Aoi's POV
Sora starts showing up.
Not officially—not on court, not on the roster, not even in team huddles.
But she's there.
Leaning against the fence during drills.
Sitting alone in the bleachers during scrimmages.
Never cheering. Never smiling.
Just… watching.
Her eyes scan the court like she's cataloging flaws.
And somehow, I start second-guessing my serves.
Rio's POV
It's not that I don't trust her.
It's that I don't trust anyone who looks that much like Mirai and doesn't flinch when someone says her name.
Sora doesn't talk to me. She doesn't need to.
But once, during doubles rotation, I shanked a volley hard into the net.
Sora called down from the bleachers:
"Mirai would've cut across."
Just loud enough for me to hear.
Just soft enough to sound like judgment.
Tanaka's POV
So here's the thing:
Most people announce their chaos with energy drinks and eyeliner.
Sora?
She announces it with silence.
She doesn't ask questions. She is the question.
And even I don't have a punchline for that.
Haru's POV
Coach finally asks, "What's her deal?"
I shrug.
"She's Mirai's sister."
He grunts. "That explains nothing and everything."
Natsuki's POV
I catch Sora in the locker room one day.
She's looking at Mirai's old shelf—the one no one touches, the one we pretend we don't notice still has her shoes, her wristband, her backup grip.
Sora doesn't cry.
She just says, "She wouldn't have kept playing if she hadn't met Aoi."
Then she walks out like she didn't just drop a bomb in the middle of a tomb.
Aoi's POV
After practice, I find Sora in the art room.
She's sketching.
Not people. Not courts.
Just motion—shapes twisting in space, angles and arcs that feel more like tennis swings than anything else.
"You play?" I ask.
"No."
"Mirai taught you?"
"No."
Then she flips to a page and shows me a messy diagram—two intersecting routes.
"It's from her notebook," she says. "The second version of the Cross Court Formation."
I blink.
"I thought she never finished it."
"She did," Sora replies. "She just never showed you."