He touched the doorknob. 　It was cold. 　The chill of metal transmitted through his palm. That alone was the only thing Shiraishi Mio could feel clearly right now. 　Why had she come here? 　A small wooden building nestled in an alley. Darkened cedar board siding on the exterior. A wooden sign hanging above the entrance——"Tachibana Piano Tuning." 　She didn't know the reason. Her feet had simply stopped, and she couldn't bring herself to turn back. 　Inside, someone was opening a piano's lid, placing their hand against its interior. Not repair, not performance——something else entirely. Something Mio didn't know. 　With trembling hands, Mio continued to grip the doorknob. 　　　　◇ 　Two days earlier. Monday. 　An alarm sounded——probably. 　She couldn't hear the sound. But the smartphone on her nightstand was vibrating, buzzing against the wood. That's what woke her. 　Shiraishi Mio opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. 　A condominium in the Tamachi ward. Maison Clarisse. Corner unit on the top floor, 68 square meters. All the curtains were drawn, and despite the afternoon hour, the interior was dim. A gold record award hung on the wall, gathering dust. It was very, very quiet. 　Though in truth, Mio's world had always been quiet. For two years now. 　She got out of bed and opened the refrigerator. Inside were three convenience store bento boxes. She'd bought them yesterday on her weekly shopping trip. She took one out and placed it in the microwave. The beep——of course she couldn't hear it——so she checked the door light to confirm it was done. 　When she turned on the television, the morning news appeared in subtitle mode. Mio sat on the sofa, following the text with her eyes. But nothing registered. 　All notifications on her smartphone were turned off. She'd kept it that way for two years straight. 　Mio was twenty years old. 　Five foot two. A slender, delicate frame. Black semi-long hair that she hadn't properly maintained recently. Today she wore a pale blue cardigan over a white one-piece dress. A small ear cuff on her left ear. But that ear cuff carried no music to her. 　Her clear gray eyes held an expression that was somehow distant, unfocused. Nothing like the face from her peak——the one that had smiled at cameras under spotlights. Completely different. 　Two years had passed since her retirement. 　　　　◇ 　That day, Mio put on a heavy down coat and went outside. Her weekly shopping trip. 　The streets of Tamachi ward were unchanged. People walked. Cars drove. Wind rustled the leaves of trees. But in Mio's world, none of it made a sound. 　She walked toward the supermarket. When she passed in front of a convenience store, her feet stopped abruptly. 　A vending machine beside the convenience store. Video was playing on its monitor. 　——It was her. 　Shiraishi Mio's live performance footage from her peak. Under the spotlights, mouth open wide, singing. The audience swayed. Everyone waved their hands. Smiling. Looking happy. 　But nothing reached Mio's ears. 　Her mouth moved, yet the world remained silent. 　The girl on the screen looked so happy, she thought. That's how it had been then. Standing on stage, using her voice, connecting with the audience——that was everything she was. 　Tears had begun to stream down her cheeks without her noticing. 　Mio turned on her heel. She ran. Her coat fluttered and snapped in the wind. 　Back at the condominium, she collapsed in the entryway without even removing her shoes. Her breathing was ragged. But no sound came from her throat. 　She searched her coat pocket. 　Her fingers touched something small and cold. 　A metal ear cuff. 　Another one, besides the one she wore on her left ear. This one she always kept in her pocket, like a charm. 　It was her mother's keepsake. 　When she gripped it in both hands, the cold, hard sensation spread across her palms. That was all that existed within Mio now. 　Crouched on the floor, she wept. 　　　　◇ 　As she cried, the memory returned. 　August 14th, two years ago. Mio's twentieth birthday. 　The venue was Tokai Arena. A multipurpose arena in Tokyo's waterfront district, with a capacity of 12,000. A commemorative live performance titled "Mio Birthday Stage." It happened when the first half ended and the second half performance began. 　The sound effects for a special production exploded into being. She learned later that the measured level was 135 decibels. 　Right after that——something collapsed inside her ears. 　The sound vanished. Or rather, it felt like the entire world had changed. On stage, strength drained from her legs, and Mio simply crumpled. 　She never heard the ambulance siren. 　At the hospital, a doctor in a white coat moved his lips. But his voice never reached her. She could only follow the movement of his lips with her eyes. 　Later, a nurse wrote characters on paper and showed them to her. "Complete deafness due to irreversible damage to the cochlear nerves in both ears." Hearing aids wouldn't work. Cochlear implants wouldn't work. 　Even written in hiragana, it took her a while to understand the meaning. 　