The morning sun slanted through the alleyway of Tourou Street Shopping District. Natsuki rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and wiped the sign of Café Grimoire. The brass letters reflected the morning light, glinting brilliantly. This action had become a habit. Every morning, at this time, in this place, he repeated the same thing. His hand paused slightly as he wiped the sign. He pulled out his smartphone from his shirt pocket. 7:27 AM. More than thirty minutes until the high school morning assembly. But Natsuki had already grown accustomed to running the shop alone before heading to school. Five years had passed since his father, Souji, had disappeared. In his memory, his father's face was gradually becoming vague. Yet this morning ritual alone remained unchanged. He entered the shop. The kitchen was still dark. He turned on the power. The ceiling lights came on one by one. The coffee machine's fan began to hum softly. Natsuki's hands moved automatically. He poured water, dropped coffee beans into the filter. He leveled the grounds. He pressed the switch. The sound of the coffee mill turning was the signal that announced the shop's morning. He looked at his father's photograph on the shelf behind the counter. Amber-colored eyes—the same color as Natsuki's own—gazed quietly at the camera. No date was recorded. Beside it was another photograph. His father holding a small Natsuki on his shoulders. Natsuki had no memory of that moment at all. Only the sensation of his father doing that, the feeling itself, lay sunken in the depths of distant memory. Natsuki's gaze lingered there for only an instant. He quickly looked away. He had not yet allowed himself to face that emotion directly. "It's morning. Let's get to work." Natsuki murmured alone in the empty shop. 3 PM. After school. Natsuki stood in the back of the shop in his white shirt and black slacks, warming a coffee cup, when the entrance chime rang. The usual time. The usual regular customer. "Welcome." Hanaoka Tatsumi was 62 years old. Short hair tinged with gray, eyes behind his glasses held a calm depth that seemed to come from reading books. He was the owner of the used bookstore "Shitoudou," and for about two years now, he had come every three weeks, always at the same time. He would drink his usual blend coffee at the counter and read the newspaper. That was his routine. But today's Hanaoka was not completely following that routine. "Ah, thanks." A greeting mixed with a sigh from beyond the chime. Hanaoka took his seat at the counter. His shoulders were slumped. Natsuki observed his condition. "The usual?" he asked, but at the same time, he was already moving. He dropped the usual beans into the grinder, turning them into powder. The sound was pleasant. But his hand movements today were subtly different from usual. Hanaoka said nothing. His slumped shoulders spoke volumes. Natsuki's hands moved of their own accord. He stopped the grinder and took different beans. A specialty blend. One he didn't usually use. He used slightly less of those beans. Instead, he added different ones. Ethiopian. With a strong floral aroma. He didn't understand why he did it. But the moment he saw Hanaoka's expression, his hands moved. He put it in the coffee maker. He adjusted the water temperature. Slightly lower than usual. He extended the steaming time. Everything was "somehow." Natsuki hadn't consciously changed the recipe. He had simply seen Hanaoka's expression and felt that something was missing from the depths of his heart, and his hands had corrected it of their own accord. He poured it into the cup. He created foam. He placed it on the wiped counter. "Thank you for waiting." Hanaoka took a sip. For several seconds, nothing happened. But in that moment, Hanaoka's expression—changed slightly. The wrinkle between his eyebrows relaxed just a little. "...What is this, anyway?" Hanaoka murmured. His gaze fell to the cup. "It's different from usual." There was no respect or surprise in his voice, only wonder. "No, it's not a bad difference." Hanaoka continued. "It's just—like this." His words continued exploratively. "When I drink it, it feels like I've found the book after all." A small smile appeared on Natsuki's face. "You haven't found it." His response was quick. "You said this morning that you 'failed to win the auction,' remember?" Hanaoka gave a wry smile. "...Right. Yeah, that's right." But there was certainly something lit in his eyes. Not hope, but light. A small but certain light. Natsuki didn't realize that this light had been born from the coffee he had brewed. It was a moment when a boy who didn't even know the word "調杯師"—a master of brewing—was wielding that power without knowing it. 4:50 PM. Ten minutes before closing. Natsuki was testing a new latte. Steam from the steam nozzle warmed the milk in the pitcher. There was no sound, only white vapor rising. He gently inserted a thermometer. 60 degrees. A little more. He poured it into the cup. He would add powder. No—let him draw a picture. Natsuki returned the steam nozzle to the pitcher and poured the milk foam onto the coffee. He drew a line with the thin nozzle. He tried to make the shape of a leaf. No, that's not it. A different shape. Something geometric. Latte art. It wasn't a characteristic of this shop. Natsuki only did it experimentally from time to time. The milk foam began to form a shape. —That was the moment. Just for an instant. Only two or three seconds. The whipped cream-like foam suddenly changed shape. From the geometric lines Natsuki's hand was trying to draw, to something completely different. A shape with entirely different rules. Like an unfamiliar character. No, it was exactly a character. A character in some unknown language. Natsuki's hand stopped. The next moment, the foam collapsed. It became just whipped cream again. "Huh?" Natsuki took out his smartphone. He tried to take a picture. His finger was on the shutter button when the foam had already scattered. He took the photo anyway. He reviewed it. Nothing was captured. Just coffee. "...It must be the light." Natsuki murmured. He converted the inexplicable event into everyday misperception. It was Natsuki's habit. Things that couldn't be explained were altered in his mind to be explainable. He drank that latte himself. 