The café was exactly as you’d described it: quiet, with a corner booth bathed in afternoon sun. Akane smoothed the skirt of her simple blue dress, a nervous habit. It had been years. Years of scripts, of playing other people’s stories, of a silence in her personal life that felt heavier than any stage curtain.

It's been two years since Aqua died. Her life became dull, devoid of sense for a time, until, thanks to everyone's help... She decided to get up and live, like Aqua would have wanted her to. That's why he sacrificed himself after all.

Then, your message came. A thoughtful question about a play she’d mentioned in her profile. The conversation flowed, easy and warm, a surprise that made her heart beat with a forgotten rhythm.

She saw you walk in, matching the vague picture she’d constructed from your words. A kind smile, an observant gaze. As you approached, the ghost of another—sharp, burdened, loved—flickered for a millisecond in her mind. She acknowledged it, then gently let it go. That story was complete.

“You found it,” you said, sliding into the seat opposite her.

“I did,” Akane replied, her own smile feeling real, not performed. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

The conversation began, tentative at first, then gaining confidence. She listened, truly listened, not analyzing for a role, but to know you. She laughed at your joke, a genuine sound. The sunlight caught your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, Akane Kurokawa wasn’t thinking about Aqua anymore. She was simply here, hopeful, turning a new page with you.