On the first Wednesday of September, Mio left her house a little earlier than usual. As she descended the stairs of Corpo Hibari, she checked the weight of her bag. In the inner pocket, there was a folded letter. It lay there in the same place as last week, in the same way as last week. Every time she remembered the sensation of her hand being held in Akio's room, the low voice saying "you're a good girl"—her chest would tighten. She had no intention of submitting it anymore. And yet she couldn't throw it away, keeping it in her bag. Like a protective charm. Perhaps the mere fact that she had the option to quit was what gave Mio peace of mind. When she emerged onto the path around the pond, the cool morning air of September touched her skin. Beyond the end of summer, the color of the sky had faded just slightly. The surface of Kasumi Pond was calm, with the trees on the far shore reflected perfectly in it. When Mio's hand reached for the sliding door of Mizukagami, the clock read 14:57. The brass bell chimed. Jazz records played in the shop. The smell of coffee, warm lighting, jars of beans lined on shelves—everything was the Mizukagami that Mio knew. Akio was at the back of the counter. His back turned toward her, he was measuring out beans. Whether he noticed Mio entering or not, he glanced back briefly. Then he faced forward again. At the end of the counter, a folded apron lay waiting. Mio's apron. He said nothing. Not "you came," not "you're late," not "you don't need to come anymore"—nothing. It was simply there, in its usual place. Mio picked it up. She pulled it over her head and tied the strings behind her back. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she managed to tie it properly. She saw Akio's shoulders relax just a little. It might have been her imagination. But to Mio, it looked that way. "[gentle] Once you finish restocking the filters, come out to the floor," "[gentle] Yes," That was all. That was enough. --- After 3 PM, the regulars began to trickle in. Hagiwara Tomoko arrived around 4 PM. Short white hair, tortoiseshell glasses, today wearing a pale lavender cardigan. She took her usual seat at the counter, ordered a blend from Akio, then quietly surveyed the shop. A little later, Ogata Takumi arrived as well. He opened a paperback by the window seat, ordered a blend, and then disappeared into the world of his book. Today, only the spine was visible. As Mio moved around the floor, she kept glancing at Akio's hands. The way he poured the drip coffee—the movement of his fingers as he leveled the grounds, the angle of his wrist as he poured the water in a thin stream. She'd seen it dozens of times, yet today she couldn't take her eyes off it. Akio noticed. He didn't turn around, but he double-checked the amount of beans he was measuring. He put them back on the scale before putting them in the grinder. Mio understood—that was Akio's way of hiding his embarrassment. It happened when she stepped inside the counter to wash dishes. Akio was about to set a cup on the counter when Mio reached for it at the same moment. Their fingers touched. Both of them froze. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds—the cup hung suspended between their hands, belonging to neither. Akio withdrew the cup first. Mio pulled her hand back. Neither said anything. Both said nothing. But Mio could feel the heat rising all the way to her ears. A small voice came from the counter seat. "[laughing] Oh my, oh my. Still lovey-dovey today," Tomoko sipped her cup with a smile. She wasn't hiding anything. The back of Akio's neck turned red. It was a rare sight. "[serious] ...Tomoko-san, please stop," "[laughing] Oh, so you're not denying it?" "[serious] I am denying it," "[sarcastic] With your words," Mio's face turned completely red as she fled toward the back table with the cup. She could feel Tomoko's gaze—barely suppressing laughter—stabbing into her back. By the window, Takumi hadn't turned a page, but the corner of his mouth had lifted just slightly. "[whispers] A nice shop," It was barely audible. But Mio heard it. A quiet compliment to the entire establishment. --- By 7 PM, Tomoko had left, and Takumi had gone as well. Akio hung the closed sign and turned the key. Mio wiped the shelves with a cloth, returned the tables to their original positions, and straightened the chairs. With two of them working, cleanup was quick. "[gentle] ...I'll brew one more cup," When Mio looked up, Akio was taking a dripper from the shelf. "[gentle] You can sit," Mio settled onto a stool at the counter. Akio took a jar of beans from the shelf. It wasn't the usual deep-roasted Brazilian. It was a smaller jar with a different label. "[gentle] ...That's different from