Prelude

Saturday.

The day-long culture festival was a foolhardy madhouse of

commotion. Everyone's smiles and frowns, their excitement, enthusiasm,

and passion—all of it contributed to the final campfire that scorched the

night sky as it reached grandly to the heavens.

Then it was Sunday.

The responsibility of cleaning all traces of the idiotic commotion

rested on the shoulders of the festival committee executives and the student

council. They checked that each and every class's exhibition had come to a

close, verified that the garbage was thrown out properly, and cleaned up the

remnants of the campfire.

That year, they held a modest commemorative party in an obscure

corner of the gym for the retiring third years. The acting chairperson, who

was not prone to tears, said, "I have no regrets." Then he cried and buried

his face in the bouquet he'd been handed amid applause. As she patted his

back, the president, who also held the same bouquet in her cleaning gloveclad hands, flipped her hair.

"Right. I have something I want to discuss with everyone. I—"

She said it like it was nothing