The sound of rain had been continuous. With a finger, Haruno Kanata parted the edge of the curtain slightly. It was his only point of contact with the outside world. The early-summer rain that had persisted since morning was wetting the greenery along the Meguro River, striking the eaves of the entrance. A person without an umbrella would not ordinarily stand beneath them for long. Yet there was one. She held no umbrella. A white shirt clung to her shoulders, darkened by rain. Long hair of deep violet—turned black by the wet—hung about her. Her spine was straight, her neck tilted slightly upward, as though she were gazing at the apartment building's wall. From the management office at the entrance, Tanabe Shoichi emerged. His salt-and-pepper head came into view. He was saying something. The woman answered. Tanabe shook his head—a gesture of apology. Yet the woman did not move. Kanata drew the curtain closed again. (*The sheet music person.*) There was no basis for it. Yet he was certain. Those three scores—Chopin, Debussy, Schumann—left in that hallway carried the presence of whoever had placed them there in the way this woman stood. A quiet stubbornness that would not yield. The intercom rang five minutes later. Kanata did not move. He remained on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling. A second ring. A third. A fourth. Then silence. In its place came a sound from beyond the door. The sound of paper. A soft *pasa*—something being set upon the floor. Then the sound of pages turning, low and intermittent, continued. Someone had sat down on the cold stone of the hallway. Kanata listened to that sound with his back against the wall. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine the chill of the hallway air. June's rainy season—even through the soundproofed door, he could sense that corridor's cold. (*What does she want.*) Yet he did not rise. --- Two hours had passed. The sound of turning pages did not cease. Kanata drank water in the kitchen, took his medication, and returned to the sofa. His phone remained face-down on the table. Only the rain-filtered light from outside inhabited the room. He opened the door on an impulse he could not quite explain. Perhaps it was simply that the fact of someone sitting in that hallway for hours on end was seeping slowly into the room's air, and Kanata wished to drive it out. The woman sat in the hallway. Directly upon the cold stone floor. Knees together, a thin jacket draped across her legs as a makeshift blanket, she had spread open the sheet music. The Chopin Ballade No. 1—the first thing Kanata had found in that hallway—lay open across her lap. Her wet hair clung to her cheek, drying now and beginning to recover a gentle wave. A faint beauty mark adorned her left cheek. When she lifted her face, amber eyes met his. Sharp. Yet not cold. Eyes that held a quiet intensity, seeking to discern something. "[serious]I am Hayama Rio. I work as a stage director," She introduced herself without rising from the floor, without the slightest hint of confusion. Her voice was calm, unmarred by emotional tremor. As though entirely unaware of the absurdity of her position. "[cold]I wish for you, Haruno Kanata, to take the stage one final time. I will create your final concert—your magnum opus," Kanata said nothing. He only looked at her face. The deep violet hair. A height of perhaps 165 centimeters. His body somehow knew that her small frame had sat upon this cold hallway floor for two hours. Yet her expression bore not a single crack. The face of a perfectionist discussing her work. That touched something in Kanata. Like the striking of flint. "[angry]You seem fond of the word 'final,'" His voice came out rougher than he expected. "What do you want, putting a dying man on stage? Do you wish to consume emotion? Or to peddle sympathy?" Hayama Rio—the woman—did not change color. Not a single eyebrow moved. She only gazed at him, paused for a beat, then opened her mouth. "[cold]You don't play because you're dying," "You play because you can only play now, while you live. Death is not the reason. Now is the reason," Something in Kanata went still for an instant. The momentum of his anger scattered like an arrow that had missed its mark. For three months, the words that had bound him—death, remaining time, ending—none of these had come from this woman's direction. Unable to articulate it, Kanata closed the door. It made a sound, slightly louder than intended. --- Rio came again the next day. And the day after that. Kanata did not answer the intercom. While listening to the sounds in the hallway, he began searching for "Hayama Rio" on his smartphone. He read through the headlines that appeared, one by one. Brief reviews in theater journals. Posts on industry forums. And—an article from five years ago. First major theater production, "Beyond the Curtain Call" opening night cancelled. The article was brief. The sudden withdrawal of the lead actor, combined with directorial issues, had forced the cancellation on opening night. The industry magazine wrote of "insufficient preparation," "the director's inexperience laid bare." An anonymous comment on the industry forum remained: "A cold perfectionist incapable of commanding human hearts." Hayama Rio, then twenty-three years old. Work had ceased for the following six months, the article noted. Kanata's scrolling hand stopped. (*Why would someone with such a history fixate on me.