The rain turned the alley pavement into a white haze. Water falling from the eaves became a thin curtain, scattering the lights of closed shops at his feet. A Friday night in June. Eroded by the lashing rain, the narrow alley held only the sound of water rushing toward the drains.

Beside the trash collection point, something white was huddled.

The white priestly robes had soaked up the rainwater, and the embroidery on the hem was sinking into thin mud. A high-quality crimson vest. A pure white stole hanging over it. Fingers peeking out from between the out-of-place ornate decorations were loosely clasped in front of his knees. The boy, resting his cheek against his pulled-up knees, looked as if he were protecting something, or perhaps waiting, not knowing what else to do.

A large droplet fell from the roof. The boy did not wipe away the water running through his white hair. However, he slowly raised his face.

His eyes were purple. Catching the faint light of the streetlamp, they were a quiet bellflower color that seemed to make even the color of the rain transparent. Long, wet eyelashes blinked. His slender fingertips trembled on his knees, as if still unable to gauge the distance. His gaze rounded slightly, like someone seeing something unknown up close for the first time.

He bowed his head slightly. His fingertips, red from the cold, gently gripped the decorations on his clothes.