The morning of June twentieth was far too quiet. Rio was still dragging the weight of the previous night. She had left Kanata's apartment just before the date changed, and along the path beside the Meguro River, there were no figures—only the sound of water trailing at her feet. That night, Kanata had called—four rings, unanswered. Rio had noticed it only after returning to the office in Yoyogi-Uehara, after opening the first cancellation notice. The moment she checked the call log, her throat tightened. Should she have called back, or—. That question still held no answer this morning. The office was a small room of about six tatami mats, with composition diagrams covering one entire wall and a work desk by the window. Just after eight in the morning, Rio sat in her chair and opened her laptop. In her inbox, she could see the count of emails that had been arriving since the previous night. Seventeen. She opened them one by one. From a video production company. From a theater producer. From a lighting staff dispatch agency. The writing styles differed, but the content was identical. Schedule adjustments had become necessary. They wanted to return the project to a blank slate. They wished to reconsider future contracts. Reconsider. That word lay before Rio's eyes as quiet, luminous text. Her smartphone rang just after she opened the eleventh message. "[serious]Ms. Katagiri" The theater owner of Theater Iris—Katagiri Yoshiaki, fifty-eight years old. A man who had protected a small theater in Shimokitazawa for thirty years. Even after Rio's collapse, he was perhaps the only one who had continued to reach out to her. His voice on the phone was strained. "[sad]Rio... I received contact last night" From Jōnouchi Masaomi, the chairman of Noble Arts himself, Katagiri said. His voice lowered, measured. If he continued his dealings with Hayama Rio, it would affect his partnership with Noble Arts. "[sad]I believe in your talent. That hasn't changed. But—I'm in a position where I must protect the organization. You understand" Rio said she understood. Her voice did not shake. She ended the call and placed her smartphone on the desk. Her fingertips remained pressed against the edge of the screen, unable to pull away. Jōnouchi had moved. Kirishima Rei had moved Jōnouchi. It was not personal harassment—it was an erasure of Rio's name from the entire industry, organization by organization. That was what had happened this morning. Rio looked out the window. The June sky over Yoyogi-Uehara was clouded white. In the afternoon, a message arrived from a work acquaintance. With a screenshot attached. It was an SNS post. The account name was a string of alphanumerics, untraceable. The text was short but carefully written—a director who had destroyed a production five years ago was now attempting to use a pianist with a terminal diagnosis on stage. No proper names were mentioned. But anyone in the industry would know who it was about. Rio read the message three times. She did not read it a fourth time. She turned her smartphone face-down and tried to open her direction notebook—but could not. The lines that should have run across the page would not come. --- That night, she went to Kanata's apartment. In the elevator, she looked at her reflection. Dark circles beneath her eyes. From about three days ago. She had no energy to hide them—or rather, she had not thought to hide them. Tonight's rehearsal alone was the only place in this day that held meaning. When Kanata opened the door, his eyes immediately fixed on a single point on Rio's face. "[serious]...Your complexion is poor" "[cold]I am merely a little fatigued" Kanata said nothing. He simply opened the door wider and let her in. In the living room, the Steinway D-274 sat in its usual place at the center of the room. The lid was open. Kanata had begun opening it himself three days ago. That change appeared to Rio as a small, yet certain light. Kanata sat before the piano. He opened the score. Chopin's Ballade No. 1—G minor. The piece they had begun working on this week. The rehearsal began. Kanata's playing was different from the start tonight. His concentration seemed to break somewhere. At the end of the second variation, his right hand's movement wavered slightly. A disturbance so small that one who was not listening would not notice—yet Rio heard it. Rio's pen ran across her direction notebook. As it ran, she continued to push out of her head everything that had happened today. Jōnouchi's name. Katagiri's apologetic voice. The SNS text. The number of cancellation emails. Each time these things returned to her mind, Rio returned her gaze to the score. Kanata glanced toward Rio occasionally as he played. A brief glance, nothing more. Each time, Rio lowered her eyes to her notebook. Midway through the rehearsal, Rio's smartphone vibrated. Kanata had just entered the third variation. Rio took the device from the table during a break in the performance. Unknown sender. No message body. Only an attached file. A PDF. The moment she opened it, Rio's eyes ran to the top of the document. Yotsuya-Sakaue Medical Center. Neurology. Attending physician: Toyama Kazuhiko. Patient name—Haruno Kanata. It was a diagnostic report for Filhagen syndrome. Numbers were listed. Motor nerve conduction velocity, electromyography findings, sensory threshold—Rio did not understand the medical meaning of those figures. But the last line was written in Japanese: Based on the current rate of progression, hand dysfunction is expected to reach a level affecting activities of daily living within three to five months. The attached text message was brief: His fingers will stop moving in a few months. Your concert will only bring him shame. Rio turned her smartphone face-down. Kanata's performance continued. The melody of the third variation spread through the room. Rio looked at Kanata's back. Then her gaze moved to the keyboard. Her eyes fixed on