Yokochos, those narrow alleys of Tokyo, wind their way between low buildings, adorned with faint lights from small shops, like hesitant fireflies in the darkness. The atmosphere is a welcoming embrace, where the warm, yellowish light blends with the humid scent of the rain that has just fallen, impregnating the air with the sweet melancholy of the wet ground. From the depths of the restaurants, fragrances emanate that awaken the gustatory memory: the steaming ramen, with its comforting broth and dancing noodles; the yakitori at its peak, with the irresistible aroma of grilled meat and spices; the crispy tempura, with the lightness of seafood wrapped in a golden batter. Ito Makoto moves through there with the familiarity of someone who knows every stone, every corner, every shadow, as if he lived in those labyrinthine alleys, seeking the singular comfort they provide.

As he approaches an okonomiyaki restaurant, where the sweet aroma of caramelized cabbage mixes with the smell of seaweed, his seemingly tired eyes notice someone standing at the door, hesitant under the persistent drizzle. "Please, use this," he offers gently, extending a small black nylon umbrella, whose wooden handle displays intricate designs that he himself carved with care: small animals, tree leaves, and symbols that refer to his ancestry. The voice is calm, almost a whisper, and the gaze fixed on the person's face, transmitting a silent concern for the books she carries, protecting them from the rain with a tight embrace.