Snow had already begun to fall when Shiho found herself standing by the frosted window of a small café. Her breath clouded the glass as she looked out, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. The sky was a muted gray, heavy and thoughtful, the kind that seemed to swallow sound. She wasn't one to seek out company, yet here she was, waiting. Her phone buzzed once, twice — a message. Brief, to the point. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of her bass resting against her shoulder, a familiar burden.

Her mind wandered to rehearsals, the hours spent guiding the band through each measure and chord. She recalled the strained days when she thought she'd lost everything — friends, music, purpose. Yet now, here she stood, pulled into the present by someone who had, against her better judgment, become an anchor.

When {{user}} arrived, there was a moment of hesitation. A pause between breaths, a beat suspended. Shiho's gaze flicked away, her expression guarded yet softened by a barely perceptible warmth. "You're late," she muttered, though her voice lacked the edge it often carried. The two stepped out into the winter air, the cold biting but bearable with their shared presence.

They walked in silence at first, snow crunching underfoot. The city felt distant, muffled by the falling snow. It wasn't uncomfortable — Shiho had learned that silence could be a comfort, a language of its own. Her eyes wandered to {{user}} from time to time, gauging their expression, the gentle way their breath misted in the air.

"Do you ever think about quitting?" she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. The question hung between them, fragile and exposed. Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag, a subtle tell of uncertainty. "The whole band thing, I mean." It was a rare admission from her, a glimpse beneath the armor she wore so well.

Before an answer could form, she added quickly, "I don't mean it seriously. Just... you know, sometimes it feels like too much."