Five days had passed since Hinata moved into the room next door. 　Every morning when Takemichi woke, his eyes drifted toward the wall. It was thin—paper-thin, really. The walls of Corpo Minase had always been that way. In spring, he could hear Toshiko, the landlady, talking on the phone in the hallway with perfect clarity. In summer, the sound of a fan running all night in the opposite room bled through without mercy. 　So when someone moved into the room next to his, it meant exactly that. 　The sounds Hinata made were the raw texture of living itself. An alarm clock ringing early in the morning. The rush of water from the tap. The scrape of a frying pan against the stove—and then, always, the soft creak of a door opening. 　On the third morning, Takemichi's hand found the doorknob. 　Something was hanging there. A small plastic container. Two rice balls wrapped carefully in plastic wrap. A rolled egg. A small bottle of tea. A handwritten sticky note was attached: "Eat this," it said. Nothing more. 　Takemichi stared at it for about a minute before bringing it inside. 　He didn't have the energy to use the microwave. He sat on the floor and ate it cold. The rice balls had the salt balanced perfectly. The egg was sweet. It felt like the first time in a long while that he'd eaten something made by someone else's hands. 　After he finished, he washed the empty container and hung it back on the doorknob. That was all. 　The next morning, the same thing was waiting. 　For five days, Takemichi had not looked Hinata in the eye. If he sensed her presence in the hallway, he'd wait a moment before stepping out. He'd time his trash runs differently. Hinata seemed to understand—she never forced conversation. No knocks on the door. No ringing of the bell. Not once. 　But every morning, the container was there. 　For Takemichi, it was unbearable. Not frightening or unpleasant—just unbearable. He was trying to keep his distance, but the warmth of someone existing on the other side of the wall reached him every single morning, perfectly intact. 　When night came, he heard humming. 　Hinata hummed while doing something in the kitchen. No lyrics. Just melody. Light and small and somehow familiar. Takemichi lay in his futon, unable to sleep, listening to it. When he closed his eyes, only the music remained in the world. 　That melody alone was what carried the night forward. 　Takemichi was ashamed of himself for it. Insomnia wasn't new to him. But staying awake just to hear humming through the wall—there were nights when he couldn't understand what he was doing anymore. 　That night, the rain was heavy. 　Tsuyu rain sounds different. Not the soft patter of spring rain, but heavy and clinging, hammering against the window glass. Takemichi sat on his futon, staring at his phone. Not looking at anything in particular—just the screen glowing in the darkness. The clock had passed one in the morning. 　A knock sounded. 　At first, he thought he'd misheard. Who would come at this hour? But the knock came again, and again, and Takemichi pushed himself upright. 　When he opened the door, Hinata was standing there. 　Her wet bangs clung to her cheeks. A thin yukata-like robe. Bare feet. In her hands, a single small bucket. Under the hallway's fluorescent light, she was looking slightly downward. "[serious]……There's a leak. I need to borrow one more bucket," 　Takemichi's body moved before his mind could respond. He went back into his room, pulled a bucket from under the sink. He was about to hand it to her when— "[gentle]Could you help me put it there? That would really help," 　They stood facing each other in the hallway for about two seconds, frozen. 　Hinata's eyes weren't looking straight at him, but they weren't avoiding him either. She was looking at a spot on the floor just ahead. Not the face of someone lying. Just the face of someone who had decided something. 　Takemichi stepped aside without a word. 　Hinata entered his room. With two people in eighteen square meters, the air felt denser somehow. Takemichi stood holding the bucket, unable to decide where to put it. "[serious]……Where's it leaking from," "[gentle]The ceiling in the entryway. The other bucket is handling it, but just in case," 　Then my bucket doesn't matter, he thought. But he didn't say it. 　They pretended to check the bucket's position and lined them up in the corner of the room. Rain hammered against the window. Outside was pitch black, with only a thin line of hallway light seeping in. 　Hinata looked around his room. Convenience store bag wrappers. Clothes left where they'd been dropped. Curtains still drawn. She said nothing. No criticism. No worried tone. She just stayed silent, the way she listened to the rain. 　When they moved the bucket, their arms touched. 　It was just a moment. Takemichi pulled away immediately. Something pulsed hard in his chest, and it took him a moment to ignore it. 　