Canvas of Silent Colors

"Alright, I'm gonna rest for a bit," Sorata-senpai said, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced toward the stairs. "Need to get back to my portfolio later… and commission stuff for the game competition."

He let out a tired chuckle, eyes drifting away as if already thinking about the upcoming deadlines. "If this continues, It sure are gonna kill me at this rate."

I nodded, smiling lightly. "Good luck, senpai."

"You too, Ren. Rest up."

Sorata-senpai headed up the stairs, leaving the common room silent except for the faint chirping of sparrows outside. The midday light poured through the windows, casting gentle shadows across the floorboards.

I walked back to my room and slid the door shut behind me. My shoulders relaxed a little as I flicked open my laptop, the familiar hum filling the small space, and the Undertale title screen glowed gently under the spring sun streaming through my curtains.

'Finally… True Pacifist route.'

Genocide route was done. Neutral/Pacifist route was done. But True pacifist was different. It unlocked new dialogues, hidden scenes, quiet warmth tucked away in secret corners of the code.

My eyes narrowed slightly, scanning my to-do list on the left panel.

The hidden calls from Papyrus when you refuse Undyne's letter quest… I still needed to implement that. It was such a small event – in the original game, if you never deliver the letter to Alphys, Papyrus keeps calling, confused and panicking softly about Undyne's feelings until the end.

Almost no one did that route intentionally. Most players never saw those desperate calls… but they were there. Hidden warmth, hidden loneliness.

And Sans's door event…

If you waited outside his room for hours, he'd eventually speak. Just one line. Most players never bothered to wait that long. But… it was there. A silent acknowledgement that you were still there too.

My fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, typing lines of code, adjusting sprite layers, syncing the looping music script with character animations. Each keystroke felt like weaving threads into a bits, pixels, and sound waves.

'Toby Fox… he really is a genius,' I thought, leaning back slightly as I let the preview run.

Just electronic synths and chiptune plugins… but the way he arranged them felt alive. Each theme carried its own soul.

Hopes and Dreams swelling with radiant determination, Snowdin Town with Christmas vibe and comforting,

Megalovania pounding with raw chaotic resolve.

Death by Glamour with the exaggeration and a song that make you dance.

Leitmotifs scattered and hidden within melodies – hints of Toriel's theme in Asgore's battle, echoes of His Theme in so many quiet corners. Even without knowing the story, you could hear each track and just know who it belonged to, what emotion it carried.

'108 songs… and they're all connected. That's insane.'

I chuckled softly, recalling the random memes I saw about Toby years ago.

Tricky Tony.

The Annoying Dog.

The man who composed, coded, wrote, and designed the entire game in his room… with his dog sleeping on his lap half the time.

I shook my head in quiet amusement as I switched to the script directory, adding a new hidden folder.

'He left so many secrets… W.D Gaster, the experiments, entry number seventeen, the mystery man… hidden dialogues in the code itself, strings that never get called unless players intentionally manipulate the game. It's brilliant.'

I typed:

`# hidden_event_pseudo.gst

'"Entry Number ??: To be or not to be… existence is a cruel joke."`

Just a fragment. Something small for those who dig deep into files, for those who refuse to just play.

I embedded a dummy audio file with scrambled data headers that could be decrypted into a short unused motif: an eerie reversed version of His Theme mixed with metallic echoes. Just a hidden echo in the dark, a secret meant to haunt curious players.

I smirked to myself.

'Let's see who finds this one.'

My fingers flew again, integrating the pacifist event flags, checking the flowcharts, making sure every choice mattered. Because that was the point of Undertale. Every route, every choice, every hidden corner… it all led back to the same question.

"Will you show them mercy, or will you erase their hope?"

I typed the last line of the hidden room script and ran a quick test. The screen flashed as Frisk's sprite walked forward, looping through the placeholder tiles I had yet to replace.

