rest of my life?”

  Mira blinked. “Oh, wait. So… that could have been the case?” She spoke slowly, almost thinking aloud. “It must be difficult… having to choose between freedom and being protected.”

  He paused again, his breath caught mid-silence.

  He had never told anyone. And here she was-speaking right through his silence, into the heart of something he always buried too deep to feel.

  She didn’t even realize what she’d done.

  Before the silence could thicken too much, she tilted her head and added, with that strange sparkle in her eyes, “Want to exchange part of your brain with me?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got plenty of clumsy, weird thoughts. I can give you some. Or the entire thing, actually. That way, no government will ever want you again.”

  He pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

  How could she do this? Just minutes ago, she was flustered and tense. Then, serious—cutting straight through him like a scalpel. And now, this. A ridiculous offer, delivered with such earnestness it sounded almost real.

  He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping before he could stop it.

  Mira leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “Well, now that you’ve accepted my brain donation, you may have a bit of my ability.”

  Adrian narrowed his eyes, amused. “Ability?”

  “To be ridiculous, of course,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Should we start training? It’s not easy, you know.”

  He gave her a look, somewhere between disbelief and entertained. “Training?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “It takes time to master. Being ridiculous is an art. You need to practice hard. Regularly. No shortcuts.”

  Adrian leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “And you’re offering to be my coach, I assume?”

  “The best,” she said, chin lifted with mock pride. “But I warn you-it’s a tough road. There will be exercises. Nonsense drills. Laughing at jokes that make no sense. Saying things like ‘do ghosts get cold?’ with a straight face.”

  He couldn’t help it this time, a full laugh escaped, warm and low.

  Mira beamed, pleased with herself. “See? Progress already.”

  Adrian turned his eyes toward her, and something warmer settled there, softer than his usual reserve.

  “So if I have to practice regularly,” he said, “will you arrange those sessions with me? Just the two of us?” His words landed like a checkmate, grounding her to the earth no matter how far she tried to fly.

  Mira froze for a breath, unsure how to even shape an answer. Her fingers tightened around her spoon as a sharp flutter rose in her chest. One reply could lead them forward in a way she might never walk back from.

  If she said yes, what would it mean?

  Was she only seeing him as a friend?

  Is that truly what she wanted?

  Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, almost painful in its clarity.

  What is this feeling…

  Mira swallowed, eyes lowering to the glass tabletop.

  “My schedule is… a little packed these weeks,” she said softly. “Can I think about it first?”

  Adrian didn’t look away. “How long do you need?”

  Her breath stalled. What? He actually wants a timeline?

  She wasn’t sure how to reply — and before a single word found its shape, she felt his eyes drift briefly toward her wrist.

  “I’m sorry it happened.”

  It caught her off guard. This was the first time she’d heard him say those words. Even though none of this had been his fault.

  Her lips parted slightly, but no words came right away. And in that moment her thoughts began to unravel, all the ways she reacted on impulse, the way she tried to turn her face away from him at every chance, hoping that distance could shield her. She remembered how she brushed past him in hallways, looked away before his eyes could catch hers, acted as if the space between them meant safety.

  Yet here he sat, eyes deep like an untouched sea, warm like sunlight through leaves, present in a way that reached her no matter how carefully she stepped aside. The realization settled beneath her ribs like a slow tide returning to shore.

  Had she been avoiding him?

  Angry at those who caused harm?

  Or running from the feeling that kept rising every time he sat near her?

  Her voice finally met the air, “It’s not your fault though.”

  “I won’t let that happen again.”

  “That was nothing,” Mira said under her breath. “I can handle much worse. Just…”

  She drew in a breath, all the courage she could gather, heat rising across her cheeks as she pushed the words forward anyway.

  “My feeling is a little confusing right now. And I…”

  The last syllable faded before it formed an end.

  Because how could she tell him that she hadn’t forgotten...

  that she didn’t even know whether her heart was beating for the boy who once stepped into her life

  or for the man beside her now...

  “I can wait,” Adrian said, his voice sincere, a promise placed gently between them.

  She could feel the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her, a patient calm that gathered around them like a soft field of air, as if he sensed the sentence she left unfinished and simply held the space open for it. She wondered how long he would wait. Their time together had been brief, though it felt as if she had known him forever.

  Outside, rain began to form against the window, single drops at first, then more, until the garden blurred under early–autumn drizzle, the leaves and stones blending into a soft wash of green and silver.

  The space holds still, time pausing within that early–autumn light, melted in the soft melody of piano resting through the warm air, and the moment settles into a gentle flow, like the first lines of a love story breathing into being under the rainlit glow.

  ?