Several days had passed since the night Rio collapsed with fever. Kanata had turned back to that night several times. Rio's shallow breathing as she lay on the sofa. Her damp bangs. And the words that spilled from her sleep—that sound, the sound from that moment—. Each time he recalled them, they shifted slightly in form. Memory is a strange thing; with each repetition, some contours grow sharper while others blur. What had grown sharper was the fact that Rio's hands had held the score firmly. On the afternoon of June 10th, Rio came to Kanata's room as if nothing had happened. The intercom at the entrance rang, and Kanata responded after a brief pause. He could not bring himself to refuse explicitly. He was surprised at himself. For three months, he had sealed off that world completely. Now, a small gap had opened in it. Rio entered the living room and set her belongings on the table. One A4-sized sketchbook. Then a tablet device. "[serious]I've brought some of my past work. Please, if you would, take a look" With that, Rio opened the sketchbook. The pages were filled densely with diagrams and text. Stage floor plans, angles of lighting, actors' movement patterns—overlapping, they formed a single spatial design. Kanata was not inclined to look, but when Rio began operating the tablet across the table, the light from the screen spread through the living room, and his eyes turned toward it almost without his noticing. The first video showed a beautifully lit stage. In the dark space, blue and white light intersected. With each movement of the actor, the shadows changed, and the stage itself seemed to breathe. The second appeared to be from a performance in a small theater. A space with only about eighty seats, packed with spectators. The applause resonated even through the screen. The moment the third video began, the atmosphere of the footage changed. It was the theater lobby. Spectators gathered. But their expressions were different. Bewilderment and irritation mingled together. A staff member stood holding a microphone. A voice was heard—"Today's performance has been cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances"—. The video switched. A digital article from an industry magazine appeared as a screenshot. The headline entered Kanata's vision. "The Worst Directorial Debut—Hayama Rio, Unexpected Cancellation Before Curtain at Major Theater." "[cold]That was my greatest failure" Rio spoke matter-of-factly. In a voice without emotion. But Kanata was watching. Rio's hands as she held the tablet. Her fingertips—ever so slightly, yet unmistakably—were trembling. It was only for a moment, and in the next instant it vanished because Rio had set the tablet on the table. Whether she had hidden it intentionally or simply placed it down, he could not tell. Kanata said nothing. He only watched Rio. There are two kinds of people who can speak of "failure" so matter-of-factly. Those who have long since digested that failure, and those who have not digested it and so cover it with words. Which Rio was, Kanata did not know. But he had seen her fingertips tremble. That alone was certain. That she carried a pain of the same kind as his own—this thought was not the result of logic. It was something more animal, a recognition felt through the skin. Something within Kanata moved, ever so slightly. Not the wall, but something inside himself—there was a sensation of thinning, by perhaps 0.1 millimeters. --- As evening came, Rio began to prepare to leave. She gathered the sketchbook and placed the tablet in her bag. Kanata watched these motions from the sofa. The sun tilted, and the light in the living room began to take on an orange hue. Kanata slowly considered why Rio had brought the video of her failure. She could have presented only praise. But she had not. By disclosing her own wound, she had attempted to stand on the same ground as Kanata—perhaps that was her intention. If so, it was quite a calculated move. Or perhaps it was not calculation at all, but simply something she had to do. Either way, it probably did not matter. Kanata had stood up. Without even noticing it himself. His feet had turned toward the piano. A Steinway D-274. The grand piano that had remained there for three months with its lid closed. Kanata pulled out the bench. He sat. He placed his hand on the keyboard cover and slowly lifted it. White and black floated in the light of dusk. Rio's movement stopped. He could tell by her presence. She did not turn around. She simply stopped. Kanata placed both hands on the keyboard. The ring finger of his right hand was already trembling faintly. Without looking at it, he began to play. Debussy. Clair de lune. D-flat major. The first measure was barely accurate. A soft, ascending melody spread through the quiet room. But in the second measure, his right hand's ring finger struck an adjacent key against his will. The sound became muddied. Kanata did not stop. His body knew that if he stopped, he would never play again. As he approached the middle section, his pinky and ring finger convulsed slightly in tandem. A musically fatal error occurred. Notes dropped out. Part of the melody vanished, and the remaining sounds hung incomplete in the air. Still, Kanata continued to play. With trembling fingers, crumbling, but to the end. The performance ended. Kanata remained motionless, looking at the keyboard. He knew how much he had fallen apart. More than five misstrokes. Missing notes. Rhythmic wavering. The Kanata of before would not have called this a performance. In the silence, he heard Rio's breathing. Then—the presence changed. Kanata turned around. Rio was standing. Her bag still on her shoulder, in the middle of preparing to leave, her