The morning of June twenty-sixth arrived. In Kanata's room, there lingered what seemed like the resonance of last night's Chopin. In truth, there was no sound—the soundproofed walls held their silence as always. Yet Kanata sensed something like a hallucination: the opened Steinway D-274 continuing to sound faintly through the night. Rio had woken before Kanata. She, who had slept on the sofa, checked her smartphone sometime after six in the morning. A notification had come. A digital edition of an industry magazine—"The Ambitions of Director Hayama Rio: Exploiting the 'Terminal Pianist.'" The moment Rio read the headline, her gaze fixed at a single point. Her expression did not change. Only her hand, holding the smartphone, tightened ever so slightly. Kanata emerged from the kitchen ten minutes later. Wearing glasses, his black hair still bearing the marks of sleep, he carried two cups of coffee. He stopped when he saw Rio's state. "[serious]The article came out?" Rio held out the terminal. Kanata set the coffee on the table and read the screen. The article was written with care. Precisely because of that care, the poison ran deep. Kanata's disease name—Filhagen Syndrome, a progressive neurological disorder in which peripheral and central nerves gradually degenerate—was appearing in print for the first time, spreading to the world. From diagnosis to prognosis: twelve to eighteen months remaining. The article portrayed it as "the tragedy of a pianist," positioning Rio as "a female director seeking to exploit that tragedy on stage." Kanata finished reading and returned the terminal. "[serious]...I see." There was no emotion in his voice. Yet Rio understood the weight of that "I see." "[serious]Look at social media." Rio opened another tab. A hashtag—"#Kanata Haruno's Final Stage." Thousands of posts flowed past. The words of music fans who had read the article, each written in a different voice. "It doesn't matter what the director does, I want to hear Kanata's music one more time." "I didn't know about the illness, I'll definitely go to the concert." "I looked up Filhagen Syndrome. There's someone trying to play despite it." "If I can get tickets, I'll buy them right now." Kanata remained still, holding the terminal. Rio watched his profile as he read the posts. She could see in the thin morning light that his eyes had reddened. He was not crying. Rather, it was the face of something settling quietly, deep within his chest. Kanata set the terminal face-down on the table. "[serious]I'm breaking the contract." Rio said nothing. "[serious]I'm formally terminating my contract with Noble Arts and holding the concert independently." Kanata continued. His voice was low, composed. Not "I want to." But "I will." Rio looked at him for a moment, then slowly opened her mouth. "[serious]There are risks of litigation. If it constitutes a breach of contract, legal action is highly likely. Financially, losing the agency's support means—" "[serious]I understand." "[serious]Industry connections, once severed, may never be restored. Securing a hall, publicity, staff—you'll be starting from nothing." "[serious]...What will you do?" Kanata looked at Rio. His blue eyes were directed straight at her. Rio did not hesitate for even a moment. "[cold]I've already been cast out of the industry long ago. There's nothing left for me to lose." After answering, Rio let her gaze fall to the edge of the table. She knew those words were true, and yet—there was something nameless in her chest, something about beginning alongside Kanata. The next day, the two decided to send formal notice of contract termination to Noble Arts. --- That same morning, at the Noble Arts headquarters in Minami-Aoyama. On the fourth floor of the white modern building, in the office of Masaomi Joenai. The founder, a man who had reigned over the classical music industry for nearly thirty years, had not lost his intimidating presence even at sixty-eight. With the greenery of Omotesando spreading beyond the window, Joenai, standing before his desk, said to Rei Kirishima while barely glancing at the social media trends displayed on screen: "[cold]If you can't control it, discard it." His voice was emotionless, like processing paperwork. "[cold]Regarding Haruno's contract termination, buy time with litigation. That's all." With that, Joenai returned his eyes to his documents. It was a dismissal. Kirishima bowed and stepped into the hallway. The hallway was quiet. Morning light from the entrance fell in thin lines across the white floor. Kirishima did not move. His sharp gray eyes fixed on a single point on the wall. For three months, he had concealed Kanata's illness. He had thought it was for the agency. He had thought it was to protect his own career. But now, in Joenai's words, the fact was clear: he was not a "shield" but a "sacrificial pawn." The corner of Kirishima's mouth moved, barely perceptibly. So that's how it is, he murmured inside. --- On June twenty-seventh, Kanata and Rio headed to Yoyogi-Uehara. On the Odakyu Line, they sat side by side. While looking out the window, Rio had opened her sketchbook on her lap. Kanata did not press his forehead to the glass, but simply felt the air of the train car. Seven minutes' walk from Yoyogi-Uehara Station. Studio Lilio—a rental studio on the basement level. The space Rio had continued to rent for 120,000 yen per month became, down a narrow staircase, a forty-mat room enveloped in acoustic panels. The ceiling was three and a half meters high, with a Yamaha semi-concert grand piano permanently installed. Rio unlocked the door. She turned on the lights. The silence peculiar to basements enveloped them both. "[serious]First, we need to contact the director of Fiore Hall—Okaouchi." Rio opened her sketchbook and spoke while running her pencil across it. Eight hundred fifty seats, the Akasaka hall praised as "Tokyo's most beautiful