The fingers of his right hand were still slightly stiff. Three days had passed since the previous night. To be precise, it had been more than seventy-two hours since Rio had left the room, and Kanata had scarcely moved. He sat before the Steinway D-274 with its lid closed, watching only his own outline reflected in the black lacquered surface. No trash had accumulated. When the delivery chime rang, he could not bring himself to stand. The morning of June twenty-second was overcast. The light filtering through the window was whiter, thinner than usual. The sound of the Meguro River could not be heard. There was no sound in the room—only Kanata's breathing, continuing quietly. A key turned in the lock. From the direction of the entrance. Kanata lifted his face. The sound of the spare key was dry, metallic, a small fracture in the room's silence. It was Tanabe Shoichi. Short hair streaked with white, a gentle face. The deep creases at the corners of his eyes held the shape of his usual smile, but this morning he was not smiling. He simply looked around the room in silence. He saw Kanata sitting in the living room. Something passed across Tanabe's face for a moment. But he did not speak. "[serious]No trash has been put out for three days, you see" He said only that, and moved toward the kitchen. Kanata could not find words to stop him. He had neither the will to tell him to leave nor any reason to insist that this was his own room. He simply watched Tanabe's retreating back. The refrigerator opened. The sound of Tanabe searching inside for a time. Then the small sound of a pot being placed on the flame. The scent of dashi began to spread slowly through the room. For three months, the smell of food prepared by another's hands had never filled this space. At last Tanabe set two wooden bowls on the table. He sat down quietly across from Kanata. Kanata looked at the bowl. Miso soup. It held tofu and wakame. Steam rose in thin threads, dissolving quickly into the air. "[gentle]I too once had a time when I thought of leaving my company" Tanabe spoke. Without looking at Kanata, watching the steam above the bowl instead. "[gentle]It was around when I was thirty-eight. My department changed, and the work no longer suited me. Every morning I would stand in front of the entrance for ten minutes. I could not find the will to go. Yet I could not simply not go. Those mornings continued for about half a year" Kanata said nothing. He held the bowl, watching the steam. "[gentle]Then, ten years later, my wife passed away. A stomach illness. After that, only this work as a building manager kept me tethered. It may sound exaggerated, but it was truly only that" Tanabe took a sip of miso soup. "[gentle]Haruno. Your piano—I could hear it through the wall. Until last year—every night" Kanata's hand stopped. Through the wall. Every night. Those words struck his body before understanding could reach it. The room was supposed to be soundproofed. It should not have leaked. Imperfect notes, incomplete music, had reached someone who had not asked for them—for three years, just beyond the wall. Tanabe's eyes had fallen to the rim of the bowl. He was not looking at Kanata. Not looking was his consideration. Kanata's eyes reddened. No tears came. They froze in the depths before they could fall. Only his throat tightened, and both hands holding the bowl grew tense. The two sat facing each other in silence for a time. The steam from the miso soup grew thin, then vanished. --- As Tanabe was leaving, he said: "[gentle]With that sound gone—this apartment has become quite quiet, hasn't it" That was all. The door closed softly. Kanata remained alone in the living room. On the table, the bowl Tanabe had used remained. It had been washed. Before leaving, Tanabe had washed both bowls and set them to dry. That small fact lingered in Kanata in a way he could not explain. Quite quiet, hasn't it. Tanabe's words slowly changed shape within the room. They were not the language of the industry. Not the language of articles, nor of Kirishima Rei. Only the quiet words of one person who had listened to Kanata's sound for three years beyond the wall. Kanata stood before the Steinway. His face was reflected in the black lacquered surface of the lid. The skin beneath his eyes had fallen. His cheeks were thin. For three days, he had eaten almost nothing. And yet—he stood before the lid. He was there. He placed his fingers on the lid. It was cold. He did not open it yet. But something was different from three days ago. Three days ago, he could not imagine opening it. Now he was imagining it. That difference alone was not small to Kanata. --- Afternoon came. The clouds thinned slightly, and pale light filtered through the window. Kanata sat in the chair with his eyes closed. His smartphone, displaying Rio's number, lay in his hand, but he had not pressed the call button. The sound of the entrance's automatic lock disengaging seemed to reach him from far away. It might have been his imagination. But the intercom did not ring. There was no knock. Instead—a voice came. From beyond the door, a low, quiet voice. "[serious]I'm going to tell you about something