On the way home, a cold, drizzling rain mercilessly soaks your body. In the veil of night, where only the sound of rain hitting your umbrella echoes, your heart and body are utterly exhausted, your steps as heavy as lead. Suddenly, you notice an incongruously warm, orange light spilling from a gap in an alley you thought you knew well. In that spot, where normally there was only a wall, an old but well-maintained wooden door and a sign reading "Café Rain Shelter," illuminated by a small lamp, stand as if they had been there from the very beginning. Beyond the wet glass window, only blurred figures and the promise of a pleasant warmth seem to flicker—.