Fragments of a Rain-Soaked Dream
Childhood memories are like dreams drenched in rain.
I once believed that those days—running across the manor's grassy fields, eavesdropping behind the parlor door, laughing until our sides hurt over vanilla custard tarts—would stretch into adulthood, until we could stand beside each other without hesitation and share the future.
But I was wrong.
Sometimes, what truly breaks the heart isn't a sudden separation, but the quiet, imperceptible drift—like a slow-moving tide, pulling us apart until even our shadows no longer touch.
I used to think he was the one who left first.
Only later did I realize—it was me who ran away.
And that escape, once begun under that downpour, never truly stopped.
Yet fate never let us go. Like black and white swans, seemingly incompatible, yet forever bound to the same lake.
Now, I've returned to that manor.
The place I once thought could shelter me forever. The place that still holds too many of my secrets.
***
The school bell rang.
This morning, our homeroom teacher strode into class and made an announcement: "The Summer Festival was coming!"
Our school's most famous local event, The Summer Festival, was a competition where every class had to bring their best ideas to attract visitors.
This year marked its 50th anniversary, and the school was pulling out all the stops.
For decades, the festival had welcomed the entire city—anyone who bought school vouchers could participate in student-run booths and games.
Typical activities included water balloon fights, dart throws, chick-catching, petting zoos, maid cafés, beefcake waiter cafés, arm-wrestling tournaments, charity bazaars, and the most coveted event of all—the **Escape Room**.
Only one class could host the escape room each year, and competition was fierce.
Last year's submissions had been… creative.
"The Delicate Maiden Hunts Prey"
"The Siren's Search for Her Prince"
"The Mature Teacher's Secret Hideout"
When the judges scolded the offending classes on stage, the entire student body erupted in laughter, craning their necks to see who'd come up with such ridiculous themes.
This year, our class was determined to win.
"Study? Who cares? We're here to game the system!"—that pretty much summed up our class motto.
When the teacher asked for ideas, hands shot up.
"Maid café!"
"You and your maid obsession!" the teacher groaned, pointing at the boy.
Other suggestions:
- A spider-themed haunted house ,instead of chicks.
- A snack stall.
- Hide-and-seek
instantly vetoed—our campus was the second-largest in the city, it'd be a marathon
Then Sen Leian raised his hand. "Let's do an escape room."
The teacher perked up. "What theme?"
Chaos ensued:
- "Maid Armageddon"
"What is with you people?!"
- "The Principal's Office: Exam Hell"
"You think the old man would approve?"
- "The Ex-Files"
Cue dramatic gasps and giggles.
- "Bathroom of Horrors"
None got majority support.
Then I spoke up. "The Cannibal's Kitchen."
The teacher blinked. "That's… intense, Chuan Ling."
"I like it," Sen Leian said.
The girls, seeing him agree, instantly raised their hands. He shot a glare at his buddies, and the boys followed.
Only then did Li Min, ever the opportunist, raise her hand.
The teacher counted.
35 out of 48. Motion passed!
The class erupted in cheers—except the few already trembling at the thought of jump scares.
***
Our Homeroom Teacher was a rare breed—patient, open-minded, and fiercely protective of us problem kids.
He believed grades weren't everything; life demanded social skills, adaptability, and street smarts.
To us, he wasn't just a teacher—he was a co-conspirator. He'd gossip about school romances but never snitch, lecture us on safe dating Protect yourselves, boys and girls!, and generally act like the cool uncle we never had.
After School
Stay back and draft your proposal, the teacher ordered.
For once, we were excited to stay late.
Li Min and I headed to School Tyrant Tea, the packed bubble tea shop across the street.
As we debated our order, a tall figure in all-black—mask, cap, long sleeves—barged into me.
His tray of iced milk tea, noodles, and spicy soup splattered across my uniform.
I hit the ground, stunned.
"Watch where you're going!" he snapped.
Li Min, also splashed, frantically wiped her sleeves.
I just sat there, my white blouse and skirt now tie-dyed in soy sauce and chili oil, my shoes ruined.
The crowd recoiled, avoiding the mess.
Then a voice cut through. "What's going on?"
The black-clad guy bolted—smacking into Sen Leian on his way out.
"Running from zombies, idiot?!" Sen Leian yelled.
Only then did he notice the commotion—and me, drenched and humiliated in the center.
Before I could process, Chen Hao'an, the head prefect, hauled me up.
He draped his jacket over my head and steered me out, past gawking students.
"Where's Li Min?" I whispered.
"No clue."
"Where are we—"
He didn't answer, leading me to the faculty building. Oh god, is he taking me to the principal?!
But we stopped at the prefects' office—a sterile, cold room with a medical cot.
"You can uncover your face now."
I peeked out. No one else here.
"This is my domain," he said.
"No one enters without my say."
Then he saw my knees—scraped, probably from the fallen cutlery.
Wait, who eats noodles with a steak knife?
As he dabbed antiseptic on the cuts, I dug my nails into his hand.
"Does it hurt?" he murmured, softer than I'd ever heard him.
"What do you think?" I grumbled.
He handed me a towel. "Here."
"It'll get dirty"
"Keep it. Consider it a love token." He smirked.
"Who proposes with a towel?!"
For a moment, I forgot my dread—until I remembered my mom's wrath. Stained uniforms from this elite school were expensive.
"Let me take you home," he offered.
"I'll manage."
"Sure you want to face your mom like this?" He grinned.
Damn this observant, kind bastard!
He bundled me into a shark-faced hoodie—zipped all the way up, fully concealing me.
I looked in the mirror.
Oh. My. God.
It was a cartoon shark head.
Chen Hao'an lost it laughing. "My little sister's gift! Never thought I'd use it!"
"You set me up—"
The elevator dinged.
I yanked the zipper up just as Sen Leian and Li Min stepped in.
"Where's Chuan Ling?" Sen Leian demanded.
"Gone home."
"Already? How?"
"Someone picked her up."
Sen Leian eyed me suspiciously—then glanced at my shoes.
The doors opened.
Chen Hao'an yanked me into a sprint.
We dashed onto the empty school bus, collapsing into laughter as it pulled away.
Post-Credits Scene
Sen Leian spotted a female classmate wearing an oversized shark-faced hoodie that draped down to her thighs.
His gaze dropped lower—the hem of her school skirt and her white uniform shoes were stained with red and black splotches. That has to be Chuan Ling!
Just as Sen Leian opened his mouth to call her name—
Chen Hao'an, who had been watching the elevator doors and floor numbers, suddenly noticed Sen Leian's sharp, suspicious stare—like he'd caught them red-handed.
In a flash, Chen Hao'an seized Chuan Ling's hand and bolted out of the elevator at the same breakneck speed he used to chase down buses.
At the same time, Sen Leian's mind clicked: That's definitely her! He immediately gave chase, while Li Min, completely clueless, reflexively sprinted after them.
But Li Min, who never exercised, was no match for Sen Leian—a seasoned troublemaker used to running from consequences.
By the time Sen Lean reached the school gates, a wheezing Li Min lagged far behind.
The campus entrance was nearly empty now, with only a few stragglers still heading inside.
As the bus slowly pulled away, the quiet schoolyard was abruptly pierced by our uproarious laughter.
Sen Leian and Li Min both whipped their heads toward the back seat—where they saw Chuan Ling and Chen Hao'an doubled over, laughing at each other.
"Was that… Chuan Ling?" Li Min panted between breaths.
Ignoring him, Sen Leian stormed back into campus, headed straight for the parking area, and revved up his heavy motorcycle—ready to tear out of the school gates.