His right ring finger was trembling. In the mirror above the washbasin, Haruno Kanata gazed at his own hand. He held the toothbrush still, merely watching. The ring finger and pinky. Only those two, ever so slightly, yet unmistakably, swayed beyond the reach of his will. Three months ago, he had played piano with this hand. Kanata set down the toothbrush slowly and raised his right hand. Slender, taut fingers. For a frame of 178 centimeters, they appeared almost delicate—too refined for his build. His black hair lay slightly disheveled from sleep. Behind the lenses of his glasses, transparent blue eyes reflected his own image in the mirror. On the ring finger of his left hand, there was a small mark like a burn scar. The tremor did not cease. (I know. I know it won't stop.) Kanata removed his glasses and set them on the washbasin. In the blurred field of vision, his reflection in the mirror receded slightly. He had a habit of removing his glasses at times like this. It gave him the feeling of gazing into distance. Filhagen Syndrome. He had repeated that name in his mind hundreds of times already. Confirmed cases in Japan totaled approximately 120 patients. Incidence rate: less than one per million. A disease in which both peripheral and central nerves gradually deteriorate, with no established treatment. It begins with fine tremors in the fingertips and dulled sensation, then spreads to the arms and legs, and eventually affects the muscles of respiration. For a pianist, fingers that no longer move—it is not a matter of technique. It is death. The calm voice of Dr. Toyama Kazuhiko from the Neurology Department at Yotsuya-Sakaue Medical Center lingered in the depths of his ears. "From the time of diagnosis, average life expectancy is twelve to eighteen months. There is individual variation, of course." When Kanata heard those words, he had somehow managed to keep his face perfectly composed. Even he was surprised. He did not weep. He simply said, "I see," and stood up. Three months had passed since then. Approximately nine months remained. Kanata put his glasses back on and left the washroom. --- The corner unit on the fifth floor of Residence Verde Meguro was quiet, as always. Three minutes' walk from the Meguro River. A seven-story residential building nestled in a quiet neighborhood. Kanata lived here alone. 2LDK, 68 square meters, rent 180,000 yen per month. The soundproofed room shut out nearly all external noise. Upon entering the living room, the Steinway D-274 caught his eye. A grand piano. The keyboard cover remained closed. The piano bench had somehow been pushed to the wall, placed at a distance from the instrument. A thin layer of dust had begun to accumulate on the black, lustrous surface of the lid. Through a gap in the curtains, the pale light of early June morning filtered in. That light reflected off the black surface of the piano, tracing a thin line. Kanata saw it and drew the blackout curtains a little further closed. On the table sat two rows of small bottles. Medication to ease neurological symptoms, and sleep aids for sleepless nights. And three empty plastic bottles. He had not bothered to take them to the trash. His phone lay face-down on the table. Kanata glanced at it, then looked away. The last time he had checked was a week ago. At that moment, there were 98 missed calls. There would be more now. From his manager Kirishima Rei. From music magazine reporters. From former colleagues. Everyone was either concerned about Haruno Kanata's piano or wanted to know about his next schedule. Not a single person was concerned about Haruno Kanata as a human being. Kanata sat on the sofa and gazed out the window. The greenery along the Meguro River swayed in the early summer breeze. The cherry blossom season had long since passed; the leaves were a vivid green. A jogger passed along the riverside promenade. The seasons advanced regardless of him. That was simply how it was, Kanata thought. --- Just after noon on June 1st, a delivery arrived. The intercom rang. Kanata considered ignoring it for a moment. But it rang again. Before the recorded message could play, he reluctantly rose to his feet. It was the first time in three months that he had opened the front door. The delivery person held out the terminal without a smile. Kanata signed and accepted the cardboard box. As he moved to close the door—he noticed something at his feet. A single sheet of music lay on the hallway floor. A thin booklet. German letters on the cover. Chopin, Ballade No. 1 in G minor. Kanata stared down at it for a moment, then gently nudged it aside with his foot. So as not to step on it. That was all he cared about. Then he closed the door. The sender was unknown. Kanata assumed it was a flyer that had blown in from the mailbox or something of the sort. He decided to think of it that way. --- The morning of June 2nd. Kanata was about to take his medication and passed near the door by the entryway to fetch water. Another sheet of music had appeared. It was placed on top of yesterday's score. Debussy, Estampes. Kanata stopped moving. This was no flyer. Someone had deliberately left it. Debussy's Estampes was a piece in Kanata's repertoire. It was included on a CD he had recorded five years ago. The fact that this piece had been chosen meant it was left by someone who knew him. Kanata reached to pick up the score, then stopped. Instead, he turned away and walked toward the kitchen. (I can simply ignore it.) He drank water, took his medication, and returned to the sofa. --- On the morning of June 3rd, a third score appeared. Schumann, Scenes from Childhood. This time he did not even open the door. He confirmed it through the intercom camera mounted on the door. A single white booklet lay on the hallway floor, carefully placed. It was stacked neatly on top of the two scores that had been there since yesterday. Scenes from Childhood. The piece Kanata had