The sound of rain. On the wooden floorboards, quiet and rhythmic. Outside the window, Kasumi Pond lay white with mist. The early-summer rainy season sky melted into the water's surface, and the boundary between sky and pond became unclear. There were no figures on the promenade along the pond's edge. Not today. Not ever, at this hour on rainy Tuesdays—Kujo Akio knew this as naturally as breathing. A small sound. *Coton.* Akio's hand turned the crank of the hand-roasting machine. Slowly, evenly. Brazilian beans that had arrived from Takane Coffee Farm in Nagano were being slowly roasted inside the iron cylinder. The aroma of roasting drifted thinly through the air, dissolving into the shop's atmosphere. Mizukagami was quiet today, as always. Seven years had passed since Akio had renovated this building—originally a boathouse—and opened the shop. Five seats at the counter, two tables by the window, one table in the back. Fourteen seats total. The exterior walls were painted a deep navy blue by Akio's own hand, and a small chalkboard menu hung by the entrance. Record shelves lined the walls, along with faded jazz posters. Warm indirect lighting falling from the ceiling made the rainy afternoon seem just a little warmer. A jazz record played softly. "[gentle]It's quiet today, isn't it," A leisurely voice came from the end of the counter. Hagiwara Tomoko—in her seventies, the shop's oldest regular—held a white cup in both hands, gazing out the window. Her white hair was loosely tied back, and she wore a pale purple cardigan. Her full cheeks were marked with deep wrinkles, the kind that come from a lifetime of smiling. She came four times a week. Monday through Thursday. You'd think she wouldn't come on Tuesdays, the day the shop was closed, but here she was on a rainy Tuesday like today. "[serious]Rainy Tuesdays in the rainy season are usually like this," Akio answered briefly while turning the roasting machine's crank. "[gentle]You don't take it easy, do you? You should take a break," "[serious]This is kind of like a break for me," Tomoko laughed softly. Akio couldn't tell if she was genuinely worried or just wanted to talk. Probably both, he thought. By the window, Ogata Takumi had a paperback book open. In his fifties, a self-employed electrician. He came twice a week, usually near closing time, drank his coffee without a word, and left. Today, for some reason, he'd been here since early afternoon, reading in the same position for over two hours. Not moving an inch. He was the kind of man who seemed to belong here like the shop's furniture. Akio removed the roasted beans and gently fanned them with a paper fan. Takane Farm—a small farm at eight hundred meters elevation in Nagano, run by Akio's former colleague, Takane Shuuichi. Almost no domestic beans were produced there, but carefully selected green beans from Brazil and Ethiopia were sent regularly. Twice a year, Akio went in person to select the beans. That was one of the few pleasures in his work now. "By the way, why don't you have Wi-Fi?" The question came out of nowhere. Tomoko pulled out her smartphone and spoke while gazing vaguely at the screen. "[sarcastic]We don't have it," "[surprised]Why not? Everyone has it these days," Akio thought for a moment. "[serious]……It makes me restless," "……What?" "[serious]When there's Wi-Fi, I get distracted somehow. It's not really for the customers—I just don't like it," Tomoko stared blankly for a moment, then laughed as if amused. "[laughing]You're honest, aren't you? Well, maybe that's why people find this place so calming," Akio said nothing. He simply warmed the filter for the pour-over dripper with hot water and began preparing the next cup. He was planning to brew a deep roast from Brazil for Takumi today. He didn't need to ask. That man preferred coffee with little acidity and a solid bitterness. He'd learned that in four years. He poured a little water and let it bloom. Thirty seconds. Akio's hand moved in a slow circle. These seven minutes—grinding the beans, dampening the filter, carefully extracting—were the quietest moment of his day. His mind went blank. The past, the future, the fact that the shop's finances were barely breaking even—it all went somewhere else. While brewing coffee, he didn't have to think about anything. That was one reason Akio had chosen this work. The coffee filled the white cup. Deep amber. A comforting aroma, distinctly Brazilian, rose from it. Akio picked up the cup and walked around the counter. —That moment. The sliding door burst open with force. The brass bell rang louder than usual. Something collided with Akio's arm. The cup traced an arc. Slowly, but certainly, it slipped from his hand— A dry sound. *Pan.