A few days later, Mio read the subtitles of a press conference on television. Stella Promotion had issued a statement. The content, read aloud by her former manager Kirishima Naoto, stated that it was "due to the subject's constitutional factors." The production company denied any negligence. 　In that moment, something died completely. 　Since then, Mio had shut out the outside world. She hadn't contacted anyone. Notifications on her phone were off. Curtains stayed drawn. She only went out once a week to buy groceries. 　The woman who had once filled Tokai Arena with 12,000 fans, whose face appeared daily in television commercials, now lived only within a 68-square-meter room. 　　　　◇ 　While gripping the ear cuff, Mio thought of her mother. 　Her mother had died of illness when Mio was still small. She had been a musician. Mio no longer remembered what kind of music she played. But her love of music was absolutely influenced by her mother. 　This ear cuff was the only keepsake her mother had left behind. She had kept it close to her skin since before her debut. On the day of performances, on a hospital bed, through two years of isolation. 　Small and cold, yet this alone was her connection to her mother——that's what Mio believed. 　As she continued to cry, Mio thought: 　(What should I have done differently?) 　There was no answer. There couldn't be one. Yet she couldn't stop thinking about it. 　She couldn't sing anymore. She couldn't hear sound anymore. And yet she was still here. She didn't understand what that meant. 　　　　◇ 　After nightfall, Mio finally left the entryway. 　She removed her shoes. She took off her coat. She lay down on the bed, but couldn't sleep. 　After a while, she found herself walking toward the window. 　There was no particular reason. She simply couldn't bear to remain lying down. 　When she opened the window, cold autumn air flowed into the room. 　She heard no sound. 　But there was the sensation of wind touching her cheek. The temperature of cold air against her neck. 　Mio placed her hand against the glass. The vibration of cars running outside seemed to transmit faintly through her fingertips. The slightest tremor. 　She closed her eyes. 　(Things I can touch, I can feel.) 　Only after losing it did she finally understand. The senses other than hearing were still there. The vibration of wind, temperature, the texture of cold air. They hadn't disappeared. 　Mio's expression changed, just barely. Her face still bore the marks of tears, yet her eyes were turned toward the world beyond the window. 　The road leading to Kawasemi Street in Furikawa Town. A distance of twenty-five minutes by train. An old shopping district. Mio didn't yet know what lay in that direction. 　　　　◇ 　The next morning, Tuesday. 　She realized she'd forgotten to buy one ingredient on her shopping trip. 　It wasn't much. But Mio went outside. If she was being honest, she wanted to confirm again what she'd felt when she opened the window last night. 　She put on her down coat and left the condominium. 　On the way to the supermarket, she didn't want to pass in front of yesterday's vending machine. Mio chose a different route. A narrow residential street. An alley she'd never seen before. 　After walking for a while, she emerged into an unfamiliar shopping district. 　Old signs lined the street. A butcher shop called "Nishida." A vegetable stand called "Maruyoshi." Some were closed, their shutters drawn. There weren't many people, but the place carried the scent of life. 　The sign read "Kawasemi Street." 　Mio walked with her head down. Thinking about the ingredient. But her mind was somehow hazy. 　Then she looked up. 　At the back of an alley, there was a small wooden building. 　She couldn't tell how many decades old it was. The exterior walls were darkened cedar board siding from age. The windows were old-fashioned, small panes. A wooden sign hung above the entrance. 　——Tachibana Piano Tuning. 　A workshop. 　Her feet stopped. 　Through a small glass window, she could see inside. Someone was there. Opening a grand piano's lid, placing their hand against its interior. A man, it seemed. Long black hair. 　His hand movements were strange. 　Not repair. Not performance. Something else entirely. Slow movements, as if his fingertips were confirming something. Mio had never seen anything like it. 　(What is he doing?) 　She should have turned back. She should have just bought the ingredient and gone home. 　But her feet wouldn't move. 　Beyond the glass, the man's hand slid across the piano's soundboard. It stopped. It moved again. As if he were "seeing" the sound. 　Mio looked at her own hand. 　The hand she'd placed against the window glass last night. The hand that had tried to feel the car's vibration. 　——It's kind of similar. 　She had no idea why she thought that. But she did. 　Mio reached out her trembling hand. 　She touched the doorknob. 　It was cold. The cold sensation of metal. 　Similar to the chill of the glass last night. But this was different somehow. Beyond the door, there was something. Someone was there. 　Mio continued to grip the doorknob. 　Push or pull. Turn back or go in. 　The answer wouldn't come. But her hand wouldn't let go.