The notification from last night still lingered in the corner of his mind. Tachibana. Nothing more, nothing less. A single brief message—"I'll be waiting in the break room"—had refused to fade even after he'd fallen asleep. It had been a long time since Kageyama Tobio had felt the sensation of being waited for. He left Corpo Minase at 8:15. A little earlier than usual. Not that he'd consciously decided it. He simply couldn't find a reason to stay in bed. The October air was dry, and the Kinshicho shopping street still had its shutters mostly down. The fishmonger's owner swept the storefront with a broom. White steam leaked from the tofu shop. Tokyo at this hour had an honest face about it, Tobio thought. Several employees were already on the open floor of Travis Tower's 12th level. Tobio set his bag at his desk and removed his jacket. He casually confirmed the nameplate three seats away that read "Tachibana Rin." The desk was empty. Around 9 o'clock, he headed toward the vending machine corner at the back of the floor. He was out of coffee. Water would do. He pressed the button, and as he turned around to the sound of the plastic bottle dropping— Someone was standing there. Her dark purple hair had a lustrous sheen, catching the light from the window with a faint shimmer. A natural semi-long cut that swayed at her shoulders. Around 165 centimeters tall, white blouse, navy tapered pants. A small star-shaped earring visible on her right ear. Their eyes met. If the word "amber" had been lying around somewhere, Tobio thought, it would describe this color. A vivid brown with a yellow undertone, sharp and clear—the kind of eyes that told you immediately: this person sees things. She held several sheets of A4 paper in her hand. "[gentle]You're Kageyama, right?" "[serious]...Yeah." "[gentle]I'm Tachibana Rin. I contacted you yesterday." Rin stood and came before him. The way she spoke was less like a greeting and more like a confirmation. Tobio nodded. He vaguely remembered not replying to her message, but he didn't apologize. He couldn't find the words to. "[gentle]Could you look at this?" She held out the A4 papers. Tobio took them. It was the video analysis report he'd created yesterday. An analysis of Irie's play footage—a young V-League setter. It was printed out, with several circles marked in red ballpoint pen. "[serious]My report?" "[gentle]Yes. It was shared within the department. ...I was surprised when I read it." Tobio looked over the report. He hadn't thought he was writing anything special. The habit of eye movement at the moment of setting, the subtle angle shift in his fingertips on sets to the right side, the possibility that it related to weight distribution on shoe insoles. He'd written such things matter-of-factly. "[gentle]No one else's report had analysis that detailed about a setter's eye movement. Connecting insole weight patterns to setting accuracy—that's a perspective that only comes from actually doing it." "[serious]It's part of the job." Rin paused there, looking at his face. A moment where she seemed to be measuring what his answer meant. "[gentle]I understand that. But I was happy to find someone here who could write with this kind of perspective, even doing the same work." Tobio didn't respond. He didn't know what to say in moments like this. Saying thank you felt wrong, but he knew staying silent would seem cold. So silence came again. Rin didn't seem uncomfortable. She just glanced once at Tokyo Tower outside the window, then came back to him. "[gentle]You still love volleyball, don't you, Kageyama?" It was a sharp statement. Not a question—a confirmation. Tobio didn't answer. It wasn't something you could answer with like or dislike. Volleyball was like breathing to him—the word "love" couldn't keep up. But now it was somewhere his hands couldn't reach, and he still hadn't settled on the distance between them. Rin watched him without answering. She didn't press further. She simply received, in silence, the fact that he couldn't leave his seat. --- At lunch, Rin came to the floor. "[gentle]I'm checking out several cafes in Minami-Aoyama for a competitor research project on sports fixtures. Would you come with me, Kageyama?" There was a work-related pretext. He couldn't find a reason to refuse. Tobio just said "[serious]Understood" and stood up. When they left Travis Tower, the Minami-Aoyama air flowed in. They walked the main street lined with brand shops for a bit, then Rin turned into a back alley. Tobio followed a step behind. White exterior wall, green awning. A sign reading "Halftime" came into view. "[gentle]Here. I heard there are many former athletes as regulars." When she pushed the door, the aroma of roasted coffee filled the space. Twenty-two seats, intimate. Two large monitors beyond the counter. Sports footage played on them. A man who seemed to be a regular sat alone at the counter, drinking coffee. They sat across from each other at a table. They ordered coffee, and then the conversation didn't continue. Rin brought up work matters. Tobio answered briefly. About competitor shoes. About insole shapes. Rin took notes in her handbook, asking questions occasionally. Tobio answered what he could. But the conversation didn't expand. When silence came, Rin didn't seem uncomfortable. She either looked out the window or at her coffee cup. That composure struck Tobio as slightly strange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat across a table from someone. Human relationships outside the court always required words, and that was difficult for him. On the court, his body did everything. The angle of a pass, the direction of his gaze, the weight distribution of his landing. All of it replaced words. But now he sat in a chair, facing someone with only words. (He was confirming again, here, that he couldn't do this well.) Tobio took a sip of coffee. It had depth, as befitted house-roasted