reverberation." The rental fee for three days was approximately 2.8 million yen. Given the relationship with Noble Arts, it was unclear whether Okaouchi would agree. "[serious]There's also the matter of funds. We can handle publicity through social media ourselves. But the hall fee, gratuities for staff—we'll need at least five million." Kanata listened while peering at the composition diagram. "[serious]I'll use my savings. I'll cover what I can with my current balance." "[serious]I understand. For the shortfall—" "[serious]One step at a time." Rio looked up. Kanata was looking at the sketchbook quietly, but with certain eyes. Kanata sat before the piano. He opened the lid. The Yamaha keys caught the thin fluorescent light. Not as weighty as a Steinway, but a piano with an honest sound. Chopin's Ballade No. 1. Rio's choice of this piece had not changed since early June. Kanata placed the score and set his hands on the opening chord. He began to play. The first several dozen measures moved well. The acoustic panels in the basement absorbed the sound and returned it. In the closed space, only the piano's voice lived. Rio continued writing something in her notebook, yet she noticed that the length of her gaze toward Kanata's profile had changed from before. Not the eye of a director analyzing sound—something else had mingled with that gaze. As he approached the second variation, his right hand nearly stopped for a moment. A note was missing. A small, but definite absence. Kanata's fingers fell silent on the keys. One beat. Two beats. "[serious]Again." Rio spoke. Without lifting her eyes from the notebook, but with a voice that held no hesitation. Kanata's hand moved again. Back to the same passage, once more. This time his ring finger pressed the key. The sound came. Imperfect, but connected. Rio returned her gaze to the notebook, but her pencil had stopped. --- At a break in the rehearsal, the two fell silent. Kanata remained seated at the piano bench, looking at the acoustic panel walls. The basement studio had no windows. There was no way to know if it was noon or evening in this room. The sense of time dissolved slightly when one descended here. Rio continued drawing the composition diagram in her sketchbook. Arrows for the lighting plan. Lines showing the flow of music. The design of the stage space. How to deliver Kanata's music to the world in what kind of space—that question kept Rio's pencil moving. Kanata spoke. "[serious]If my fingers stop moving, what will you do?" His voice was quiet. Not accusatory. Not angry. But Kanata himself knew the weight that question carried. The cruelty of loving someone within a limited lifespan was present in the depths of his words. Rio's pencil stopped. Silence held for several seconds. The basement air grew slightly heavier. Rio quietly closed her sketchbook. She stood and came to face Kanata. She looked at his right hand. The ring finger and little finger trembled faintly. The tremor that had begun three months ago was still there. Rio extended both hands. She gently enclosed Kanata's trembling right hand in both of hers. "[gentle]When that time comes, I will become your hands." Kanata looked at Rio's face. "[gentle]Through direction, through lighting, through space. I will find a way to deliver your music to the world." Her voice was quiet. But it did not waver. It was not a professional promise. Rio herself knew that as she spoke. These were words she could only say to this person—and Kanata, feeling the warmth of her hands, understood that too. The warmth of the enclosed hands spread gradually. The trembling ring finger, held in Rio's hands, relaxed its tension slightly. Kanata stood. With his trembling right hand barely supporting himself against Rio's forehead, he brought his lips quietly near. There were no words. The emotion between them had not yet been given a name. But Kanata understood—that this contained the cruelty of loving someone within months remaining of his life. That he was choosing, now, not to flee from it. Rio remained still, eyes closed. The thin beauty mark on her left cheek lay quietly in the fluorescent light. --- On the night of June twenty-eighth, the two returned to Nakameguro from Studio Lilio. At the entrance of Residence Verde Meguro, Shoichi Tanabe was waiting. He held a cleaning bucket, wiping the floor. Salt-and-pepper short hair, deep lines at the corners of his eyes. When Kanata and Rio entered the entrance together, Tanabe looked up. He saw the state of the two. He felt that the tension in Kanata's shoulders was slightly different from three months ago. That was enough. Tanabe said nothing. He simply narrowed his eyes gently. "[gentle]Welcome home." That was all. Kanata nodded lightly. Rio bowed slightly. The two headed toward the elevator. Fifth floor. The door to Kanata's room closed. Tanabe stood in the hallway, bucket in hand. He listened. The soundproofed walls should not have let sound through. Yet he tried to hear. And then—faintly, the sound of piano came. The Steinway D-274. The piano that had been closed for three months was sounding again tonight. Chopin's Ballade No. 1. Imperfect, with moments where the fingers nearly stopped, yet the sound continued. Incomplete, yet continuing still. Tanabe listened to that sound for a while. Standing at the end of the hallway, bucket in hand. The lines at the corners of his eyes moved softly. At last, Tanabe slowly walked toward the elevator. The piano's sound continued. Growing distant as he walked away—yet still, certainly, sounding on. --- That same night, on the second floor of the Noble Arts headquarters in Minami-Aoyama. In the late-night office, only Rei Kirishima's presence remained. Only his desk was lit. The surroundings had already emptied as everyone left for the day. Kirishima sat deep in his chair, holding his smartphone. The screen displayed the number of a lawyer from the legal department.