*) No matter where he searched, the answer did not appear. No concert direction credits. No connection to classical music in any article. Only a record of small-theater productions, accumulated one by one in tiny venues after that five-year-old failure. Kanata suddenly opened the Noble Arts website. A list of affiliated artists. A classical music management firm headquartered in Minami-Aoyama—the organization to which Kanata had once belonged as a marquee artist. Led by founder Shoji Joenai, with approximately forty-five affiliated artists. The official page of that firm, which held top-three influence in the domestic classical music industry, still bore Haruno Kanata's name. Opening his profile page, a single line caught his eye: "Currently on activity hiatus." Activity hiatus. A phrase processed by Kirishima Rei as a charging period. The disease name Fillhagen syndrome appeared nowhere. The fact that Haruno Kanata had received a terminal diagnosis three months ago appeared nowhere. His body had been replaced by management language and filed away in a drawer. A dull discomfort lingered in the pit of his stomach. Kanata closed the screen and turned his gaze toward the window. In the direction of the hallway. Rio was there today as well. The faint sound of turning pages could be heard. He still did not understand why this woman came. Yet in investigating her, another snag had caught in Kanata's mind. His contract with Noble Arts. The processing of his activity hiatus. Perhaps he was still legally bound to that firm—that possibility had begun to burn quietly in a corner of his thoughts. --- June 9th, evening. There was a time each day when the early-summer rain grew strongest. The sound striking the window glass changed. Kanata, lying in the living room, awoke at that change in sound. The hallway was silent. No sound of turning pages. The low paper sound that should have continued through the afternoon had vanished. Kanata remained lying down, listening intently. Only rain. The presence in the hallway was different from usual. Not stopped, but crumbling— Kanata rose. With a swiftness that surprised even himself. Preparing an excuse in his mind—merely to confirm—he placed his hand on the doorknob. He opened it slowly, carefully. Rio lay collapsed in the hallway. Not entirely collapsed, precisely. She sat with her back against the wall, legs stretched across the floor. She clutched the sheet music to her chest. Her head tilted slightly forward. Her face was flushed. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. Kanata did not move for one second. (*Tanabe could handle this.*) But Tanabe Shoichi's management office was on the first floor and would not hear her in this rain. If he left her like this, she would be found in that state, causing unnecessary commotion. An ambulance would be called. Other residents of the building would emerge. For three months, Kanata had not even seen his neighbors' faces. If there was a disturbance— Kanata crouched down and placed his hand on Rio's shoulder. She was burning with heat. Even through her clothes, her elevated temperature was apparent. "[gentle]...Come inside," Only after the words left his mouth did Kanata realize that his voice had, for the first time in three months, spoken an invitation to another person. --- He laid Rio on the sofa. He removed her wet jacket and retrieved a blanket. He drew water in the kitchen and set it beside her. He opened the medicine cabinet and searched for antipyretic medication—not the drugs prescribed for Kanata himself, but an over-the-counter fever reducer. Something he had purchased long ago, thinking he might someday need it, sat in the back of the shelf. He completed each of these actions with deliberate care. For three months, he had not performed any action for another person. He had ignored calls, kept the door closed, held only his illness, his past, and his remaining time, remaining still within this room. That stillness was now beginning to move, stirred by the body heat of another. He realized it while opening the antipyretic packet. (*Three months. Since I've done something like this.*) Drawing water for someone. Searching for a blanket for someone. Ordinary actions that felt strangely new. They were awakening something quiet within him. It was not unpleasant. Rather—it was a sensation difficult to name, lukewarm and strange. Rio slept. A shallow sleep born of high fever. Her brows were drawn slightly together, her lips dry. The sheet music lay beside the sofa. The Chopin Ballade No. 1—the score she had carried with her every day for six days. Deep night came. The rain slowly weakened. Kanata moved away from the sofa and sat on the floor, knees raised, gazing vaguely into the room's darkness. From Rio's breathing, he could sense her fever had begun to subside. Then Rio murmured. From sleep, unguarded words spilled forth. "[whispers]...that sound...that sound from then...," Nothing more followed. Kanata did not move. These were not calculated words. Words that consciousness would never permit. The phrase *that sound* spread quietly through Kanata's chest. His music lived on in someone's memory. For three months, Kanata had not considered this fact. Beyond the words "activity hiatus" on the Noble Arts website, the simple truth that the music he had played remained within someone—he had never contemplated it. Kanata slowly lifted his face. Across the room, he could see the Steinway. The grand piano with its closed lid. Its black, polished surface quietly reflected the pale light of the breaking dawn. Gazing at it, Kanata did not move until morning came. In the depths of his chest, a light no larger than a needle's point had kindled. A warmth that resembled pain.