After finishing most of the curry, I followed Ciel to the guest room.

  On the shelf beneath the television were cssical records, sheet music, and DVDs of famous films—someone’s collection, though I wasn’t sure whose. Among them, one record caught my eye. On the cover, written in Japanese, were the words Ikkyū-san. A boy with a shaved head, dressed in what looked like a white robe, was illustrated on the sleeve. Curious, I slid the record onto the pyer.

  Ikkyū-san, Ikkyū-san—

  The music exploded at full volume, and I yelped, covering my ears.

  What on earth was this?

  The lyrics were in Japanese, so I couldn’t understand a word. Yet the odd rhythm and the singer’s voice—somewhere between a child’s and an adult woman’s—were strangely infectious. Just as I felt the urge to dance along, Ciel appeared, ughing.

  “Avery, of all things—that’s the one you found?”

  She held her stomach, still giggling, and reached for the record pyer, turning down the volume.

  According to her, Ikkyū-san was an old, popur Japanese anime. It followed a young monk named Ikkyū, who lived at a temple and solved problems with clever riddles.

  “This room used to be my grandfather’s,” Ciel expined. “That record too.”

  “I see.”

  “He got it from a Japanese friend.”

  “Oh—what’s the song about, exactly?”

  “…That’s a bit hard to expin.”

  Ciel gave a wry smile and settled into the chair by the wooden writing desk.

  “My grandfather was a quiet man. You could never quite tell what he was thinking. When I visited his room, he’d give me sweets, py music for me, or show me movies.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “When I felt down, I came here a lot. I still do sometimes. Sitting here, closing my eyes, listening to music… it makes me calm.”

  I couldn’t imagine this particur song being calming, but I kept that thought to myself. Before I could say anything, Ciel—who had been sitting with her eyes closed—suddenly snorted with ughter.

  “This isn’t rexing at all,” she said, ughing softly. “I can’t stop.”

  “You py an instrument, don’t you?” I asked. “Since when?”

  She turned her gentle smile toward me.

  “Since I was five. In elementary school, I pyed in the school brass band. In middle school, I attended a boarding music school about two hours away by car. After my mom returned from the facility, I wanted to be closer to her, so I transferred to a nearby school.”

  “I envy you,” I admitted. “Having a talent like that.”

  “It’s not talent,” she replied, shaking her head. “Students come from all over France. Plenty are better than me. When I first entered high school, I honestly wondered if I could survive here. The competition is intense—close friends become rivals. But I keep going because I love it.”

  I had heard that the élysées No?l Conservatory in the neighboring town was prestigious, producing many famous musicians, and that getting in was fiercely competitive. Just being accepted was an achievement.

  “There’s a school festival at the end of the month,” Ciel continued. “We’re having an orchestra concert in the auditorium. If you’d like, come listen.”

  With that, she left the room.

  It reminded me—Roman and our parents used to take me to orchestra concerts often, the four of us together. Roman studied the cello until middle school, but her true passion had always been theater. One day, she suddenly decided to quit the cello and become a pywright. Our parents objected, but she wouldn’t listen. She applied to her current high school, famous for its theater program, and was accepted into the pywriting department. Alongside acting csses, she also took screenwriting courses. The script for the third-year py this time had been hers.

  Roman had always loved reading and had a gift with words. Ever since elementary school, she consistently won writing competitions. She filled notebooks with original stories and proudly showed me the finished versions. Her tales were humorous, bursting with vivid, eccentric characters. Whenever I ughed at her stories, she’d smile brightly and promise to write me an even better one next time. I loved her deeply for that.

  She was probably worried about me now.

  I had only sent my mother a brief message that evening, saying I’d be staying at a friend’s house. My parents and sister had called multiple times, but I ignored them. I had repeated this pattern since middle school—testing Roman’s feelings, tugging at her emotions like a child pying a cruel game.

  How wonderful it would be to wish her happiness as a sister. But that wasn’t truly what I wanted. I wanted to be her lover, to stay beside her as someone more precious than life itself. Because that could never happen, I kept running away like a spoiled child throwing tantrums—despite knowing no one would be saved by it.

  “You’re my precious little sister. Please—don’t trouble me anymore.”

  That was what she had said, crying, when she hugged me after my first runaway. I had promised then never to make her cry again. And yet here I was, repeating the same mistakes—because deep down, I was that jealous and arrogant. At this rate, neither of us would ever find happiness.

  If putting distance between us would allow me to face my feelings—if it could calm even a little of the violent turmoil inside me—perhaps that was the only choice left.

  Thinking this way, I realized I really was selfish, always putting my own emotions first. Even so, in that moment, distancing myself felt like the best—and only—option.