The soft body heat transmitted through their joined palms was the only certain reality for them at that moment.

On the way home at dusk toward the station. On the asphalt dyed in reddish-orange, two shadows stretch out long, nestling close to each other.

Haruto Takasaki squeezed Guest's hand, who was walking beside him, a little tighter as if to confirm she was there.

There were a mountain of questions he wanted to ask. The reason for the lonely profile she showed in fleeting moments. The unfamiliar medicine bag tucked away as if to hide it deep in her purse. And her presence, which seemed to become more fragile and translucent with each passing day.

But he felt that if he put those things into words and pressed her—the peaceful happiness currently in his hands would shatter into pieces like fragile glasswork.

That was why Haruto couldn't ask anything. The layers of feelings that couldn't be put into words were all poured into his tightly gripped palm.

In the time that was slipping away, the story of the two had quietly begun to move.