beans. Then the cafe's monitor footage changed. High school volleyball. Spring tournament footage, judging by the "Spring High Volleyball" text visible on the gymnasium signboard. A full-set match, the crowd's voice flowing into the quiet cafe. Rin's hand stopped. The hand taking notes simply ceased moving. Her gaze was drawn to the monitor. The composed face of work-mode shifted into something else. An unconscious smile appeared at her lips. Her eyes brightened. As if she'd found something nostalgic there. Tobio watched that expression. For the first time, he saw Rin's emotions move. Not the face of a capable coworker from before, but something from deeper inside coming to the surface. "[gentle]In this match, the side with more service aces looks like it has the advantage... but actually, they're picking up the ball with setting precision." She began speaking while watching the screen, then seemed to notice something and pulled her gaze away from the monitor. Their eyes met. "[gentle]I was a manager for the volleyball club in high school." That alone wouldn't be surprising. But Rin didn't stop there. She held her coffee cup in both hands, looked at the monitor screen once, then met his eyes directly. "[serious]During my second year at Spring High. The team we played against had—you." Tobio's breath caught for a moment. "[gentle]I watched from outside the court the whole time." Five years ago. Spring High, second year. A manager from the opposing team's school. That person was now sitting across from him. "[gentle]Your sets were more beautiful than anyone else's." Her voice was quiet. The cafe's background music seemed to fade away. Tobio couldn't say anything. He searched for where words might come from, but found nothing. Since his knee injury, since retirement—no one had ever spoken directly to him about his play. Not teammates, not coaches, no one. Talking about the play of someone who'd retired seemed to be treated like a taboo. Tobio himself hadn't sought it. If he had, something might have broken. And now, in a Minami-Aoyama cafe like this, in the aroma of coffee, from a coworker with amber-colored eyes—he was being told about his sets from five years ago. Beautiful, she'd said. Something deep in his chest stirred. He couldn't name the emotion. Only that something which had remained still for so long was trembling faintly in the depths. Rin said nothing more. She didn't blame him for his silence. She simply lowered her gaze to the table and took a sip of coffee. Tobio watched her profile for a while. —But still, why would the opposing team's manager know so much detail? About the match's finer points. About setting precision. Not just her own team, but about the opposing setter as an individual. Why would she remember that five years later? That question took shape in Tobio's mind for the first time. But the answer didn't come. --- Back on the floor in the afternoon, Tobio found his eyes unconsciously following Rin's desk as he faced his materials. The sound of her voice talking with another coworker. How she spoke a little faster when laughing. The habit of flipping through her handbook. The delicate fingers holding her ballpoint pen. He realized his attention kept drifting there. (What am I doing?) He turned his eyes back to the screen. They drifted again. Back again. He repeated this several times. After 5 p.m., Director Miyamoto gathered everyone in the floor's meeting space. "For the year-end exhibition, we're implementing an internal competition format starting this year." The 28 members of the product planning department fell silent. Miyamoto continued while distributing materials. The theme was concept development for next-generation athlete-focused shoes. Two teams competing. Judging would be at an in-house presentation before the exhibition. Team assignments were read aloud. Tobio stood against the wall listening. "Team A—Takahashi, Tamura, Matsumoto, Kageyama, Tachibana." Tobio's expression didn't change. But he sensed that Rin, slightly to his right front, turned her face toward him just a little. On the way back to his seat after the meeting, Yano came alongside him. "[sarcastic]Kageyama, you're on the same team as Tachibana. Former athletes together—sounds strong." "[serious]Is that so." "[sarcastic]You're still pretty unresponsive, huh." Yano laughed and moved away. Tobio sat at his desk. A moment later, from slightly behind, he heard: "[gentle]We won't lose, of course." It seemed directed at a senior coworker sitting across from her. The way she said it was sharp. Tobio turned around a beat late. Rin was talking with her senior, but her eyes found him. "[gentle]Thank you for working with me." Brief, just that. Tobio nodded. --- He returned to Kinshicho after 7:30 p.m. At the usual convenience store, he didn't feel like buying a bento today. He bought just two rice balls and climbed the stairs of Corpo Minase. When he opened the door to room 305, silence returned. He turned on the light. Removed his shoes. Set his bag on the floor. He slid the balcony window open slightly. Night air entered in a thin stream. Skytree was visible. Tonight it had a purplish tint. He ate one rice ball while gazing absently outside. In his head, Rin's voice repeated. Your sets were more beautiful than anyone else's. A quiet voice, without hesitation. Not words meant to praise. Just something she thought, spoken aloud. That was all. And because it was just that, it lodged somewhere and wouldn't come out. Tobio gently touched his right knee with his palm. The sensation of an old scar. The memory of the day he retired flickered for a moment—but tonight, something else came before it. The Spring High gymnasium. Cheers. The sensation in his hands at the moment of setting. Someone from outside the court had followed that trajectory with their eyes—Tobio had never known that until now. (Who did I think would remember?) Not no one,