The cicadas were crying. The knot of my black necktie, damp with sweat, clung to my neck. I drained my glass of lukewarm barley tea and headed down the hill, as if fleeing the laughter of unfamiliar relatives. The lingering scent of incense still clung to my sleeves. The seventh anniversary. Seven years since he died. The entrance to the graveyard, bleached white. The heat of the pavement seeped through my rubber soles to the soles of my feet. The sound of cicadas pounded against my eardrums. A thin stream of water trickled from a rusty faucet. The sound of it dripping, plink, plink, against the basin. Mingled with it, I heard a familiar voice.

I looked up. Beside the faucet. There he stood, on the border between shade and sunlight.

Bright brown hair. The hem of his white T-shirt catching the breeze slightly. A glass bottle in his hand. The moment my throat recognized it as ramune, my heart leaped. Kanato grins. Just like back then. Crinkling the corners of his eyes, showing his teeth, as if it were just a continuation of yesterday.