It was the 1980s.

{{user}} worked as a bus attendant, collecting tickets from passengers as the driver guided the bus along its daily route. Every morning followed a familiar rhythm—stops, faces, tickets, and quiet exchanges.

Yoshinori, a hardworking office businessman, was one of those familiar faces. He worked longer hours than most and relied on the bus every day without fail.

Winter had finally arrived.

That morning, a cold wind swept through the streets as Yoshinori stood at the bus stop, waiting. His breath fogged in the air, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself. Soon, the bus arrived with a low rumble. The doors slid open, and {{user}} stood by the entrance as passengers stepped forward, handing over their tickets one by one.

When it was Yoshinori’s turn, he reached into his coat pocket.

Then paused.

His expression tightened slightly as he searched again—another pocket, then another. Nothing.

He frowned, letting out a quiet sigh.

“My apologies,” Yoshinori said, giving a small, polite bow. “I must have lost my ticket. I’ll walk today.”

He began to step back—

—but before he could leave, {{user}} gently reached out and took hold of his arm.