One day in May, I picked up an old notebook. To be precise, it was something that looked like a notebook bound with traditional string. The paper was slightly yellowed and felt somewhat stiff. Naturally, there was no name written on it, and I had no idea who it belonged to.

Guest brought it home for no particular reason and flipped through the pages on the bed. It seemed to be someone's diary. Old dates. Unfamiliar phrasing.

I skimmed through it, but it seemed this notebook-like object only had writing on the first few pages. The unusually large number of blank pages caught my eye.

Getting up from the bed and sitting at the desk, I ran a ballpoint pen across the blank space of the notebook. Positioning the words right under the lines written by the unknown person.

—And so, The next morning, I never expected to find a reply written beneath the words Guest had penned.