My eyes skimmed the console output for errors, but my mind wandered elsewhere.

The artifact room…

I could still remember it so clearly. That not-so hidden room with the legendary artifact sitting on a lone pedestal, glowing in the dark, making you think this is it, the secret ultimate item. But when you try to take it, your inventory's full, and there's that one slot suddenly occupied by the Annoying Dog.

And when you use it…

A stupid white dog appears, drops onto the floor with its dumb blank face, wags its tail to Toby Fox's "Dogsong", and just… steals the artifact before phasing away with a tiny bwoop sound effect.

'So… do I keep the Annoying Dog as is? Or…'

I glanced at my mascot sprite test sheet, where a pixel apple with stubby legs and two little dot eyes stared blankly back at me.

'Annoying Apple stealing the artifact with some silly jingle… yeah, I'll think about that later.'

I closed the file tab and shifted focus back to another task. Input key mapping, FPS stability on older devices, general optimization – all the little problems that could break immersion if left unchecked.

The original Undertale had its quirks with input delay and FPS drops here and there… I wasn't going to let that slip through in mine.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of code compiling like quiet, determined beats of my heart.

'Let's keep building this world… pixel by pixel, note by note steadily'

-----------------------------

The afternoon breeze slipped through the window screen, cool and gentle against my cheek. It was already past five. Spring sunlight cast long golden rays across my desk, and I leaned back in my chair with a small exhale, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

'…That's enough for today.'

Satisfied with the progress, I saved everything twice, closed my laptop, and stretched until my shoulders popped. My muscles ached with that familiar programmer fatigue, but it was a good ache.

I headed downstairs to the common room, footsteps quiet against the wood. Maybe I just needed to sit for a while and let my eyes rest, or make some tea to clear my head.

But as I entered, my gaze drifted past the glass doors to the backyard porch. There, in the fading spring light, sat Mashiro-senpai.

Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, charcoal pencil resting against the page, but what caught my attention were the crumpled papers around her feet. Dozens of them, scattered like withered petals.

I paused, staring quietly.

'…She's struggling.'

Her hair stirred slightly in the breeze, pale and silent. Even from here, I could sense it – that stillness, that frustration she didn't know how to express.

Maybe… this was a chance. A chance for a real talk. Not just small greetings or polite questions, but something deeper. Even though I'd only been here for a day… even though I was just a new member in this dorm…

I clenched my fist lightly.

'…I want to talk to her. Really talk to her. Even if it's heavy… even if it's not my place…'

I want to help her. Not the perfect genius everyone sees, not the silent doll they expect… but her. The real Mashiro. I want her to be honest. To not lie to herself just to keep everyone at ease. I want her to be able to choose… with her own will.

That was enough reason, wasn't it?

I stepped out onto the porch, the sliding door clicking shut behind me. The wooden boards creaked under my feet as I walked over, stopping a few steps away from her.

"Hi, Mashiro-senpai."

She didn't look up immediately. Her pencil moved slightly against the page, there is faint sketch in there. Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes to me. Blank, deep red That quiet, expressionless gaze. Just like always.

"Ren," she said softly. Her voice carried no particular inflection. Not welcoming, not dismissive. Just stating my name as a fact.

I gave her a small smile and gestured to the other side of the porch. "Is it okay if I sit here for a bit? I've been cooped up in my room composing all day. Thought I'd get some fresh air before dinner."

Mashiro-senpai blinked once, then shifted her gaze back to her sketchbook without answering. But she didn't say no, nor did she move away. That, for Mashiro-senpai, was as good as permission.

I lowered myself down onto the wooden floor, exhaling at the feel of the cool air on my face. For a moment, I just let the silence sit between us, listening to the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of neighbours in spring.

After a while, I turned my head slightly toward her.

"Where's Sorata-senpai?" I asked softly.

Mashiro-senpai didn't look up from her sketchbook. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer, but then her lips parted slightly.

