Mio's hand remained frozen on the doorknob. The same sensation as yesterday. The cold metal. But today was different. Yesterday she had simply been paralyzed. Today — she was actually thinking. Deliberating whether to push or pull. (I could leave. There's no obligation to stay.) Even as she thought it, her foot moved forward. The door swung open. A faint vibration from the hinges traveled through her palm and up her arm. And then — the scent of wood flooded in. Old timber and oil and something else, something Mio didn't recognize. Piano wood, she thought vaguely. The workshop was dim. Winter morning light slanted through a window at the far end, dust particles drifting through the air. The floor was old oak, and from the moment she stepped inside, she felt a soft vibration beneath her soles. A grand piano sat in the center of the room, its lid open, the strings inside catching the light with a quiet gleam. And beside it — a person. A young man with long black hair tied back in a single knot. Around 175 centimeters tall, with a slender frame. Wearing plain work clothes. And — white cloth wrapped around his eyes. The young man kept his hand on the piano's soundboard as he slowly raised his face. "[gentle]Welcome," She saw his lips move. But the sound didn't reach her ears. The young man — Tachibana Kanade — was facing her direction with perfect accuracy. Despite his blindness, he hadn't mistaken where the door was. Thin shoe soles, Mio thought. The vibrations must have traveled through the workshop floor. "[gentle]Your shoe soles are thin. Your stride is small. And... I can still smell your shampoo. You're a young woman, aren't you?" Mio's body went rigid. He'd guessed correctly without seeing. More than that — he'd constructed an entire image of her from the footsteps and vibrations and scent of her entering. Mio instinctively reached to respond in sign language, then stopped. This person's eyes don't perceive light. Sign language won't work. Mio fumbled in her bag's pocket. She pulled out a notepad and pen. On the blank page, she wrote carefully. — I cannot hear. She held out the notepad. Kanade's hand extended, his fingers tracing gently across the paper's surface. Trying to read the indentations of the ink. But he stopped. His expression shifted — a flicker of confusion, though his face remained calm. "[gentle]...I see. I can't read it either. I can't track letters visually," Mio stood frozen, notepad still in hand. She couldn't hear. He couldn't see. Sign language wouldn't work. He couldn't read text. The silence accumulating between them was a different quality of loneliness than anything Mio had experienced in the past two years. Back then, only she had been severed. But now — neither of them had a way to reach the other. (I shouldn't have come.) She was turning to leave when it happened. Kanade's hand reached out quietly. Before she could pull away, his fingertips touched her right wrist. Gently, but with certainty. Then he drew her hand closer. It took a few seconds to understand where he was leading her — Kanade brought her palm to his lips. Mio's fingertips touched his lips. "[gentle]Ka — na — de," His lips moved. The shape, the faint vibration, the flow of breath — all of it reached her fingertips directly. Ka. Na. De. Mio confirmed each sound in her mind. Tachibana Kanade — Kanade, this person's name. Something shifted inside Mio. A new circuit of communication had just opened. Not through voice, not through text, but through touch — a way to pass words through contact. Kanade reached toward her again. His eyes asked a question — *Is this all right?* — and she understood. When Mio nodded slightly, his fingertips touched the edge of her lips. Her entire body tensed. For two years, she hadn't let anyone touch this place. She no longer knew what state her own voice was in, what her own lips looked like. "Mi... o," She moved her mouth slightly. Sound came out. She had no idea how loud it was. But Kanade's fingertips traced carefully, following the movement of her lips, the muscles of her jaw, the vibration in her throat. "[gentle]...I see. Mio, is it," Mio's chest trembled. Her own name. This person had just read her name without hearing her voice. With his fingertips. Kanade took her hand again, placed it against his lips. This time he moved his mouth longer, more deliberately. "Three years ago — at Kasumigaoka Hall — I heard you sing," Mio's feet stopped. Kasumigaoka Hall. Fifteen minutes by train from Furkawa Town. An 800-seat concert hall. Three years ago — when Mio was nineteen, still standing on stages. Before the bigger venues, before Tokai Arena. When Mio was still Mio. Kanade's lips moved again. Mio tried desperately to read them with her fingertips. She couldn't catch everything. But certain words took shape. — From the moment the intro of the first song began — I was receiving it with my whole body — even now, completely — And at the end, Kanade moved his lips carefully, one