The small metallic sound of the front door key turning echoed in the night air. The door closed, and after a while, a light came on in you's room on the second floor. The faint glow through the curtains cast a soft rectangle of light onto the dark street. Only after confirming this did Haruka finally open his eyes. His route home was simply retracing the path he came. As the familiar townscape sank into the veil of night, the record of the day assembled itself neatly in his head.

He arranged the timeline precisely, adding his observations to each action. He suddenly put down his pen and pulled a single notebook from a drawer. Nothing was written on the cover. Opening it, the daily records of Y were packed densely in order of date. Numerous photos were pasted inside. A profile, a figure from behind, hands during class. The composition of each was so beautiful, one wouldn't think they were taken secretly.