from five years ago" It was Rio's voice. Kanata stood up. "[serious]Beyond the curtain call—the night the opening was cancelled. I bowed to the audience in the lobby, apologized to the staff, and went home alone. No one contacted me. One week, two weeks. Then a month. For half a year, the phone did not ring. I thought I had broken something. But I did not know what I had broken" Kanata stood before the door. Rio was on the other side. Without pressing the intercom, without knocking, she spoke with her forehead against the door—he could tell by the lowness and closeness of her voice. "[serious]Around that time, I was walking down a street in Akasaka when I heard music. A concert hall door was slightly open, and someone was playing. I stopped and listened. I did not know whose performance it was. But as I listened, I began to cry. I cried without understanding why I was crying. Something that had been frozen for half a year melted from that sound alone. Later I found out the name—Haruno Kanata" Her voice trembled slightly. But it did not break. Kanata leaned his back against a pillar. He let both hands fall to his sides. Behind his glasses, his eyes began to grow wet. "[serious]So I thought the concert was repayment. For your music. Not for you yourself, but for your music—that's what I told myself. But" There was a pause. The presence beyond the door shifted slightly. "[sad]It's not like that anymore. It's not that I love your music. I love you" Something deep in Kanata's chest crumbled quietly. "[sad]Whether you play or don't play, I want to be beside you. But—I don't want you to stop playing. Because when you're playing, that's when you're most yourself" The last words were slightly hoarse. The hallway was silent. Rio's voice had ended, leaving only silence. Kanata remained against the pillar, unmoving. Something that had been locked away for three months in the fear that Rei's words had created was now illuminated from another place by Rio's voice. It was not fear of dying—it was fear of leaving nothing behind while alive. He had been fleeing from that all along. Running from it endlessly. That core, now, took shape in the voice beyond the door. A tear fell. No sound came. It traced his cheek, fell from the point of his jaw to the floor. Kanata did not wipe his eyes. Then—he reached his hand toward the doorknob. --- The lock disengaged. The door opened from inside. Rio was there. Her long deep purple hair was slightly disheveled. Her amber eyes were red, and beneath the thin beauty mark on her left cheek, her skin was wet. Kanata's eyes were also red. The two stood facing each other without speaking for a time. The fluorescent light in the hallway cast pale white illumination. Rio's expression was unreadable to Kanata. He thought his own expression would be equally unreadable to her. Kanata looked away first. Then he slowly extended his right hand toward Rio. It was not to grasp. To touch gently—his fingertips met the back of her hand. Rio did not pull away. Kanata took Rio's hand quietly. With his trembling right hand, not enfolding but simply holding. Then, without turning back, he walked toward the living room. Rio followed. The door remained open. He stood before the Steinway D-274. Kanata paused for a beat. The early summer overcast sky fell through the window. The room was quiet. In the black lacquered surface of the lid, the outlines of two figures were reflected side by side. He opened the lid. Eighty-eight white and black keys received the thin afternoon light. Rio stood slightly behind Kanata, unmoving. Kanata pulled out the bench and sat. He removed his glasses and placed them on the edge of the table. Then he placed both hands on the keyboard. The ring finger of his right hand trembled faintly. He knew a perfect performance was impossible. He did not know how much his fingers, still after three days, would respond. Yet Kanata placed his fingers in the position of the first chord. Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor. The same piece whose score Rio had first left before the door of this room. He pressed down. The heavy chord in G minor spread through the room. Rio closed her eyes. He moved into the continuation. His right hand ran. The melody began—in the third measure, his ring finger slipped for just a moment. A mistouched note. The sound was incomplete. Kanata did not stop. His finger began to cramp midway. Yet he continued to press. The melody, though broken, continued. Tears traced Rio's cheeks. It was the same as the sound she had heard five years ago through the gap in the door of the Akasaka hall. Even trembling, even imperfect—it was the same sound. The mere fact that it was coming from this person's fingers reached Rio's entire being. In the hallway, footsteps sounded. When Tanabe Shoichi passed through the fifth-floor corridor, he noticed that the door to Kanata's room was left open. From that gap, piano music flowed out. Imperfect, yet unmistakably music. Tanabe stopped where he stood. One second, two seconds—his eyes narrowed. The deep creases at the corners of his eyes moved gently. Then slowly, he turned back toward the elevator. The music continued.