That night, the five log screenshots were still sleeping in the folder, untouched. Kotoha opened the folder once before heading out for deliveries, then closed it again. C-009. A subtle timestamp discrepancy. Maybe it was an error. It had to be. Thinking that, they kicked the stand on C-017. The autumn morning air bit at their skin. The ginkgo trees along the Misono River were beginning to turn yellow, and leaves kept flying into the rear box every time they ran the delivery route. The first job was a package for Sakurado. The traditional sweets shop with its three-meter storefront was already leaking sweet steam from the morning. It was the time when the preparation of *jouseigyashi* began. Kotoha didn't ring the intercom—they'd made so many deliveries here that it had become normal to call out from the service entrance instead. "Delivery," No answer from inside. They were about to call again when a white-haired head appeared from behind the noren curtain. Fujimura Genichirou—owner of Sakurado, a confectionery established 87 years ago, age 78. White hair thinning at the crown, soft gray eyes, a small scar on his forehead. Usually the kind of person who just said "Much obliged" curtly and took the package. "…Sit for a moment," Kotoha froze slightly as they handed over the package. "I have the next delivery—" "It'll be quick," The tone left no room for argument. Not threatening—just quiet certainty. Kotoha straightened the bicycle stand and sat at the shop counter. A ceramic bowl was placed silently in front of them. Zenzai. Soft mochi in dark brown azuki paste—two pieces. Not the round kind, but grilled mochi cut into rectangles. The sweet smell reached their nose. Genichirou sat down on the opposite side of the counter with his own bowl. For a while, he said nothing. Kotoha said nothing either. Silence filled the shop. The faint sound of a steamer drifted from the confectionery workshop. Eventually, Genichirou spoke, his voice soft. "The recipe paper came back," Kotoha listened, eyes still on the bowl. "With notebooks like that, the important part—" Genichirou let out a small breath. "—isn't what's written on the paper," "…" "That notebook has pages my wife added later. The sweetness of the *kasumi mochi*, you see—it changes a little depending on the season. Spring and autumn, just slightly different," Kotoha looked up. "It's not the amount of sugar. She'd check the humidity each morning and adjust the water accordingly. That's what those pages say. That's everything to me," His voice was quiet. Not boastful, not lamenting. Just stating the truth. Kotoha took a spoonful of zenzai. Sweet. Simple, yet the aftertaste lingered. During the recipe theft case, they'd thought they were just moving logic around. The type of rice flour on the shoe sole, the times people came and went—all just variables. They'd found the answer. That was all. But now, swallowing this zenzai, the fact that that case had connected to this old man's "everything" fell somewhere in their chest with an unexpected weight. They didn't know how to process it. Genichirou silently brought another pot. Another bowl of zenzai was dumped into Kotoha's dish. "…" They hadn't asked. They hadn't requested it. But Genichirou was already walking back toward the workshop. Completely silent, completely natural. Kotoha watched him go for a moment. *(Am I really eating all this?)* When they emerged into the arcade, the November air hit their cheeks. Gripping the handlebars of C-017, Kotoha ran slowly under the shopping street's roof for a while. There was no reason to hurry. *There are things that disappear if you don't come here*—they felt that sensation for the first time. They couldn't quite put it into words. Just a feeling. But it was real. The zenzai made their stomach heavy. --- When they reached the front of Flower Shop Tsubaki, a silver short bob came flying out of the storefront. "Kotoha-chan! Perfect timing!" Tsurumi Yoshiko—owner of Flower Shop Tsubaki, age 67. Bright amber eyes, a memo pad hanging from her neck, rapid Kansai dialect. This woman always seemed to know something. "That poster—" "I put it up, you know? You mad?" "I'm angry," "Aw, don't be like that! It worked, didn't it!" Not remorseful at all. Kotoha sighed. Yoshiko pulled out her memo pad and continued. How Yoshikawa from Maruyoshi was worried about sales lately, how the lady from Cosmos was having trouble with the izakaya next door, how there was a delivery person who only ran through the back streets of the shopping arcade on Tuesday mornings—information came pouring out at machine-gun pace, with abnormally high accuracy. "Yoshiko-san, how do you know all this?" "A flower shop is at the storefront all day long—morning inventory and evening watering. You can see the whole shopping street. I'm not even trying to observe, but it all comes in," I see. Kotoha registered that as an information source. A shopping street observation system built by a human over long years. There was no reason not to use it. "…Could you provide information? Only when there's a case?" "My! Our little detective finally acknowledges me!" "Please stop calling me that," "Little detective!" "Stop," "Little detec—" "Stop," They said it three times. It didn't stick. Yoshiko suddenly changed her tone. "Speaking of which," she said, flipping through her memo pad. "Souta-kun and Kotoha-chan are definitely conscious of each other. I heard about that rainy day," "That's not relevant," "The jacket," "I'm checking the case details," "Your ears are red," "It's just cold. The temperature—" "Our little detective's first love," Kotoha opened HakoBeru GO and stared intently at the next job. Nakamachi Shopping Street C Area, reward 480 yen. They would look at this. Right now. "I have a delivery. Excuse me," They pedaled. Yoshiko's laughter chased after them, but it was swallowed by the shopping street's noise. It