"Market," she said, voice quiet and flat. "For dinner."

She fell silent again, pencil hovering over the page without moving. Her bangs slipped forward, casting a shadow over her eyes.

There was no tension in her shoulders—if anything, she sat with that usual calm stillness, her expression unreadable. Like nothing was wrong. 

Nothing ever touched her.

But… her surroundings told another story.

Crumpled pieces of paper lay scattered around her on the porch, fluttering slightly in the spring breeze. Some pages were blank. Others had faint, half-finished sketches.

I glanced at her sketchbook again, catching a glimpse of delicate pencil lines—soft outlines of faces, eyes, hands reaching out.

"What are you drawing, Mashiro-senpai?" I asked gently. "If… you don't mind me asking."

She was silent for a moment. Her pencil tip pressed lightly into the paper without moving.

"Next chapter," she finally said, voice quiet as ever. "Nanairo Drops."

Right… Nanairo Drops. Her serialized shoujo manga. She'd been pushing herself with it lately, working to keep up with weekly deadlines while still going to school, still living here like any other student.

Even someone like her, so brilliant it felt unreal, struggled in her own way. But I knew… her struggle wasn't with drawing itself. It was something deeper.

My eyes drifted to one of the crumpled pages scattered around her feet. I reached down and carefully uncurled the paper. Even though it was wrinkled and pressed with deep folds, the sketch was still clear.

It was… beautiful.

A girl sitting alone by the window, head resting on her folded arms. Light spilled through the glass in thin, quiet lines. You could almost feel the softness of the afternoon sun on her hair. Her eyes were hidden, her mouth relaxed in a small, unreadable smile.

I could see it—the loneliness, the quiet acceptance, that fleeting sense of peace that felt like giving up. All of that was there, in just a few pencil strokes.

Slowly, I set the paper back down on the porch beside her.

"...It's beautiful," I whispered, almost to myself.

Mashiro didn't move. Her pencil hovered over her sketchbook. The breeze tugged at her bangs, but she didn't brush them away. She just sat there, quiet as ever, as if I hadn't spoken at all.

I looked down at the crumpled paper in my hands, then back at her. The silence between us stretched, filled only by the faint rustle of spring leaves beyond the porch.

"…Mashiro-senpai," I said quietly. "Why did you crumple this?"

She didn't respond at first. Her pencil tip hovered a few millimeters above her blank page. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer at all.

Finally, without lifting her head, she spoke in that small, flat voice of hers. "No good."

"But…" I smoothed out the wrinkled paper on my lap, careful not to tear it. "It's… amazing. It's beautiful, Mashiro-senpai."

Her bangs fell forward, hiding her eyes completely. She didn't move, didn't even shrug.

Her pencil scratched faintly against the page. "No inspiration," she murmured, almost as if she was talking to herself. "Sorata… will give it to me later."

I felt something tighten in my chest. So she was waiting for him. Depending on him to spark her next move, her next feeling. That wasn't wrong. But… I wondered if anyone ever told her she didn't have to keep waiting for someone to give her meaning.

I shifted on the porch, folding my legs so I could face her better. "Senpai," I asked softly, "do you really think it's 'no good'? Or… do you just not know what's good anymore?"

She didn't answer. Her pencil hovered in place, trembling just slightly before settling back down onto the paper. Her bangs fell forward, hiding her eyes again.

The wind rustled through the trees behind us, carrying with it the faint scent of late spring flowers.

I let out a small breath, glancing at the crumpled papers scattered around her. Dozens of them. All these beautiful pieces, abandoned and tossed aside.

It wasn't that she couldn't draw what she wanted. The lines were confident, the emotion clear in every panel, even if they were just rough drafts. But…

I wondered if anyone else ever noticed. That these drawings felt so real to those who saw them… yet to her, they were probably just shapes and lines. Replications of feelings she observed in others, carefully arranged into a form that made sense to the world but remained hollow to her.

