Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 2: The Boy I Saved

Skylane

The second floor always smelled like paper and lemon polish after morning homeroom. Lockers slammed in quick, impatient rhythms; laughter ricocheted under the skylights; sneakers squeaked in a kind of chaotic harmony. I moved through the hallway with my books hugged to my ribs and my head down just enough to avoid eye contact, just enough to look like I had somewhere urgent to be.

My locker sat between a faded motivational poster about excellence and a window that framed the courtyard fountain like a photograph. I spun the dial by muscle memory—right-left-right-click—and the door swung open.

A paper bag waited inside, centered like it had been placed with a ruler. My name curved across the top in a hand I knew by now: careful strokes, a small heart tucked into the tail of the S. The bag smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm, like vanilla beans pressed in the sun.

"Okay," I muttered, half to the bag, half to my pulse. "What now?"

I slid it out and peeked inside.

A teddy bear nestled in tissue like a small secret. Not just any bear: soft latte-colored fur, a little heavier than it looked, with a stitched pattern across its belly as if a rose garden was blooming straight out of its heart.

Up close, I noticed something else. The first row of roses, just under its neck, was clumsy—threads uneven, petals crooked, the kind of mistakes that almost looked cute. I caught myself smiling before I could stop it. By the time my eyes traveled lower, the stitches had steadied, the flowers fuller, cleaner, prettier.

Had someone gotten better as they went?

Tiny thread-thorns curled against embroidered vines, petals in deep, velvet red spreading over its stomach like a promise someone had decided to make permanent.

A note lay folded under one plush paw.

I unfolded it, the paper whispering against my fingers.

Hey ❤️,
Did you like the surprise?

"Yes," I told the empty corridor, nodding like an idiot.

You've probably noticed the roses on Spring's stomach, right?

"Spring?" I murmur, a smile tugging. "It fits."

Count them before you keep reading.

I set my books on the locker's built-in shelf and cradled the bear in both hands. The threads were neat and tight, each bloom distinct. I traced with a fingertip as I counted in a whisper, cheeks warming for no reason at all.

"Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty-four."

Twenty-four roses.

24 roses. That's one for each hour.
Just so you know, I've been thinking about you 24 hours a day.
And I know I'll keep thinking of you until the day you're mine.
Things are complicated right now, but I'll fix it. Then I'll come find you.

—Sun

Reading the sign-off, I huff a laugh. "Okay, Sun. Point taken."

"Hi, Spring," I whispered to the bear, brushing a knuckle over its stitched roses. "Welcome to the museum."

Because that's what my room had become over the years: a quiet museum of Sun—shelves of letters tied with ribbon, a row of teddies with names embroidered along their paws, a lacquered box of chocolates with wrappers I couldn't bring myself to throw away. Sometimes there were flowers. Once, a vinyl I'd mentioned I loved in passing. I didn't know his real name, but his words always felt familiar, like a sweater I'd borrowed before. Warm. Safe. Seen.