played as an encore when he competed in the Vienna International Piano Competition at seventeen. He had placed second, but the magazines had covered that night's encore. "The lingering resonance of Träumerei, the seventh piece of Scenes from Childhood, filled the hall for several minutes," one had written. All three pieces held meaning for him. Kanata stared at the camera feed for a while. The hallway was empty. Only the scores lay there, quietly stacked. (Who is it?) No answer came. --- Deep into the night of the third day, Kanata could not sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He had taken the sleep aid. But his eyes remained wide open. In the dark room, he heard only the sound of wind along the Meguro River. In his mind, the three scores circled endlessly. Chopin, Debussy, Schumann. All pieces he had played. All chosen with deliberate intent by someone. Before he realized it, he had risen from bed. He walked through the dark living room and stood before the piano. The Steinway D-274. The concert grand piano that Kanata had arranged through the Noble Arts music agency. In the world of pianos, the Steinway D-274 is the top model, used in concert halls worldwide. When the offer came through the office in Minami-Aoyama, Kanata had chosen this instrument. For three months, he had not once opened the lid. Moonlight from the window reflected off the piano's black, lustrous surface. The 88 keys slept beneath the cover. Kanata stood before it for a time. Simply stood there. Something that could only be called an impulse moved his arm. His fingers found the keyboard cover. He lifted it slowly. The 88 keys rose into the moonlight. White and black alternated, glowing softly. Kanata pulled over the piano bench and sat. Chopin's Ballade No. 1. He thought he would begin with the opening left-hand chord. Slowly was fine. A single note was enough. He placed his left hand on the keys. At the same time, his right hand settled beside it. In that instant. His right ring finger and pinky trembled in small, rapid spasms. At first, he thought it was the usual tremor. But tonight was different. Something had been triggered by touching the keys, and the trembling intensified. Beyond his will, the two fingers shook. The ring finger struck the adjacent key. The pinky did the same. A dull sound—not music—echoed through the room. Merely an accidental noise. Kanata immediately withdrew both hands from the keys. Then he brought the keyboard cover down with both hands, slamming it shut. The sound reverberated through the living room, then vanished. Silence returned. Kanata sank to his knees on the floor. He brought his right hand before his eyes and stared at it. The tremor in his ring finger and pinky continued still. He could not play. Not playing and being unable to play were different things. For three months, he had chosen not to play. But tonight, for the first time, he understood. It was no longer a choice. It had become an inability. In the corner of the room, a white envelope was visible. From Yotsuya-Sakaue Medical Center. Inside lay a diagnostic report. The words "Average life expectancy from diagnosis: 12–18 months" were written there. Three months had already passed. Nine months remained. But Filhagen Syndrome took the fingers before it took the life. Not all nine months would allow him to play. Kanata slowly clenched his trembling right hand against his knee. He could not weep. If three months had taught him anything, it was only that weeping changed nothing. --- In the dark living room, Kanata remained motionless for a long time. At eight years old, he had won the All-Japan Junior Piano Competition as the youngest contestant. His name appeared in the newspapers. His parents wept. His teacher, Fujiwara Kiyotaka, had smiled—a rare occurrence. That man was stern. A former pianist who had performed as a guest conductor with the Vienna Philharmonic, he had always made exacting demands of Kanata. But on that night alone, he had smiled with gentleness. Fujiwara-sensei was dead now. The Vienna International Competition at seventeen. His debut recital at Suntory Hall at twenty-two. Two thousand seats sold out immediately, and the standing ovation had continued for eight minutes after the performance ended. Music magazines had written of him as "a talent that appears once in a decade." After that came fifteen to twenty concerts a year. Recordings were released, and through his contract with Noble Arts, everything had proceeded smoothly. Throughout all of it, he had never had a friend. In the world of competitions, other pianists were either rivals or points of comparison. He had never attended school normally, so he had no peers his own age. His parents had loved his talent, but whether they had loved Kanata himself—he still did not know. With the piano, he had not been alone. Without the piano—what would remain? Kanata could not fathom it. Three months from diagnosis, Kirishima Rei of Noble Arts had announced to the public that he was "suspending activities due to health concerns." No one knew the truth. The 98 missed calls on his phone were all directed at Haruno Kanata's piano. Not a single person had called out of concern for Haruno Kanata as a human being. Outside the window, the leaves along the Meguro River swayed. The June night wind flowed across the water. Kanata slowly rose to his feet and looked out the window again. A bicycle passed along the riverside promenade in the deep night. Its light illuminated the water's surface, then vanished. His gaze turned toward the front door. Three scores lay stacked in the hallway. Tomorrow morning, there might be a fourth. Someone knew him. Someone knew his repertoire. And day after day, without giving up, they left scores at his door. What it meant, Kanata did not yet understand. He did not wish to consider it. But—cradling his trembling right hand gently in his left—Kanata closed his eyes. Tomorrow mor