The phone vibrated again. Marina didn't look at it. She kept her eyes on the window outside. The Tokyo skyline had disappeared long ago. In its place stretched green rice paddies and distant mountains hazed on the horizon. The Kagamine Range—the mountains that lined the north of Minakami City, peaks around 1,400 meters high. The same mountains she'd seen since childhood. The express train swayed quietly. Marina tilted her short bob—purple-black in color—slightly toward the window glass and narrowed her eyes. Her left eye was mustard-colored, her right a pale blue—those mismatched eyes reflected the flowing rural landscape. Small crescent-shaped earrings hung from her ears. A casual shirt, jeans, a simple jacket. One carry-on bag. She'd left far more behind in Tokyo. The phone vibrated again. This time she looked at the screen. It was from Tayama. A colleague at PulseLink, the digital marketing firm in Tokyo. Sent ten minutes ago. "[serious]Seriously, isn't this a waste? You're throwing away results with 200% follower growth rate?" Marina didn't mark it as read. Instead, she opened the voicemail app. A message from Hatsu. She'd already listened three times. She played it a fourth time. A trembling voice came through the earphones. "[crying]Marina... I'm sorry. I can't do this alone anymore" That was all. The message ended in seventeen seconds. After that, silence stretched for a moment before it cut off abruptly. Her grandmother had always been bad with phones. Since long ago, she only left short messages. But Marina understood the weight packed into those seventeen seconds. Something ached quietly deep in her chest. (I spent three years at PulseLink producing real results. I multiplied clients' followers many times over. Numbers don't lie. So Hishizukido should be able to—) The thought stopped midway. Because Marina knew nothing about the wagashi shop. Not how to knead the dough, not the heat control, not how to use the wooden molds. She kept telling herself that with data, she could rebuild anything—but each time, she noticed how hollow those words sounded. Outside the window, a heron stood alone in the rice paddy. Motionless on its thin legs. Staring at the water's surface. Marina's eyes followed the bird for no particular reason. The train was too fast; it disappeared from view immediately. She put her phone away in her bag. She stopped thinking. She'd decided to go, so she would go. That was all. ── Minakami Station was much smaller than she remembered. Or rather, to be precise, it hadn't gotten smaller. The reinforced concrete station building from 1978 had the same shape as it did in her childhood. But the station in her memory had been noisier. People flowing through the ticket gates, the smell of baked buns from souvenir shops, tourists' carry-on bags rolling with sound. Now there were only four other people on the platform besides Marina. Passing through the ticket gate, she emerged into the station plaza. Two taxis sat with their engines off. One driver had his arms crossed, eyes closed. The tourist information window had a faded poster taped to its glass. A photo of hot springs and the words "Welcome to Minakami City." The edge of the poster was starting to peel. Marina pulled her carry-on toward the south exit. Twelve minutes on foot to Hishizukido. ── When she entered the Nishiki Street shopping arcade, the first thing she noticed was the dimness. It was daytime, but dark. Looking up, she saw fluorescent lights that weren't on. Out of the eighty-four lights that should have been there, fourteen were left burned out—the materials she'd researched before coming home had said so. She'd known the number, but seeing it in person felt different, heavier on her body. The interlocking blocks on the ground looked moss-covered and wet. Marina slowed her pace slightly, worried the carry-on's wheels would catch. Shutters lined both sides. The arcade, which stretched 450 meters, once had ninety-two shops in a row. Now only twenty-two were operating. The rest were shutters. Vacancy rate over 66 percent—she hadn't expected to see that number become this real. There were marks on the shutters where someone had scrawled graffiti. It had been cleaned, but traces remained. Marina walked past it all in a daze. Ahead, a sign for "Kissaten Lamp" was lit. Opened in 1981, according to the materials. From inside the window, a woman in her sixties seemed to be looking her way. As their eyes were about to meet, Marina looked forward again. Then. Plink. Something fell on her head. Cold. Wet. Water. Marina stopped and looked up. A thin line of water dripped from one point in the arcade's ceiling. A leak. The steel and polycarbonate roof installed in 1965—the materials had said there were over twelve leak points. (Perfect timing for the numbers to be accurate. Not that I'm happy about it.) Marina touched her hair with her hand. Wet. Her homecoming's first welcome was a leak from the arcade. She sighed quietly and kept walking. ── Hishizukido was the third shop from the north on the east side of the arcade. The wooden sign had turned brown with age. The characters "Hishizukido" were fading, about halfway gone. Inside the glass display case of the shop window, only three types of wagashi were lined up. Standing in front of the sliding door, Marina couldn't move for a moment. The Hishizukido in her memory had been brighter. Her grandfather Genzo used to stand in front of the noren curtain, greeting every customer who came. The display window had seven, eight types of seasonal wagashi. The sweet smell of simmering red beans always drifted from the kitchen in back. She slid the door open. It made a dry sound as she entered. No customers. No one behind the counter. No sounds from the kitchen in back. Her grandmother had said she wasn't feeling well today. She was probably resting upstairs. Marina quietly entered the kitchen and opened a shelf at the