A mimicry so perfect it became a curse.

I thought about what little I knew of her. How Sorata-senpai often said Mashiro just… didn't understand emotions. That she needed to be told what to do, what was right, what was wrong.

That wasn't entirely true. It wasn't that she didn't have emotions. She just couldn't name them. Couldn't translate them into something she could hold inside herself. So she drew them instead.

But this—crumpling something so beautiful—it felt like a quiet rejection of herself. A punishment for not feeling what everyone else saw in her art.

I looked down at the crumpled page again. My chest tightened. I wanted to say something. Anything that might reach her. But… I didn't really know her yet. I'd only been here a day. Who was I to act like I understood what went on in her mind?

Still… I didn't want to stay silent.

"…I'm sorry if I'm being rude," I said quietly. "But… it's beautiful, Mashiro-senpai. Even if you think it's not… it really is."

She didn't look up. Her pencil touched the paper, scratching out a faint, unfinished line. As if to say this conversation was already over.

I sat there for a while longer, letting the quiet spring breeze brush past us. In that moment, I realized… even if I couldn't help her now, even if she never showed it, I still wanted her to know.

I wasn't here to judge her, or to tell her how to feel. I just… wanted her to be able to choose her own truth. 

Words wouldn't reach her. Not now. But maybe… something else could.

Slowly, I stood and brushed off my pants. "Senpai," I said softly, "wait here."

She didn't look up as I walked past her and up the creaking stairs to my room. My laptop sat on my desk, still warm from this morning's debugging session. I hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the trackpad, before clicking open Undertale.

Back downstairs, Mashiro hadn't moved an inch. Her gaze was still fixed somewhere far away, her pencil resting limp against her sketchbook.

"Come here, senpai" I murmured, plugging in my old headphones and gently placing them over her ears. She blinked once, slowly, as I set the laptop in front of her and adjusted the screen angle to match her line of sight.

"Have you ever played a game before, Mashiro-senpai?" I asked quietly.

Mashiro's eyes flicked to the glowing pixel title screen. For a moment, her expression remained unreadable. Then, almost absentmindedly, she whispered, "Sorata… he asked me to play his game before."

I tilted my head slightly. "Did you?"

She shook her head, her bangs shifting across her eyes. "No. I didn't want to. Games… aren't art."

Her words sank into me like a cold drop of water down my spine. I glanced at her still, pale hands resting on her knees.

"…Just try this one," I said softly.

I slid my hand over hers, guiding her fingers onto the arrow keys. Her skin felt cool against my warmth, her wrist delicate beneath my touch.

"Here," I whispered. "Hold the right key down. Gently."

I pressed her index finger against the key with mine, feeling the faint resistance of the keyboard. Frisk began to walk forward on the screen, each step echoing in the empty stone hallway as soundtrack played in her headphones.

[071. Undertale]

The melancholy piano notes wrapped around us, seeping into the quiet afternoon air.

Mashiro didn't move, but her eyes followed the small pixel figure. I felt her breathing slow, her shoulders relaxing just a little as if something unseen within her loosened its grip.

Slowly, I lifted my hand from hers, leaving her fingers resting against the key. She continued pressing it down, obediently keeping Frisk moving forward through the silent gray-lit corridor.

The flickering torches cast soft shadows across the floor. Frisk walked on, small and alone, their footsteps absorbed by the stone.

I watched Mashiro's face from the side. Her gaze didn't waver, but something in her expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. A quiet, fragile curiosity flickered there, mingled with the faintest ache that tightened my chest.

I didn't say anything more. I didn't need to.

This… I thought, my chest tightening. This is art too. And if anyone deserves to witness that… it's you, Mashiro.

Even if she couldn't name her feelings, or if they slipped through her like sand, maybe… just maybe… this music, these pixels, this silent journey – would leave a small warmth behind.

Something real.

Something that was hers alone to keep.