* The white cup shattered on the floor. Deep roast coffee spread across the wooden boards, and the cup he'd spent seven minutes perfecting became nothing but a stain. Silence. Two seconds, or three. Only the jazz played. Akio slowly looked up. A young woman stood in front of the sliding door. She was soaking wet. Black hair matted to her cheeks by the rain, a white blouse so wet it was nearly transparent. Water dripped from the tote bag slung over her shoulder. She looked to be around twenty years old. Her features were refined, but her slightly open mouth showed she hadn't quite grasped the situation yet. The woman glanced at the shattered cup. Then at Akio. "[scared]Ah—this is a regular café, right?" Akio didn't answer. "[scared]Can I use Wi-Fi? Can I charge my phone? I'm in a hurry—" "[cold]This is a coffee shop. We don't have Wi-Fi," His voice was quiet. Flat, with emotion pressed down. The woman paused for a beat, then frowned. "[surprised]What……You don't have Wi-Fi these days?" Her expression said she couldn't believe it. For just that moment, Akio's eyes went cold. At the end of the counter, Tomoko gave an awkward, forced smile. Takumi, from behind his book, silently raised his gaze once. The coffee stain spread quietly. Akio crouched down. Without a word, he began picking up the shattered white cup fragments one by one. With his bare hands, carefully. He slowly wiped the coffee from the floor with a cloth. He stood up and turned his back to the woman. "[gentle]Why don't you sit down?" Tomoko called out. The woman didn't move. Akio didn't turn around. He heard Tomoko's voice, the woman's presence—he heard it all. Still, he didn't turn. The words "Please, have a seat" he swallowed back down his throat. (……I can't say it.) He couldn't explain the reason even to himself. It was just that this soaking wet woman's rapid-fire speech and that one phrase—"You don't have Wi-Fi these days?"—had peeled back a thin layer of skin inside his chest. He wasn't angry. It wasn't that. He just—couldn't quite gauge the distance. Behind him, he sensed the woman take a step back. "[sad]……I'm sorry," Her voice was small. With just those words, she opened the sliding door. The bell rang quietly this time. The door closed. Silence returned to the shop. The jazz was audible again. Akio carried the cloth to the sink and happened to glance at the window. In the rain, a soaking wet back moved quickly away down the Kasumi Pond promenade. No umbrella. Where she was going was none of his concern. Yet for some reason, for one or two seconds, his eyes followed that retreating back. He didn't understand why he'd done that. "[gentle]Akio," Tomoko's voice came. "[serious]……Yes?" "[gentle]Did you upset a girl like that?" "[cold]I'm not upset," "[gentle]But you didn't go after her," Akio answered briefly while disposing of the fragments. "[serious]Girls like that are exactly what I'm worst with," It was rare. Speaking his true thoughts aloud. Tomoko was silent for a while. She gazed out at the rain and quietly brought the cup to her lips. "[gentle]You've always been bad at trusting people, haven't you?" Akio's hands stopped for a moment. He said nothing. But Tomoko's words reached him. They reached him anyway. Akio resumed his work. He disposed of all the fragments, washed his hands, and placed new beans on the scale. He gripped the hand mill's crank. He began turning. The sound of beans being ground echoed quietly through the shop. By the window, Takumi turned a page. He said nothing. But that silence felt strangely heavy. (Bad at trusting people.) Akio turned the phrase over in his mind. More than bad at it—he knew he was afraid. Afraid of what comes after trusting. Afraid of that sensation of trusting, drawing close, and then one day having it all disappear. He deliberately tried not to think about what happened seven years ago. But when Tomoko said it, it always flickered across his mind. Something locked away in a drawer would crack the door open just slightly and peek out. Akio kept turning the mill's crank. "[gentle]I wonder if that girl will come back," "[cold]She won't," The answer came immediately. Tomoko laughed softly again and tilted her cup. "[gentle]Is that so?" "[serious]This is a coffee shop without Wi-Fi, very old-fashioned. It's not suited for girls like that," Tomoko said nothing. She just gazed out at the rain, her mouth relaxing slightly. Akio found that expression a little curious, but he didn't ask. --- After closing, Akio walked along the Kasumi Pond promenade. The rain had stopped. The pavement was wet, and the streetlight's glow reflected off the ground. The pond's surface still rippled slightly from the rain, reflecting the black silhouettes of trees in a blurred way. Minase City's nights were quiet. Walking slowly around the pond after closing was Akio's habit. He didn't think about anything in particular. He just walked. About twenty minutes for one lap. That alone made his head feel a little lighter. He passed in front of a bench on the promenade. Today's events floated vaguely to mind, like a reflection on water. The shattered cup. The spreading coffee. The soaking wet back. His own cold eyes. (……It was fine, though.) A phrase floated up that he couldn't quite explain even to himself, and Akio frowned slightly. Not fine, exactly—something was catching on him. Not quite stuck, but not completely washed away either. Like a grain of sand. The kind that gets into your shoe and bothers you a little with each step. Akio looked at the pond's surface. In the wavering light, his own face was reflected. Silver-rimmed glasses. Black hair with a natural wave. The collar of his white shirt still slightly creased from where the apron had pressed. A slightly tired face—that's what Tomoko always said. The water's surface rippled, and the reflected face distorted. Akio watched it for just a second, then started walking again. Kasumi Pond's water was particularly clear tonight. Twelve streetlights drew long lines of light across its surface. The locals said it was Minase City's most beautiful night view. Akio thought so too. But he'd never told anyone that.