edge. The account books were inside. She opened one. Monthly sales: 280,000 yen. Fixed costs: 220,000 yen. Net: 60,000 yen. When she'd worked at PulseLink, Marina had managed SNS budgets in the hundreds of millions for single projects. Looking at these numbers with that sense of scale, the severity sank into her skin. The math was simple. At this pace, the shop would close in three months. She closed the account book. She slowly looked around the kitchen. Three copper pots. Heavy, aged. Genzo had specially ordered them in the 1960s. About fifty wooden molds. Diamond-shaped, flower-shaped, moon-shaped—carefully arranged. Bags of red beans. Written on them: Hokkaido Tokachi brand. Two commercial gas stoves. One kneading table. Everything her grandfather had used for sixty years. A framed piece hung on the wall. "One sweet, one soul"—Genzo's handwriting. Strong but rounded strokes. Next to it, a photograph. A photo of Genzo. And another one. A small photo, the color slightly faded. Her grandmother Hatsu and a small child standing side by side in front of the kneading table. The child wore a white apron, holding something small in her hands. Marina realized the child was herself. Seven or eight years old. The memory came back quietly. That day, Grandfather had cut yokan for her. With each stroke of the knife, a new cross-section appeared. A pale color, almost white. On that cross-section, a moonlike luster floated. When she took a bite—the sweetness, the slight bitterness of brown sugar, the subtle flavor of red beans all mixed together, and she felt like she was eating something unbelievable. "It's like magic." When she said that, Genzo laughed. "[gentle]It's called Tsukikage—moonlight. Because of the luster that appears" Tsukikage. Hishizukido's signature product. 1,200 yen per bar. A yokan Genzo had created in 1958. Hokkaido Tokachi red beans and Okinawa brown sugar, kneaded in a copper pot for three hours. In the 1980s, it sold 300 bars a month, but now it was around 40 bars—that was in the account book too. Marina touched the photograph. The protective film on the glass was cold. From her fingertips, something quietly settled into place. The urge to cry rose in her throat, but she held it back. Not now. She could cry later. (I'll rebuild this. This place.) She confirmed it silently in her heart. ── She set her emotions aside for now. Marina took out her phone. She opened the camera app. For three years at PulseLink, she'd managed dozens of accounts. Fashion brands, restaurants, regional tourist sites, craft manufacturers—they all started as "who would even look at something this boring?" But with the right presentation, things changed. The data proved it. Marina's eyes began analyzing the kitchen. The angle of light hitting the copper pot surface. The regularity of how the wooden molds were arranged. The strength of the brushwork on the "One sweet, one soul" frame. The traces of red bean granules left on the kneading table. This would photograph well. She took a shot. The next composition. Another shot. Changing the angle of the light, one more. Her hands trembled slightly. She pretended not to notice and kept shooting. She created a new account on Photogram—the photo-sharing SNS. The account name was "hishizukido_1952." 1952, the year it was founded. In the profile section, she wrote just one line: "Founded 1952. Traditional wagashi shop on Nishiki Street shopping arcade." From the photos she'd taken, she selected one. A composition with the copper pot and wooden molds. The lighting was good. She added a caption: "Seventy-two years of tools." Just that. No unnecessary words. She posted it. Followers: 0. Likes: 0. Comments: 0. Marina sat down on the kitchen floor. She leaned her back against the leg of the kneading table and looked up at the ceiling. Old wooden beams came into view. Two water stains. (Three months. That's all I have.) Numbers began spinning in her head. Monthly sales of 280,000 yen. Fixed costs of 220,000 yen. Eight to twelve customers a day. Average purchase of 800 yen. How far could she push this? Target audience: local people in their thirties and forties, and nationwide wagashi enthusiasts. Best posting times: 7 AM or 8 PM for engagement. Hashtags: wagashi, traditional, craftsmanship, Minakami... The calculations made her dizzy. But not calculating was even scarier. Through the kitchen window, the pale light of the arcade filtered in. Nishiki Street shopping arcade—once lined with ninety-two shops, once boasting 450,000 annual visitors, now silent with over 66 percent vacancy. Twenty years and more since Lakeside Mall Minakami opened in the suburbs in 2003. A large force quietly crushing something small. That was economics. Marina had known it as knowledge, but sitting on this floor, breathing this kitchen air, she realized knowledge and reality were completely different things. Her phone vibrated. Two hours had passed since the post. She opened the notification. One comment had come in on the Photogram post. "[surprised]This shop is still here!? I used to go there as a kid!" Marina stared at the screen. She read it again. A third time. Someone had left a comment on a post from an account with zero followers. Whether it had caught the "Discover" tab by chance or been found through search—the path didn't matter. Behind this single line, someone existed. Someone who carried the taste of this shop in their memory. Something that wasn't numbers slowly pierced the center of her chest. It didn't hurt. It wasn't warm either. But something was definitely there, pierced through, immovable. Marina stood up from the floor. She put the phone she'd left on the kneading table back in her pocket and lightly tapped one of the copper pots with the pad of her finger. A low, heavy sound. The sound of metal used for over sixty years. "[whispers]It's started" Marina whispered to herself in the empty kitchen. Outside the window, eveni