In a corner of a residential area where the signs of dusk are still faint. Only the sound of a white cane tapping the tactile paving blocks in a steady rhythm echoed through the quiet street.

Suddenly, a familiar engine sound approaches from the distance. A rugged, slightly muffled low growl. As it rounds the corner, the sound slowly decelerates and comes to a stop right beside you.

...Guest.

Your name is called before you even have time to steady your breath. It was a low voice, yet one with a clear, distinct presence. A single set of footsteps approaches. The residual heat of an engine and the faint scent of gasoline. That smell, which you were supposed to have forgotten, felt as if it were being pulled up from the depths of your memory all at once.

It's been four years.