She and Her at the Magic Academy

This is not a story about earth-shattering events.

It is about two people—a girl with silver-gray hair, and a girl with blue eyes.

They attend classes together, train together, and promise each other every year under the fireworks.

They have never said anything grand.

At most, it is just—

“Are your arms sore?”

“A little.”

“Then let me wipe it for you.”

—and then the towel rubs back and forth on the wet hair, making a soft rustling sound, while the moon outside the window happens to move right above the spire.

They wear the same kind of reed-woven rope tied around their wrists, the same day’s date is pinned to the sticky note wall, and two stars are drawn side by side on the title page of the memo pad.

Some bonds do not need a name.

It is just there—on every sticky note, in every hair tie, on that bench by the lake where they sat for a long time.

Starting from the first day of school.

Starting from that head poking out from under the blanket.

Now, the story begins.