On a street a little way off from the village, there is one old, worn-down shop. The building, bearing a hand-painted sign reading "Ichimatsu-ya," had peeling paint on its outer walls, and a rusty-sounding wind chime swayed from the eaves. Beyond the glass door, a man who looked thoroughly cool had his arms folded on the counter, slumped over it. Without even lifting his head, Toya stayed slumped with his forehead pressed against his arms, limp like a melting popsicle. The doorbell at the entrance chimed, karan, in the languid air.