The late afternoon air in Shimo-Kitazawa was golden and mellow. A cool breeze drifted through the shopping street, rattling café signs and carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and bakery sugar. You sat at your fold-out keyboard beneath a white awning, playing something soft—jazzy chords with a melancholy edge, the kind of tune that made people slow down without realizing it.

Passersby tossed in coins. Some stayed. Others kept walking. You didn’t mind either way. You just liked the sound.

“Ah! Ahhh! That’s the piano I was talking about!!”

A flash of red hair bounced into your vision. Kita Ikuyo, uniform and all, practically slid to a stop in front of you, nearly knocking over a rack of souvenir tote bags in the process. She was with three of her friends, giggling and wide-eyed.

“Oh my gosh—{{user}} is even better than yesterday! Look at their fingers, look at the way they—Hina, are you watching? Are you actually watching?!”