usual," Akio didn't answer. He put the beans in the grinder and began turning it slowly. The aroma rose. It smelled like flowers. Despite being coffee, a bright, floral, fruity scent spread through the shop. When Mio inhaled through her nose, it came in waves. "[surprised] ...This has an amazing aroma," "Ethiopian. Light roast," Akio muttered this while heating the water. "Light roast Ethiopian has soft acidity and floral notes. Little bitterness," "[gentle] This is the first time I've had this bean here," Akio didn't respond. He checked the water temperature and leveled the grounds in the dripper. Mio understood. That was his answer. Akio had chosen this bean instead of his usual deep roast, specifically for today. She knew that if she asked why, he wouldn't tell her. The water was poured in a thin stream. Blooming. Then thin again. Only the sound of the drip filled the quiet shop. A cup was offered. When Mio reached out to take it with both hands, Akio's fingertips touched hers. It was different from before. This time, Akio didn't pull away. Just for a moment. Just for one brief moment, Akio's fingers rested on top of hers—then slowly withdrew. Mio's eyes grew hot. She cradled the cup in both hands and took a sip. The floral aroma spread through her mouth. The acidity was soft, there was no bitterness, and the aftertaste was bright. It was unlike any coffee she'd ever tasted. "[gentle] ...It's a wonderful aroma. I really like it," Her voice wavered slightly. To hide it, she took another sip. Akio sat down on the stool next to her. He picked up his own cup and took a sip. That was all. He didn't say "I'm glad" or "I see." But his voice seemed to tremble just slightly—barely perceptibly. "[gentle] ...I see," Mio didn't look up. --- "Want to go out on the balcony?" Akio stood and opened the small door at the back of the shop. It was more of a narrow wooden platform than a balcony. But from there, you could see Kasumi Pond. The September dusk was dissolving into the water's surface. Orange and purple mixed in the sky, reflected perfectly in the water. The stillness was so complete that the boundary between sky and water seemed to disappear. The silhouettes of the trees on the far shore swayed upside down in the water's mirror. The two of them stood side by side, gazing at it. The distance between their shoulders was less than thirty centimeters. Close enough to touch, yet not touching. Mio whispered silently to herself. Being near you is enough. I don't need to belong to anyone. I don't need to hold your hand. Just standing here, looking at the same sunset together— Akio's presence reached her from the right. No. It's not enough. That's a lie. I want to be closer. Because I've come to know your loneliness, I want to— Akio was silent too. He wanted to cherish her. She was twenty. A part-time worker. A customer. Seventeen years younger than him, with a whole life ahead where she could choose anyone. He was no one to approach someone like her, scarred as he was. But. The temperature lingering in his fingertips. The sensation of her hand being held in his that day. The voice that had said "that's so unfair" while crying— He wanted to have her. He dissolved that contradiction into the sunset. Left it unspoken on the water's surface. In the pond's mirror, two figures were reflected. Shoulders close, yet not connected, no confession made—and yet, from any angle, they looked like lovers, standing quietly side by side. --- From Mizukagami to his apartment, Akio's walk took six minutes. He passed through the path around Kasumi Pond at night, through the entrance of Green Heights Kasumi. As he pulled out his key for room 103, his eyes fell on the mailbox. One envelope inside. White envelope. The address read "Kujo Akio" with his name and address written by hand. The return address was blank. It wasn't regular mail. No stamp, no postmark. Someone had come here and placed it directly in the mailbox. Akio entered his room and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of memo paper. An address was written on it. An unfamiliar address. A place name he didn't recognize, from a prefecture he couldn't identify. Below it, a single short sentence continued. Written by hand, in neat characters— 'She is here.' Akio's hand stopped. Seven years ago. The night her shoes disappeared from the entrance. The morning the bank balance was nearly zero. When the police said "it's a civil matter." That sensation of the ground falling away beneath him. Who. Why. For what purpose, now of all times— He crumpled the envelope in his fist. For a long time after, he couldn't move. Outside the window, the streetlights around Kasumi Pond reflected on the water's surface, swaying quietly.