wasn't first love. They were just analyzing. That jacket thing was a temperature issue. Capillaries contracting— They pedaled faster. --- In the afternoon, after finishing the second C Area job, Yoshiko stepped in front of Kotoha's bicycle and said, "Wait a sec." This time, not smiling. Her hand holding the memo pad was slightly stiff. "…You look serious," "[serious]It is serious," Yoshiko lowered her voice. After hearing what she said, Kotoha stopped C-017. Maruyoshi, Sakurado, Cleaning Shop Cosmos, the stationery store, the pottery shop—five packages sent over the past week and this week hadn't reached their destinations. That alone would've been bad enough. But in the same period, the same products were being listed on resale sites as "new, unopened." Total damage: approximately 1.2 million yen. Kotoha's mind was already organizing before Yoshiko finished speaking. Five shops, five packages, same period, resale. This wasn't accidental loss. This was systematic. "The association chairman is gathering all the shop owners right now. They're furious with HakoBeru," Kotoha opened HakoBeru GO. C Area delivery logs. From last Monday through this Monday. Their finger scrolled at high speed. Five packages. They checked the delivery staff ID for each one. All C-009. —They couldn't bring themselves to close the screen. C-009. That was Souta's number. Kotoha stared at that number for three seconds. They checked again. All five, C-009. Yoshiko was peering at Kotoha's face. "[serious]You get it? All the same person's jobs," "…I understand," "That's not all," Yoshiko looked at her memo pad. "The resale account's IP address matched with the provider's regional data—someone on the shopping street looked it up online and it matched an IP from around the share house near the north station," Kotoha looked at Yoshiko. "Do you know which share house?" "House Komorebi, maybe," Silence fell. The wind was beating against the arcade's roof. Afternoon shopping street sounds—customer footsteps, voices—mixed together. Normal daily noise. But to Kotoha's ears, it all became distant. House Komorebi. Where Souta lived. The gears in Kotoha's head that had been spinning at high speed hit their first snag. All five, C-009, IP, House Komorebi—all the pieces were there. Normally, the conclusion would come in 0.5 seconds. But now, the finger about to make the final move was stuck. "Kotoha-chan?" "…I'll contact you later," They got on C-017 and rode away. --- They sat on a bench along the Misono River promenade. Most of the cherry tree leaves had fallen, and the river surface was visible through the branches. Water reflected light, shimmering finely. A weekday afternoon—few people around. Just an old man walking a dog in the distance. Kotoha pulled out their phone and opened the logs again. Five packages. All C-009. GPS logs had blank time periods—the delivery completion report timestamp didn't match the recipient's confirmation timestamp. The resale account's IP. House Komorebi. With all this, the circumstantial evidence was more than sufficient. If you set aside emotion and looked only at the facts, there was only one answer. They knew. Logically, that was it. But— Kotoha's thoughts began playing a different image unbidden. That rainy day, Souta's back as he walked away with the old man's cardboard box. Even though their own job deadline was getting tight, they hadn't hesitated for a second. They'd bought an iced coffee at the convenience store and silently put it in the bicycle basket. That wordless way of pushing it on them—why did they still remember it? Would a person like that resell Genichirou's package? —There was a possibility, they tried to process logically. They couldn't. *(I want to believe.)* That realization crept in. They wanted to believe in Souta—they were aware of that for the first time. This wasn't deduction. This was emotion. Emotion was interfering with deduction. Recognizing that itself was unprecedented for Kotoha. Their face felt hot. They stood up from the bench and glared at the river. The river said nothing. Light just kept wavering. *(Emotion isn't a variable. Don't mix it into logic.)* That's what they thought. Even as they thought it, it was already mixed in. Already inseparable. This had never happened before. --- When they reached the south end of the shopping street in the evening—Souta was there. Near the arcade exit, pushing his bicycle. Those usual bright green eyes were looking somewhere. Kotoha could feel gazes flying from inside the shopping street. The association shop owners, probably. A few of them looked at Souta, then quickly looked away. When Souta noticed Kotoha, his face changed. He tried to smile. Clearly tried to—but Kotoha immediately saw that smile was forced. Not his usual full-open smile. Just the corners of his mouth pulled up, his eyes not smiling at all. "[serious]…Miyauchi asked me to explain myself," Miyauchi Takuya—the C Area supervisor at HakoBeru—the name of an employee. "Some people on the shopping street asked me questions too. Everyone was polite. But their faces—" Souta cut himself off. He didn't continue. Didn't need to, Kotoha thought vaguely. He wasn't going to make excuses. No explanations. Just stated the situation briefly, and then—looked straight at Kotoha. Those bright green eyes met Kotoha's directly. The forced smile was gone. "[serious]Your deductions have never been wrong, right?" Kotoha couldn't say anything. "[serious]So…investigate properly," He didn't say *believe in me*. He said *look at the facts*. Souta turned his back. He walked into the crowd of the shopping street. His 182-centimeter frame blended into the flow of people. Kotoha stood frozen, gripping the handlebars. If they trusted their deduction, Souta was the culprit. If they trusted Souta, their deduction was wrong. Either way—something would break. The way he'd chosen his words—*invest