The chime stopped ringing, but its echo lingered in Takemichi's ears for a while longer. Mid-May, Wednesday. The moment the final bell rang, the students of Class 3-2 vanished in an instant. The scrape of desks and chairs being dragged, laughter, footsteps running down the hallway—as those sounds receded into distance, the classroom grew quiet. Takemichi stuffed his textbooks and notebooks into his bag while glancing out the window. The cherry blossoms on the school grounds, already fallen and scattered, swayed gently in May's soft breeze. He descended the stairs and passed through the front gate. There, Hinata was waiting. She stood with her back against the gate pillar. Her long black hair, lustrous and dark, was loosely gathered, and her transparent water-blue eyes caught sight of Takemichi's face—and she smiled. He could tell it was a smile calculated to appear bright and natural. He recognized it because he made the same smile every single day. "[excited]Oh, you came. Takemichi," Takemichi slowed his pace slightly. "...Why are you at the front gate?" "[gentle]Let's go to Harunoki. It's been a while. Come on, let's go together," He was about to refuse. He was forming the words. But Hinata had already grabbed his arm and started walking. Her hand was warm. Too warm to reject. Takemichi didn't resist and let himself be pulled along. Whether it was a lack of will to resist, or not wanting to hurt Hinata—he didn't know himself. The two of them began walking toward the shopping street. The space between their shoulders was close enough to touch, yet not quite touching. ───── Komatsuhara Central Street Shopping District—eight minutes' walk southwest from Kaminari High School. The afternoon sunlight fell diagonally across the stone pavement, beginning to paint the street lined with small independent shops in shades of orange. The smell of fried food drifted from a prepared foods shop. At the Yamakita Bento storefront, unsold items before closing were marked half-price. Café Harunoki sat in the middle of the shopping street. When Takemichi pushed open the door, the door chime rang softly. *Karan-kara.* The master, Zenzou, looked up. A man in his sixties with deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His large frame, clad in a white apron, moved slowly from behind the counter. "[gentle]Welcome. You two, it's been a while," *A while*—those words struck quietly, deep in Takemichi's chest. The last time he'd come here was four months ago. A place he'd come with Hinata. The smell of coffee, the color of the evening sun streaming through the window, Hinata's voice—everything remained exactly as it had been then. Only this shop hadn't changed, and it felt as though Takemichi alone had transformed. Zenzou guided them to a window-side table. One of four window seats. Outside was the shopping street. The evening foot traffic flowed slowly past. They sat facing each other. Hinata ordered two coffees without even looking at the menu. The same as always. Takemichi had always left such choices to her. "[gentle]I heard the homeroom teacher changed? What's Murase-sensei like?" "[serious]Just a normal teacher. Teaches Japanese," "Strict?" "[serious]Not particularly. Though I'd say his powers of observation are sharp," Hinata laughed and continued talking. About the sports festival performances, something trending in the neighboring class, a drama she'd watched last week—the conversation flowed smoothly. Takemichi offered appropriate responses at the right moments, in natural tones. He laughed where laughter was expected. It was executed well. Yet there was a moment when the café's window glass reflected the evening sun at just the right angle, becoming mirror-like. In that thin reflection, Takemichi's face appeared. A smiling face. But his eyes—they were looking at nothing. Like a photograph with unfocused lens, he was smiling with eyes that held no focal point. Hinata must have been able to see it. The coffee arrived. Black liquid in white cups. Steam rose in thin wisps. Hinata cupped both hands around her cup and blew gently on it. The gesture was exactly the same as four months ago, and for a moment, Takemichi felt a dull pain deep in his chest. Hinata tried to gently place her hand over Takemichi's right hand resting on the table. In that instant—Takemichi's left arm, soundlessly, withdrew beneath the table. No one said anything. Was he trying to hide his left wrist? Was he rejecting her touch? Takemichi himself didn't know. His body had simply moved. Like a conditioned reflex. For just a moment—a wounded light flickered across Hinata's eyes. The next instant, she was smiling again. "[gentle]...Hey, aren't you going to drink that coffee? It'll get cold," "[serious]Yeah, I'll drink it," The conversation continued as if nothing had happened. Hinata said nothing. Takemichi could feel that saying nothing was the extent of what Hinata could endure. And yet he could do nothing about it. Behind the counter, Zenzou wiped glasses, gazing vaguely at the two of them through the window. ───── By the time they left Café Harunoki, the sky had begun to blend orange and deep blue. The two walked side by side in silence. Beyond the shopping street, they entered a narrow residential alley. The shadows cast on the asphalt grew longer. From some house's window, the smell of dinner drifted—onions and soy sauce. When they passed in front of Hibari Park, Hinata stopped. "[gentle]Just for a little bit, okay?" Takemichi nodded silently. They entered the park, and Hinata sat on a bench. Takemichi lowered himself beside her. The playground equipment stood quietly in the twilight. Two swings—their chains creaking slightly in the wind. The streetlights weren't on yet. That ambiguous color of sky as it gradually darkened. For Takemichi, the swings at Hibari Park were familiar. A place he'd stopped to gaze at on his way home several times. A place where he'd gazed