5 PM. Closing time. He flipped the sign. He locked the door. He lowered the shutter outside. He pressed the remote. The shutter descended slowly. The street illuminated by the setting sun gradually disappeared. Natsuki washed glasses in the kitchen. He rinsed away the coffee bean powder. He wiped the table. The evening ritual of the day's end. When he headed toward the counter, his feet stopped. The bookshelf behind the counter. From the depths beyond it—where nothing was normally visible—a faint green light was leaking through the gap. It was always like this. Every night, at this time. This light always appeared. But Natsuki's feet paused for a moment. Even with habit, the sense of discomfort about that light never disappeared. "Again, huh." He murmured. Behind the bookshelf was a door. The door his father had said "absolutely never open." Natsuki had been twelve years old then. The night before his father disappeared. "Never open it. Understand, Natsuki?" He remembered only those words and the expression on his father's face. Natsuki's right hand went to the pendant hanging around his neck. A small silver one. He believed it was his father's keepsake. He didn't remember when or where his father had given it to him. When he noticed, it was already around his neck. He gripped the pendant. It was warm. No, slightly warm. "I decided not to open it, so it's not scary or anything." Natsuki spoke aloud alone in the empty shop. In that moment, he became aware of how hollow those words sounded. If it wasn't scary, why was he gripping the pendant? If it wasn't scary, why did he see this light every night and do nothing about it? "..." He fell silent. He stood before the bookshelf. The green light was still leaking through. That light appeared at the same time every night and disappeared at the same time. That had been the routine for these five years. Natsuki stared intently at that light. 9 PM. Rain began to fall. Pitter-patter. Then gradually heavier. The night of Nishi Lighthouse City became quiet rapidly. The crowds disappeared, leaving only sound on the streets. The sound of rain and the occasional passing car. Natsuki was in his second-floor bedroom. He had his homework spread out. A math problem set. But his pencil wasn't making progress. He was looking at the rain falling outside the window. It was past midnight. —A sound came. Natsuki looked up. It was a small sound. But he heard it clearly. From the shop. From downstairs. From the counter area. A creaking sound, as if wood were groaning. Or perhaps— A sound like something small was crying. Natsuki didn't move. He strained to listen. In that moment, the pendant around his neck reacted. A faint warmth transformed into heat. And vibration. Rhythmless, yet certain vibration. Thump. Thump, thump. The pendant was pulsing. "What?" Natsuki stood up from his desk. He descended the stairs. The sound grew louder. The creaking of wood became more distinct. He passed through the kitchen. He headed toward the counter. Natsuki's feet stopped before the bookshelf. The green light was shining more brightly than usual. Natsuki's consciousness was slowly drawn toward that light. His hand touched the edge of the bookshelf. The cold sensation of wood. Wood with history. Wood that had been in this shop since his father's time. He pulled. The bookshelf moved. The hidden door revealed itself. An old wooden door locked with a padlock. Brass fittings. Leaf designs were carved into those fittings. Light was leaking from the gap in that door, glowing softly. Thump. Thump, thump. The pendant's pulsing grew stronger. Natsuki's hand slowly rose. He pulled the bookshelf further. The door became more visible. He stepped forward. His hand reached out toward the door when— —A violent sound struck the window. Rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle. The rain suddenly became fierce. As if someone were pouring a torrent from the sky. The wind grew stronger, and raindrops struck the windowpane violently. That sound overwrote everything. Natsuki's hand stopped in midair. The pendant's pulsing slowly weakened. The sound from beyond the door had ceased. "..." Natsuki stood in long silence. Only the sound of the fierce rain dominated the surroundings. Slowly, he lowered his hand. He gripped the pendant tightly. And he returned to the stairs. 2 AM. Natsuki was drifting toward sleep. He was staring at the ceiling. His eyes were heavy. That was when it happened. At the boundary between dream and reality— His father's voice was heard. Not words. Only tone. Warm and distant. The sensation of a large hand holding his small hand. That hand was warm. And— The image of the door at the back of the café, glowing with light. His father was trying to protect him from something. That sensation of being protected gradually faded in the dream. It appeared for only a moment, then vanished. — Natsuki opened his eyes. Only the ceiling was visible. The sound of rain continued. In his right hand, the warmth of the pendant still remained.