Mia had completely forgotten that Clive had tried to say something to her in the upstairs hallway the other day.

So when he came to the study before class and asked if she had a moment, she replied brightly, a little too eager.

“Did you find the book?!”

Clive blinked, caught off guard.
Just as Mia had forgotten about that conversation, he too had completely forgotten about the book.

He told her, somewhat regretfully, that he hadn’t found it—and that he had something else to ask.

“Mia, would you like to go to a poetry reading with me?”

“A poetry reading?”

“There’s a place downtown called Greenbird Bookshop. Have you heard of it?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. When Mia shook her head, Clive went on,

“It’s a literary bookstore. They host an event every week called A Night of Culture. People bring their favorite poems to read aloud and share their thoughts freely with others.”

It was, without question, something that would pique Mia’s interest.
Her amber eyes lit up with curiosity, and Clive hurried to add,

“It’s open to everyone—no restrictions on status, gender, or age. I actually wanted to invite you sooner, but… it’s hard to get a spot.”

He said it half as an excuse, half as a way to seem modestly proud.

Mia, who seemed just about ready to say yes, hesitated.

“Um… would it really be all right for me to take such a hard-to-get seat?”

“What are you talking about, Mia? Don’t say that—it hurts! I only ever had you in mind from the start.”

“In that case…”

Mia agreed, pretending to be gently persuaded, though inside she was delighted.

A poetry reading… that sounds fun!

Had she sensed even the slightest trace of impropriety, Mia would have turned Clive down without hesitation.

But there was none.
Clive simply seemed eager—as a fellow lover of books—to share a small part of his world with her.

On Friday, the day of the event, Mia opened her wardrobe to change her clothes.

Then she froze for a moment.
Right there, hanging neatly on the inside of the door, was the freshly laundered dress.

“……”

The part of the bodice where the wine had spilled was spotless now, not a single trace of the stain left.
It looked as good as new.

Mia reached out and brushed her fingertips over the smooth satin. It was cool, like touching glass.

That vivid, unfamiliar sensation pulled her back to a single moment in the past—
to the first time she’d ever worn that dress.

It had been a sample piece, pinned and adjusted here and there, leaving her tense and stiff.
Standing in heels so high had made her wobble.

And then—Oscar’s hand had steadied her from behind.

How could she ever forget that solid, reassuring warmth?
Even more so when, throughout the dance, that hand had rested perfectly against the curve of her back.
How could she think of that night as nothing more than a fleeting dream?

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

She giggled, mimicking a man’s voice.
Then, lifting her skirt just slightly, she switched to a high, playful tone.

“Oh my, Mr. Oscar. The honor is all mine.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she swayed the hem of her dress.
A funnier idea popped into her head.

She took the dress off its hanger.
Lifting it by the shoulders with one hand and cradling the waist with the other, she found herself in the perfect pose—
like a gentleman holding a lady in his arms.

“Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm…” she hummed softly to herself.

Humming the melody she’d heard that night, Mia began to move her feet.

A low, gentle tune filled the sunlit room.
The golden afternoon light made the bed glow softly, like it had been draped in a sheer layer of organza.
Each time she turned, the dust in the air shimmered and fluttered like tiny sparks.

When her steps tangled, she let herself fall onto the bed as though it were part of the dance itself.

The pale-rose dress fluttered down over her, settling lightly across her body.
She gathered the fabric in her hands and pulled it close, burying her face in it.

“……”

I think I’m falling for you.

Her own voice—those whispered words to Oscar—echoed faintly, dissolving into the air.

The promise she’d made to herself—to be a good friend to him—vanished like smoke.

And what lingered in her chest instead was something unexpected.
A deep, aching sadness.

***

Mrs. Maxana was the owner of Greenbird Bookshop.

Having remained single well into her fifties, she had spent her younger years working at a factory.
During breaks, she had been the only worker who ever read books.
Over time, she saved every penny she could—and with her lifelong savings and a small inheritance, she finally opened a bookshop of her own.

Though modest in size, Greenbird Bookshop quickly became known among literary enthusiasts for its carefully curated selection.
Word of mouth spread fast, and soon the shop had earned a quiet but devoted following.

These days, every Tuesday and Friday, the shop hosted a poetry reading called A Night of Culture.

It had started as a small, intimate gathering among friends.
But as more and more people wanted to join, entry rules became necessary.

To attend, one needed to possess a small token—or be the guest of someone who did.

The token, a round medallion engraved with a little green bird, could be transferred to another person.
However, once given away, the original holder could not attend again for an entire year, even if they later obtained another token.

