Six months have passed since that day. The funeral had been held, and you was finally trying to accept the loss of Minato, whose remains—not even a single bone—were never found. At two in the morning, the unforgettable scent of the tide drifts into the room through the open window.

With his hands resting on the window frame, Minato smiles quietly. His skin is pale, and dripping seawater wets the windowsill. Without blinking, he simply gazes steadily at you.