Even in mid-August, the surface of Kasumi Pond seemed to be dragging the afterimage of that night's fireworks. At least, that's how it looked to Mio. Since that night, Mio had changed. Or more precisely, something had changed. Her feet grew heavy on the way to Mizukagami. When her shift started at 3 PM, she'd waste time in her room at the Hibari apartment complex, then hurry out at 2:58. Walking briskly along the pond's promenade, she kept repeating the same thing in her head over and over. (She had a wife.) Hagiwara's words wouldn't peel away, no matter how many days passed. The correction—"or perhaps a fiancée"—had slipped past Mio's ears that day. It still hadn't registered. The brass bell chimed. She picked up her apron. She unfolded the navy fabric, pulled it over her head, and tied the strings in back—the same strings that Akio had retied for her that day. Mio tied them quickly herself and headed to the counter. She didn't meet Akio's eyes. "[serious]The prep work is already done. Please handle the floor" "[gentle]……Yes" A brief work instruction. That was all. Mio went out to the floor. By the window sat Takumi Ogata, a book open in front of him as always. The cover wasn't visible, but the spine was slightly faded. It was clearly a well-read book. Takumi didn't look up when Mio arrived—just as usual. But the speed at which he turned the pages seemed just slightly slower than normal. It might have been her imagination. At a seat behind the counter sat Tomoko Hagiwara. Short white hair, tortoiseshell glasses. She held her cup in both hands and was saying something to Akio. About today's weather, about the flower shop nearby, trivial things. Mio listened to the edges of their conversation while wiping tables. Akio's voice was calm. The voice he used with customers was always calm. (There was someone who wanted to become that person's wife.) She wiped the table again, though she'd just cleaned it. --- Akio had noticed. It wasn't that Mio had stopped coming. She kept her shifts. She did her work. But something had changed. She wouldn't meet his eyes. When he called out to her across the counter, she'd immediately respond with "I'm fine." That quickness felt unnatural. It's the speed of someone who isn't fine saying "I'm fine," Akio thought. Years of customer service had taught him to distinguish those subtle differences in tone. He couldn't figure out the cause. Had he said something rude after the fireworks night? The only thing he could remember was asking if she could get home. Had that bothered her? But Mio had answered "yes" and left. Akio measured out coffee grounds while gazing at the jar of beans on the corner of the shelf. Brazilian dark roast. The blend Mio seemed most at ease drinking. He'd cooked extra rice for the staff meal after her shift. Yesterday too, the day before. When he quietly placed it in front of her, she'd only say "thank you" and eat with her head down. The kinder he was, the worse her complexion became. Akio couldn't understand why. --- That night, they closed at exactly 7 PM. Mio folded her apron and said "Thank you for today" as she left the shop. Akio gave a short "Yeah" and began locking up. He tied three garbage bags and went outside through the back door. The night air was humid. Even after sunset, August nights were muggy and hot. The sound of insects drifted from the direction of the pond. The streetlights on the promenade cast dim reflections on the water's surface. Akio placed the garbage bags in their designated spot and was heading back to the rear entrance when— He heard it. A faint sound. Mixed in with the insects' voices, about to disappear—but he definitely heard it. Someone was crying. His feet stopped. It was coming from the direction of the pavilion. At the end of the promenade, where the pond curved southwest, stood a wooden pavilion. Two benches inside. Akio walked quietly across the grass. He stopped before reaching the streetlight's reach. There was a figure on the bench. A hunched back. Trembling shoulders. Sobs escaping despite attempts to muffle them. It was Mio. Akio couldn't move. He tried to call out. But his throat wouldn't move. Did he have the right to approach—that question weighed down his feet. His employee was crying. Did the shop owner have the right to speak to her, or was it just meddling— Or was it just that I want to get closer? Before he could answer that question, Akio quietly turned on his heel. Not stepping on the grass, making no sound. He returned to the rear entrance and closed the door. Even back inside the shop, he couldn't move for a while. He leaned his hands on the counter. The coffee plant by the window seemed to be rustling its leaves even though there was no wind. --- The next morning, Mio sat at her apartment desk. She pulled out a sheet of letter paper and picked up a pen. "Due to personal circumstances—" The pen moved. But it stopped quickly. The character for "circumstances" was distorted. She rewrote it. It was distorted again. On the third try, the first character got smudged. Mio set the letter paper on the desk and looked out the window. The basil on