the tips of Kanata's right hand. Ring finger. Pinky. Middle finger. Moving across white and black keys, those fingertips creating sound even in this moment. Three to five months. When Rio had planned the concert, she had known Kanata's remaining time. Creating a final stage—she had thought that sense of mission was her motivation. Five years ago, she had been saved by Kanata's piano. It was repayment for that music. But now, confronted with numerical evidence as physical proof, the ground beneath that certainty trembled. Was this truly for Kanata's sake? Or—was it only herself, who had been fleeing from the collapse of five years ago, wanting to prove once more that she could create a "perfect production"? Or perhaps. Or—had Rio been deliberately refusing to see something about Kanata himself all along? She had no answer to that question. She slid her smartphone beneath her direction notebook and looked up again. Kanata's performance continued. His right hand's fingers moved across the keyboard. Rio's eyes did not leave those fingertips. --- It happened as the second half of the third variation approached. The sound stopped. It did not stop—it was stopped. Kanata's right hand jerked violently on the keyboard. His ring finger and pinky folded as if in spasm, his middle finger convulsed in pursuit. Three fingers moved independently, and three sounds—almost simultaneous, divorced from will—tore through the air. Then—they did not move again. Kanata pulled both hands from the keyboard. He dropped his right hand to his lap. He looked at it. Three fingers remained rigid, refusing to return. The sound in the room vanished. Rio had stood up. The chair made a sound. She took a step toward Kanata's right hand. She reached out—in that instant. A sound came—*don*. It was the sound of Kanata slamming the piano lid shut with both hands. The keyboard disappeared. The black lid pressed against the room's air. Kanata kicked his chair back and stood, turning away from the piano. He did not turn around. His shoulders trembled in small, continuous movements. "[angry]Don't look" His voice shook. "[crying]Don't watch my fingers break—I don't want you to see" Rio could not move. Kanata's profile was barely visible. From his transparent, deep blue eyes, tears fell. Silently, only tears—a professional pianist weeping before another. That fact closed Rio's throat. She took a step. Toward Kanata's back. "[cold]Leave" He spoke without turning. His voice was low. Not a command, not a plea—only what Kanata could say in this moment. Rio gathered her things. She folded her direction notebook. She put her smartphone in her pocket. Each movement felt unnaturally vivid. She walked toward the door. She stepped into the hallway. The door closed. The sound echoed softly behind her. Rio stood still. She placed her hand against the door. It was cold. She did not knock. She remained there for several seconds. Then she walked toward the elevator and looked back once. At the end of the hallway, Kanata's apartment door stood closed. --- After Rio left, there was no music in the room. Kanata collapsed to the floor. His back against the closed Steinway, he folded his knees and sank down. He held his trembling right hand before his eyes. Ring finger, pinky, middle finger—three fingers that had not yet fully returned. He stared at the pads of his fingers. These were the fingers that had silenced two thousand spectators at Suntory Hall four years ago. The fingers that had struck the keys of the Vienna International Competition at seventeen. Now they lay rigid on the keyboard, unable to move. Rio had seen. She had seen him weep. He had shouted, driven her away—she had seen all of it. Shame came before fear. It pushed Kanata deeper down. He wrapped his trembling right hand in both hands. He pressed his forehead to his knees. No sound came from his weeping. For three months, he had forgotten how to cry aloud. Tears came. They fell on his knees. That was all. Outside the window, the sound of early summer rain beginning to fall. Quiet, thin rain. In the room's silence, only that sound lived. --- On the morning of June twenty-first, Rio visited Residence Verde Meguro. She pressed the intercom. No response. She pressed again. Silence. She knocked on the door. Silence. The door to the first-floor management office opened, and the building manager, Tanabe Shoichi, appeared in the hallway. A man with graying hair and a gentle face. "[gentle]Ms. Hayama... are you all right" "[cold]I am fine. Thank you" Rio bowed and left. She returned to the office in Yoyogi-Uehara just after ten in the morning. The composition diagram on the wall caught her eye the moment she entered. The seating chart for Fiore Hall. Lighting plans. Arrows showing the flow of the music and handwritten notes. Everything she had created for Kanata remained plastered across the wall. Her smartphone rang. A message from an industry magazine reporter. It came as text. The content was brief, polite, and cold—Ms. Hayama Rio is planning a concert using a pianist with a terminal diagnosis. We plan to publish this article tomorrow. If you have any comments, please provide them by today. The information source is an anonymous industry contact. Rio read the message, then placed the device on her desk. There was no work. Kanata's door was closed. The slander on SNS was spreading. When the article came out, her credibility in the industry would disappear. Rio looked at the composition diagram on the wall. In that moment, something took shape in the depths of her mind. The night five years ago. Her first major theater production—beyond the curtain call. The lobby on opening night. The staff's microphone catching an announcement. The faces of the audience. The next day's industry magazine. The string of letters in the headline. The silence of that room for half a year, when no one contacted her. All of it came back at once. Her body began to tremble.