Anyone caught forging a token or using it for profit was permanently banned from Greenbird Bookshop.

“It’s like some kind of secret society!” Mia said in awe.

Clive chuckled and fished something out of his pocket.
“This is the token. Cute, isn’t it?”

“What kind of bird do you think it is? A woodpecker? If it were Young Master Rio, he’d guess it in one try.”

“Let’s ask him during our next outdoor lesson.”

They were riding in a carriage—one of the two-seater, open-roof models Clive usually used when visiting Club Élite.
The evening sky was awash in shades of violet, and with no roof above them, they could admire it freely.

Greenbird Bookshop stood in the heart of the city.
Since property prices there were high, the area was lined with small, tightly packed shops.

Mrs. Maxana greeted them with her usual broad smile. Deep laugh lines framed her mouth, and the hollows beneath her eyes gave her face an air of seasoned confidence.

Mia felt a little nervous at first, intimidated by her strong presence—but that vanished quickly when Mrs. Maxana laughed heartily and placed a temporary entry badge around her neck. Before she knew it, Mia was laughing along.

The door to the side room was so low it nearly brushed the top of Clive’s head.

They had arrived a bit early, but as the hour drew near, the room filled up—twelve people in total.

The participants of the poetry reading sat in a circle.

According to Clive, the last time a “new member” had joined was six months ago.
Which meant this group had been meeting, unchanged, for half a year.

They exchanged familiar greetings with ease, like old friends. Before long, all eyes turned toward Mia.

Clive gestured for her to step forward.
“Allow me to introduce Miss Mia Green.”

“Ah, so this is the wonderful tutor I’ve heard about! Pleased to meet you, Miss Green. I’m—”

At the compliment of being “wonderful,” Mia glanced at Clive.
But he pretended not to notice, quickly turning to strike up a conversation with someone else.

At exactly seven o’clock, Mrs. Maxana hung a sign on the outer door reading Closed for the Evening and joined them in the adjoining room.

“Friends,” she announced, “tonight’s an open reading session, right?”

A woman around Mrs. Maxana’s age stepped into the center of the circle.

“Once a month, we take time to read aloud from any writer we personally love. You remember that, yes?”

Clive leaned over and whispered softly.
Mia nodded. Thanks to his earlier hint, she had also brought a piece to share.

“…The reason I chose this author,” the woman in the center began,
“is because she’s one of the few successful and, more importantly, living female poets.
I want more people to know her work—and I want her to sell well and get rich.
That way, more women will write.”

The first reader recited a poem by the female writer Sylvia Plath.

Then came a boy who looked about fifteen, followed by a middle-aged man, then Mrs. Maxana herself,
and finally an elderly gentleman with a deeply wrinkled face.

When Clive finished his turn, it was Mia’s moment to step into the circle.

She had chosen Henry Milton—perhaps a conventional choice, but one close to her heart.

The poem she had brought wasn’t particularly mainstream,
but it was the kind that anyone attending a poetry reading would likely recognize.

“I chose a piece called At the Shore,” Mia said.

Henry Milton’s famous Collected Sonnets came from his later years,
written during the period when he was most deeply immersed in naturalism.
At the Shore was composed near the end of his life—
after he had lost the person he loved, and when he had begun to sense the approach of his own death.

“I… lost my family last spring.
It was a fire.
And because I had to start working right away, I wasn’t given the time to grieve.
Back then, whenever I could, I read Henry Milton’s poems… and that’s when I came across this one.”

“……”

“This poem is often cited as one of the great works of nihilism.
It speaks of mortality, of the inevitability of death.
But for me… it brought comfort.
That simple, self-evident truth—that every human being must one day die—
a truth I had forgotten in my rush to live…”

When the fire broke out, there had been around fifty people working inside the factory.

At first, everyone had panicked, but they soon managed to keep order and evacuate.
The survivors later testified that it was thanks to her father—the middle manager on duty—that they did.

But when about thirty people had escaped, some chemical reaction triggered an explosion.
Those caught in it died instantly.

Her father, who had stayed behind until the very end to help others get out,
went to heaven that day as well.

And then—

Mia lowered her eyelids.
Behind them, the image of the fire that had swallowed her father flared red and vivid.

She opened her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and continued,

“That truth… brought me a strange kind of peace.
It’s ironic, isn’t it?
But the thought that everyone—every single one of us—must die someday…
somehow eased the pain a little.”

A faint tremor touched her voice, but she steadied it.

“Of course, I know not everyone here has gone through something like that.
So I wonder—how would you feel when you hear this sonnet?”

She looked around the circle and smiled faintly.

“Then… I’ll begin.”