character at a time. "[gentle]Your voice still remains inside me," Tears spilled from Mio's eyes. For two years, no one had spoken about her music. After her retirement, people either reported her hearing loss with pity or forgot about her entirely. Kirishima Naoto, her manager at Stella Promotion, had only offered words about "plans for a comeback." No one had said anything about the lost sound, about Mio's former songs. No one had said anything at all. But this blind young man — he still carried Mio's voice from that night. A sound came out. An uncontrolled, trembling sound. For two years, whenever she cried, she'd suppressed her voice. Because she no longer knew what her own voice sounded like. But now — she couldn't stop it. She didn't know how loud her crying was. But Kanade simply stood there, saying nothing. Receiving the vibrations of her sobs in the workshop's air, standing quietly. The workshop floorboards seemed to be absorbing her trembling. 　　　◇ It took a while before she stopped crying. Kanade brought water. A plastic cup, retrieved from somewhere. The way he handed it to her was unhesitating — she realized that everything in this workshop was mapped in his mind, serving as his eyes. When Mio took the cup, Kanade walked toward the back of the workshop. He stood before the grand piano and turned — or rather, oriented his body toward her. Adjusting his direction to follow her footsteps. Mio was no longer surprised by this. Kanade extended his hand. *Come here*, she understood. Mio walked slowly toward the piano. Kanade took her right hand and gently placed it on the soundboard of the grand piano. Smooth, cold, but immediately absorbing her body heat. Kanade moved toward the keys. The lowest C — the very lowest key — Kanade's finger pressed it slowly. Vibration came. A wave beginning in her palm, traveling up her arm, reaching her shoulder, spreading deep into her chest. Not sound. But something was definitely moving through her body. Low, deep, gentle undulation. Mio's body — was resonating. (I can't hear. And yet—) For two years, she'd believed music was completely dead. When sound vanished from her world, she'd thought music vanished with it. But now, the vibrations from the soundboard reaching deep into her chest — it didn't feel like music was dead at all. Kanade moved from C to another note, then another. When chords formed, the quality of vibration changed. Multiple waves overlapping, mixing within her body. Mio couldn't organize what she was feeling. But she didn't want to take her hand from the soundboard. After a while, Kanade's fingers left the piano. His fingers rested gently on her hand. His mouth moved. Mio tried to read with her fingertips. She could feel him moving slowly for her. "Vibration — even without hearing — reaches you," Mio bit her lip. (So that's how. There was a way like this.) For two years, she'd believed music was completely lost. But there was a method beyond "hearing." This young man — even without sight, he'd found a way to exist alongside music. 　　　◇ Before leaving the workshop, Mio asked Kanade to let her read his lips one more time. She moved her mouth. Hesitantly, but clearly. "Can I... come again?" Kanade paused for one second. That one second felt long. Because in two years, this was the first time Mio had wanted to come back somewhere. Kanade nodded calmly. She pushed open the workshop door and stepped outside. Winter air touched her cheeks. Kawasemi Street's shopping district was quiet in the late morning. Passing in front of "Nishida," the butcher shop, she saw meat gleaming in the display case. Through the glass, she could see the shopkeeper saying something, but Mio gave a light bow and passed by. As she walked, the sensation from moments ago wouldn't leave her mind. Kanade's fingertips touching her lips. The vibration traveling through the soundboard, reaching deep into her body. And those words — *Your voice still remains inside me*. Mio put her hand in her coat pocket. Her fingers touched something small and cold. Her mother's ear cuff, a keepsake. Usually, holding this brought her some calm. Today too, she held it. But — something felt different. The coldness was the same. The hardness was the same. And yet today, the warmth of that vibration seemed to linger in her palm more than this coldness. She didn't understand why her chest was so unsettled. Was it embarrassment? Joy? Or was her body still reeling from exchanging words with someone for the first time in two years? Walking toward the train station, Mio turned back just once. In the depths of the alley, she could see the sign: "Tachibana Piano Tuning." (I'll come again.) She thought it. But immediately, another thought overlapped. For two years, she'd shut out the outside world. Distrust of Stella Promotion. Fear of society. The path to that workshop had opened just slightly. But nothing else had changed. Whether she could come again — that was about Mio's own fear.