alone. Today Hinata was beside him. Yet he felt the same solitude. Silence stretched on for a while. In the distance, children's voices. Children playing somewhere in an alley. A parent's voice calling them to dinner overlapped, and the children's voices faded. It became quiet. Hinata, watching Takemichi's profile, spoke. "[serious]You haven't been smiling lately," Takemichi, still facing forward, answered immediately. "[serious]I'm smiling," The speed at which those words came out, the tone of his voice—it told Hinata everything. Hinata continued to watch his profile. She'd known for months now that he wasn't turning to face her, that something was hidden behind the smile formed only at the corners of his mouth. She had simply been waiting. Waiting for the day Takemichi would speak to her of his own accord. Waiting for him to notice that she was within reach. In this moment, that certainty—began to quietly crumble. Takemichi was in a place she couldn't reach. There was no romantic rival anywhere yet. She knew nothing of the transfer student named Aoki Yuu. And yet, something unnamed—a fear without a name—was beginning to take root in her chest. Not a fear of losing Takemichi, but a fear that she might not be able to save him. Love and urgency mixing together, becoming something she didn't know how to handle. Hinata said nothing. Takemichi said nothing. The swing creaked softly once more. ───── The next morning. Third-floor hallway of Kaminari High School. The ten-minute break between classes. Morning light streaming through the glass stretched white across the linoleum floor. Murase-sensei called out to Takemichi as he walked down the hallway. "[serious]Hanagaki, got a minute?" Takemichi stopped. The two of them moved to the side of the hallway. Without consulting his notebook, Murase-sensei spoke in a calm voice. Thirty-two years old, Japanese teacher. One month as Takemichi's homeroom teacher. His powers of observation were far more detailed than Takemichi had realized. "[serious]Kitahara Psychosomatic Medicine Clinic—one of the designated institutions under the Kaisei system—your attendance there has stopped for two months. You know about the Kaisei system, right?" The Kaisei system—a social rehabilitation support program implemented by Tokyo following the conclusion of the Tokyo Manji Gang's final conflict. It consisted of three pillars: free monthly counseling, academic reintegration support, and employment placement assistance. Takemichi had once been registered in it. He'd met with his assigned counselor once a month at Kitahara Psychosomatic Medicine Clinic. Two months ago, he'd stopped going of his own accord. "[serious]...I'll think about it," Takemichi didn't meet Murase-sensei's eyes. The teacher was silent for a moment. He didn't press further. He simply said one thing, gently. "[gentle]You don't have to force yourself. Just don't carry everything alone, alright?" The teacher walked toward the staff room. His footsteps faded into distance. Takemichi stood there for a moment longer, still feeling the emptiness of those words—*I'll think about it*—as they left his mouth. In the shadow of the hallway's corner, there was a presence. It was Hinata. She stood with her back pressed against the corner, her fists clenched. Her water-blue eyes were fixed on the hallway's far end—on Takemichi's retreating back. She'd heard everything. What pierced Hinata's chest wasn't the fact that Takemichi was avoiding counseling. It was the reality that Takemichi—wasn't confiding in anyone, not even himself. She'd noticed everything. The Kaisei system, the visits to the infirmary several times a week, the time spent alone on the roof. She'd noticed it all while waiting. Waiting for Takemichi to tell her. Waiting for him to reach out to her of his own accord. It never came. Even when the teacher suggested it, Takemichi had said he'd think about it. Hinata remained pressed against the hallway wall, unable to move for a while. ───── Night. Second floor of an apartment building in Komatsuhara Town, Takemichi's six-mat room. His mother hadn't returned from her part-time job yet. The room was quiet, and outside the window was only the wall of the neighboring building. In the upper right corner of the ceiling, there was a stain that had been there unchanged for years. Takemichi, still in his uniform, sat on the floor and pulled a notebook from the back of a drawer. Black cover. Pages warped in places, an old volume. He turned the pages. Messy handwriting ran across them. Names of comrades, dates, locations. Time leap—the ability Takemichi once possessed to send his consciousness into his past self's body under specific conditions—repeated dozens of times over, recorded here so as not to lose memory. The ability had vanished with the conclusion of the final conflict. What remained was this notebook and memories layered across multiple timelines. His hand stopped on one page. Minakami Souta. This wasn't the first time he'd seen that name. But today—beside that name, there was small writing. *I'm sorry.* It hadn't been there when he'd checked yesterday. The handwriting resembled Takemichi's own. But the pressure was completely different. There was no strength in it. It was thin, trembling writing. He didn't know when it had been written. He didn't know why it had been written. Through dozens of time leaps, his memories had been overwritten many times over. Which timeline's version of himself had written this? To whom had he apologized? And for what? Whether Minakami Souta still lived somewhere in this world, or had died in some other timeline—even that was unclear. If he was alive, where was he? If he was dead, was it Takemichi's fault? Before the fear that his memories couldn't be trusted came something else—the guilt of possibly forgetting. It fell heavily into his chest. Takemichi pressed his thumb against the inside of his left wrist. An old burn scar. It d