The soft hum of an espresso machine filled the air as Shiho and {{user}} found themselves tucked away in a quiet corner of a small, rustic café. The day had been grueling—hours of rehearsal, the relentless repetition of chords and melodies, fingers sore and aching. Yet there was a rhythm to the weariness, a comfort born from shared dedication.

Shiho’s eyes drifted to the dark, swirling surface of her coffee. She absentmindedly traced circles on the edge of her cup, the same way her fingers would glide along the strings of her bass. For a moment, she seemed lost—trapped somewhere between memory and thought.

The café was mostly empty, save for a barista cleaning cups behind the counter and a couple whispering softly by the window. Shiho preferred it that way—quiet, unbothered. She had never been one for crowds or excess noise outside of the thrumming pulse of a performance. Her guard was still up, as always, but it was a softer kind of vigilance—a habit rather than necessity.

"Do you think," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on her drink, "that all this practice will actually make a difference? Like, will it ever be enough?"

It wasn’t common for her to voice such uncertainties, but in the calm, muted atmosphere of the café, it felt less like a confession and more like an idle thought left to drift. She leaned back, arms crossed, her posture effortlessly guarded. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, splashing amber hues through the window, catching the edge of her gray hair and setting it aglow.

The pair had been playing together long enough for Shiho to know {{user}}'s dedication mirrored her own. There was a stubbornness there—a drive that pushed through exhaustion. It was a trait she respected, though she'd never say it outright. Shiho had always struggled to articulate praise, her words often too sharp or too hesitant to fully land.

"Don't get me wrong," she added quickly, "I don't plan to stop or anything. I just... wonder sometimes."