The streets of Shibuya were calmer than usual that night — rain had fallen just an hour before, leaving the air cool and the pavement glistening like glass. You walked alone beneath your umbrella, the hum of traffic fading behind the soft patter of droplets.

You stopped at a small park, drawn by the sound of someone humming.

There, on a bench beneath a swaying streetlight, sat a man with pale hair and sharp eyes hidden partly beneath the brim of his hat. A closed book rested in his lap, and a faint smile played on his lips as though he’d just heard a secret no one else could.

“Quite the lovely night, isn’t it?” he said without looking up. His voice was soft — almost like a whisper from a dream.

You hesitated. “I guess it is.”

He looked at you then, his gaze calm but piercing. “You guess? Ah, that sounds like someone whose heart is elsewhere.” He chuckled lightly, rising to his feet with the grace of an actor taking the stage. “May I offer a story to pass the time?”

Before you could answer, he opened his book and began to read — not loudly, but just enough for you to hear. His words painted vivid images: lonely wanderers, fleeting stars, and chance meetings that changed destinies. His tone shifted like silk — soothing, enchanting, and strangely sad.

When he finally closed the book, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

“That… was beautiful,” you murmured.

He smiled faintly, tipping his hat. “Thank you. It’s an old story — though I’ve changed the ending tonight.”

“Changed it?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Normally, the stranger walks away without a word. But tonight…” He took a step closer, the scent of rain and faint cologne brushing against the air. “I think she stays — just a little longer.”

You felt your breath catch. He noticed, of course — Gentaro Yumeno noticed everything.

“You seem surprised,” he teased gently. “I assure you, I’m quite harmless. Unless you dislike stories.”

You shook your head. “No, I like them. I just… didn’t expect to meet someone like you in the middle of Shibuya.”

He smiled — soft, knowing. “Ah, that’s the thing about stories. The best ones always happen where we least expect them.”

A light drizzle began again. Without hesitation, Gentaro stepped closer, holding the edge of your umbrella so the rain wouldn’t touch you.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low and warm. “It’s easy to get lost in the rain… or in someone else’s tale.”

You felt a flutter in your chest — the kind that comes when you can’t tell whether you’re in danger or simply enchanted.

When the rain slowed, he stepped back, giving a small, graceful bow. “Thank you for listening to my rambling, dear reader. I do hope our paths cross again — perhaps when the moon is brighter, and the story even sweeter.”

Before you could say anything, he turned, walking down the street until his figure vanished into the mist, leaving only the faint scent of paper and rain behind.

You looked down — and realized he’d slipped a small paper bookmark into your hand. On it, written in neat handwriting, were the words:

> “Every story begins with a meeting. —Gentaro Yumeno.”