hands clasped on her knees, she stood rooted to the spot. In her amber eyes, tears had gathered. They had not spilled. They simply gathered, trembling. She made no sound. She did not wipe them. She simply stood there, weeping. Kanata was shaken. A performance full of mistakes had made someone cry. Was it sympathy? Or was she weeping as music? He could not make that distinction. The fact that he could not judge shook him further. Kanata realized that he, unable to judge, was beginning to feel that either would be acceptable. --- Rio wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Then she looked at Kanata. "[gentle]One more time" It was a short phrase. Neither command nor plea, simply spoken. Kanata was about to say he could not play. But the words would not come. He had just played. The words "I cannot play" were no longer accurate. "[serious]That part around the eighth to twelfth measures from before" Rio said. She set her bag on the sofa and drew closer. "[serious]Not the technique—there, it sounded like you were giving up on something" Kanata could not deny it. When he had played that passage, the examination room from three months ago had crossed his mind. Dr. Toyama's gentle voice. From the diagnosis, the average life expectancy is twelve to eighteen months. Kanata had placed that directly onto the keyboard. Rio had heard it. She had read the emotion inside the sound with precision. "[serious]I want to know what you are thinking while you play. Not about technique" That was how the rehearsal began. --- From June 10th onward, the two of them faced each other in the living room every day. Rio never once commented on Kanata's piano technique. She did not mention the trembling in his fingers. She did not count his misstrokes. She only asked, each time he finished playing, what he had been thinking as he played. Kanata found this question unpleasant. But he could not evade it. The ability to hide his emotions within the music became impossible through this questioning. Rio was seeing inside him through the sound. Being seen frightened him. But at the same time— He wanted to be seen. This contradiction was slowly taking shape within Kanata. During breaks in rehearsal, Rio checked her phone several times. On June 13th, in the silence after he finished playing, Rio glanced at her screen. For just an instant, her expression changed. A faint tension ran between her brows. It disappeared quickly. Rio turned her gaze back to Kanata as if nothing had happened. Kanata saw it, but said nothing. He knew he was someone who disliked others intruding upon him. --- The night of June 15th. After rehearsal ended, Rio was gathering the scores. Kanata was about to close the keyboard cover when—his right hand convulsed. He had not been playing. He had simply placed his hand on the edge of the cover at that moment. Independent of his will, his ring finger and pinky trembled finely. His fingertips struck the cover, producing a dull sound. Before Kanata could stiffen his expression, Rio took two steps closer. It was as if her body had moved before thought. Rio gently placed both her hands on Kanata's right hand. Cradling it in her palms. Without saying anything. Kanata immediately pulled his hand away. It was reflexive. He had not thought. He simply withdrew. Rio did not pursue. She did not chase after him, did not apologize, simply stood there and gazed for a while at the space where his hand had been. Silence fell. Kanata placed his right hand on his knee. The warmth of Rio's fingertips lingered on the back of that hand. It was cold. Despite having been in the room for hours, her body temperature was low. Though it was early summer night, her hand had been chilled. That coldness remained as a memory in his skin. Rio said nothing. After a brief moment, Rio lifted her bag. "[cold]Again tomorrow" With only those words, she left the room. The door closed quietly. Kanata remained motionless for a while. He looked at his right hand on his knee. The trembling had subsided. But the coldness still lingered at his fingertips. His gaze turned toward the window. Beyond the curtain lay the night path along the Meguro River. Kanata stood and opened the curtain slightly. In the dark promenade, he could see Rio's retreating figure. Her deep purple hair swayed in the night. Her gait was as always—her spine straight, without hesitation. She walked until she reached the place where the streetlight's glow no longer reached, and her form dissolved into darkness. Kanata closed the curtain. He decided not to think about what he had been doing. He only looked at his right hand on his knee. The coldness was already fading. To that fading warmth, Kanata could not yet give a name. --- Near the end of rehearsal on June 17th, Rio checked her phone. This time it was different. The moment she saw the screen, Rio's hand movement stopped. For about two seconds, she was completely still. Then she turned the screen face-down and turned back to Kanata as if nothing had happened. "[cold]Let's move to the next section" She spoke in her usual voice. Kanata started to ask if something was wrong, then stopped. If he asked, Rio would say "I'm fine" and change the subject. More than that—the fact that he had wanted to ask surprised Kanata himself. For three months, he had not worried about anyone. He had not had the capacity to worry. But now, the change in Rio's expression as she looked at her phone caught in his mind. Was it a work problem? Or something related to him? The question surfaced, then sank again. After rehearsal ended and Rio had left, Kanata stared at the ceiling for a while. The coldness in his right hand was gone. But Rio's two seconds of stillness lingered longer than expected.