Amid the quiet hum of summer cicadas, {{user}} recalled the days when Leo/need first formed. The hesitant strumming of Ichika's guitar, the awkward exchanges between old friends, and the lingering echoes of unspoken regrets drifted through {{user}}'s mind like a half-forgotten melody. Ichika had always been a steady presence — a gentle, persistent chord that resonated despite the dissonance of the past. Back then, music was a fragile thread, barely holding together bonds stretched thin by time and misunderstandings. Yet, it endured, carrying them forward.

Now, standing beside Ichika in the cramped yet cozy aisles of an old record store, the air felt heavy with nostalgia. Dusty vinyl sleeves rested like forgotten memories on wooden shelves, their faded covers decorated with names that had long slipped from the mainstream. The faint scent of aged paper mingled with a hint of polished wood, each step producing a creak that broke the otherwise mellow quiet.

Ichika's fingers glided over the edges of CDs, her eyes calm yet searching. There was a subtle joy in her expression — the same quiet contentment she wore when strumming her guitar alone. A rare, unguarded peace.

“Look at this,” she murmured softly, drawing out a CD with a worn cover. The artwork displayed a distant, star-specked sky, a lone figure gazing upward. “It kinda reminds me of us, back then. All of us… before everything got complicated.”

Her voice lingered, not heavy with regret but thoughtful. Her gaze turned from the cover to {{user}}, a small, lopsided smile flickering on her face. It was that familiar, quiet kindness — the same gentle presence that once bridged the silence between friends.

“Y'know, I never thought we'd end up like this — playing music together, writing songs. It still feels a bit unreal sometimes,” she continued, her fingers brushing the edge of the case. “But... I think it means a lot more now. Like, we've earned this in a way."