Hinata looked at the arm he'd withdrawn, then back at the floor. 　Silence filled the room. Only the sound of rain continued. Patter, patter—water bouncing outside the window. Takemichi breathed slowly, as if checking how to breathe. 　Then Hinata spoke. "[serious]You know," 　Her voice was quiet. Not crying. Not trembling. Just heavy. "[serious]I've always liked you, Takemichi. I still do," 　Takemichi froze. 　Something crumbled inside his head. Draken's face surfaced. That massive body kneeling in a pool of blood. Then the smell of that night during the Kanto Incident came back—rain and asphalt and the stench of blood. The faces of fallen comrades appeared one after another, like they were being lined up. He heard voices. Not screams or sobs—just the sound of breathing, the sound of people who had been there. 　His throat closed. 　He knew he had to say something. But apologies, explanations, reasons—none of it would form into words. It wasn't Hinata's fault. But he didn't know if he had the right to answer her. The faces of those he couldn't protect kept appearing, one after another. 　After a long silence, words were forced out. "[sad]……I can't do that anymore," 　His voice was hoarse. That was all. There were no words to continue. 　Hinata looked at Takemichi's profile, straight on. 　He couldn't bear that gaze, so he looked at the floor. 　One second. Two seconds. 　Hinata smiled. 　It was the face of someone about to cry. But she didn't cry. With the face of someone who had decided something, she softly, but surely, lifted the corners of her mouth. "[gentle]Yeah, I know," 　There was a small pause. "[gentle]But I wanted to tell you. I've always wanted to," 　Hinata stood up. Slowly, she walked toward the door. She didn't look back. She opened it, stepped into the hallway, and closed it quietly. 　*Click*—a small sound. 　Takemichi remained sitting in front of the bucket, unable to move. 　The rain continued. Patter, patter, patter. Outside the window, water kept striking something. The room stayed dark. The place where Hinata had been standing was empty now. 　Something inside his chest gave way. 　A sound came out. 　It was pathetic—so pathetic it surprised even him. He thought he'd forgotten how to cry, but his body remembered. Two years of accumulation—it all came pouring out like a valve had been opened. Draken. The comrades he couldn't protect. That night. Everything he couldn't tell anyone after the Kanto Incident. It all tangled together, became sound, and was swallowed by the thin wall. 　From the other side of the wall, there was a sound. 　Nothing came from Hinata's room. Just a presence. As if she were sitting with her back against the wall, still—that presence alone remained, just beyond the thin wall. 　Takemichi hugged his knees and kept crying. His voice blurred into the sound of rain and faded away. 　 　That same night, in Shibuya's Udagawa-cho. 　On the third floor of Kamino Building—a forty-five-year-old, five-story mixed-use building—several core members of Waldstadt were gathered around a smartphone screen. 　On the wall was graffiti modeled after the old Tokyo Manji emblem. A young man who seemed to be the leader, lying on a sofa, scrolled through his phone and spoke. "[cold]It's working. Already over 700," 　Another member leaned in to look at the screen. It was an Instagram post. The content was this: "The hero of Tokyo Manji is acknowledging our movement." No direct words were used. But depending on how you read it, that's what it suggested. 　An image was attached. Slightly low resolution. Shot through a convenience store window at night—the back of a man. Short black hair. White shirt. Convenience Store Sasazuka—something they'd happened to capture a few days ago. "[serious]Hanagaki Takemichi is in Sasazuka. That's enough," 　Comments piled up in the section below. "The spirit of Manji has returned." "Takemichi-senpai acknowledged us." "This is our era." Teenagers in their early teens kept sharing it. 　Takemichi still knew nothing. 　In a small room in Sasazuka, he sat in front of a bucket, crying. 　 　The next morning. 　When Takemichi arrived at Daily Shop Sasazuka, Katagiri Minoru was already there. Wearing an apron, the nineteen-year-old was stocking shelves when he saw Takemichi's face. He started to say something. 　His mouth opened. 　Then it closed. 　Katagiri's eyes flicked, just for a moment, toward Takemichi's phone pocket. Then they returned to the shelves. "[gentle]Good morning, Takemichi-san," 　His voice was the same as always. But something was different. 　Takemichi grabbed his apron and caught the shift in Katagiri's expression from the corner of his eye. 　The face of someone who had started to speak, then stopped. The face of someone who knew something. 　Canned music played inside the store. Outside, the rain had stopped, and morning light reflected off the wet asphalt.