Three days had passed since the tournament ended. 　Kuroo Tetsurou still found himself thinking back to that night in the lobby of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, when he'd exchanged a glance with Ushijima Wakatoshi. There was something that had passed through the glass, quietly and clearly—but he still hadn't found words to name it. 　The January morning air was just as cold in Tokyo as it had been when he left Miyagi. When he slid open the second gymnasium's door at Karasuno High School, the smell of sweat and rubber hit his nose. 　A nostalgic smell, he thought. A smell that had been ordinary just three days ago was already nostalgic. 　His underclassmen had already begun practice. The sound of sneakers scraping the court, the dry crack of a ball hitting the floor, short calls between teammates. The gymnasium ceiling was low—only eight meters, in Karasuno's old second gym. For three years, he'd never used that disadvantage as an excuse, even when high tosses nearly grazed the ceil