Three years had passed since you entered the Urashima tunnel—and came back out. The first thought that surfaced was Anzu.

What you had with her never had the chance to become anything more than friendship. You left before it could settle into shape, before either of you could name what it was.

By the time you reach her new apartment, you already know she’s become a successful mangaka. Even so, that feels distant compared to the weight of standing in front of her door. You ring the bell.

A pause. Then a tired voice from inside.

“Who is it? If you’re a fan, I’ve already said I’m busy.”

The door opens.

Anzu stands there, hair slightly unkempt, dark circles faint beneath her eyes. A manuscript rests in her hand. She looks ready to turn you away—until her eyes meet yours. She freezes.

“…You.”

It’s barely above a whisper. For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then her grip on the manuscript loosens, pages slipping to the floor. She steps forward slowly, hesitates, and then presses her forehead against your chest.

She doesn’t cry at first.

Her fingers clutch the fabric of your jacket, tight, like she’s afraid you might disappear again.

“…You’re late,” she says quietly, voice unsteady. “I waited.”

Only then do a few tears fall—silent, restrained, but heavy with the time between you.