the balcony glowed blue in the morning light. (It would be better not to go anymore.) She knew. She understood. Even if she later realized he was married—or more precisely, that his wife had left him—her feelings wouldn't change. And because they wouldn't change, being there was painful. Every time a cup of coffee was placed in front of her, every time she was given extra rice for her meal, she felt like a terrible person. Yet when she imagined quitting, tears came. Mizukagami's dim lighting. The jazz records. Kasumi Pond visible through the window. Akio's back across the counter. —She wrote it one more time. This time she wrote all the way to the end. She folded the letter paper and placed it in her bag's inner pocket. --- At the same time, Akio was walking along Ikemae Street near Minase Pond Station. Not for a bean order, but to buy business-grade filter paper. As he passed Konayuki Bakery, the sweet smell of red bean butter wafted over. He didn't stop today. As he reached the edge of the shopping street, he saw a familiar back. It was Mio. She was facing a male student in the space in front of the station. They looked about the same age. He was tall, tanned, dressed casually. He was talking to Mio, facing her. Akio stopped. The man was laughing as he spoke. They seemed close. Mio appeared to be smiling a little too. (A classmate from her seminar, perhaps?) It was just that. Just that one thing—yet something stirred in his chest. An unpleasant sensation. Akio gave that sensation a name. Jealousy. The moment he recognized it, something else layered on top. Seven years ago. The walk home. Opening the key, stepping into the entrance. Silence. Her shoes were gone. The closet was empty. When he checked the bank account, almost nothing remained. When he went to the police, they said, "That's a civil matter." —It's happening again. Someone in the back of his mind said that. Again he'd started to believe. Again he'd started to get close. But the other person had their own world. Young, with friends her own age, with time he didn't know about. That night with the fireworks, he'd taken her hand. But that was just circumstance. If it wasn't— Akio looked away. He bought the filter paper and went home. --- That day's shift, Mio arrived at exactly 3 PM. Not cutting it close—exactly on time. "[serious]You're here. I need you to restock the filters" "[gentle]Yes" But that wasn't the only difference from before. Akio no longer showed her where things were on the shelves. He no longer made extra for her staff meal. When he placed coffee on the counter, it wasn't her favorite Brazilian dark roast—it was today's standard blend. Mio noticed. She couldn't help but notice. Something had changed—on Akio's side. Even more so in the past few days. But she couldn't figure out why. Had she done something? Or was it simply—that the shop owner had decided there was no need for words beyond work instructions with his employee? (That's right. That's what this relationship was from the start.) Mio thought this while wiping the counter. The letter paper in her bag felt heavy. Tomoko came to the counter seat around 4 PM. Stark white short hair, tortoiseshell glasses, today wearing a thin green cardigan. She sat down, ordered a blend from Akio, then glanced back and forth between him and Mio across the counter. "[gentle]……Hey, you two" Tomoko said quietly. "[gentle]Did you two have a fight?" Akio didn't stop measuring the coffee. "[cold]Not at all" Mio forced a smile onto her face while wiping the edge of a table. "[gentle]We're fine" Tomoko looked between them. She said nothing. She just brought the cup to her lips and let out a small sigh. Her eyes said "that doesn't look like it to me." By the window, Takumi held his book open but didn't turn the pages. He quietly gazed at Kasumi Pond over the top of the book. --- After closing, Mio folded her apron. She picked up her bag and confirmed the bulge in the inner pocket. The letter paper. She'd meant to turn it in today. But— Akio was watering the coffee plant at the counter. The green leaves shone wetly. There was none of his usual care in the way he tilted the watering can. Water overflowed from the saucer. It traced a thin line down the edge of the shelf. Akio stared at the spilled water for a moment. Then he quietly wiped it with a cloth. Mio said "Thank you for today" and opened the door. The brass bell chimed. Akio didn't turn around. "[serious]……Be careful" He said only that, to her back. Mio paused outside the door. Kasumi Pond at night trembled in the streetlight. The light on the water's surface kept breaking and reforming, breaking and reforming. (Tomorrow.) Tomorrow I'll turn it in, she thought. I have to, she also thought. But her feet, walking along the pond's promenade, simply wouldn't move forward. The shop window still had its lights on. Akio alone, cleaning up, was dimly visible through the glass. (Am I not enough?) Akio murmured to himself. In a voice no one could hear. He watered the coffee plant one more time. This time it didn't overflow. In his bag, Mio's resignation letter still waited to be delivered.