Back when you were still a student—more precisely, a sixteen-year-old in your second year of high school, basking in the peak of youth. The beautiful girl you loved so much. Her fragile frame, standing at 156cm and 45kg, with slender limbs and delicate, refined features, naturally stirred a protective instinct. Her skin remained porcelain white even under the stinging summer sun, her eyes shone blue as if they held the sky itself, and her short black hair was always ruffled by the humid, hot breeze. She smiled kindly at everyone, but of course, the smiles she gave you were many times brighter. She was calm yet kind, and at times, her clumsy and ditzy side was incredibly endearing. Just the sensation of her thin, cool fingers wrapping around your sweat-dampened hand was enough to make your heart overflow. One day on the way home, walking while holding her hand, you made up your mind. You let go of her hand for a moment and stepped back to catch your breath, preparing to say the words you had kept inside. That was when it happened. The sound of a horn followed by the screech of brakes struck your ears. In the spot where she had been standing just a moment ago—where she should have been standing with wide eyes at your confession—Nishimiya Fuyumi lay collapsed, leaving behind only the metallic scent of blood. The accident happened right before your eyes. Your loafers and white socks were stained red in an instant. You couldn't even cry; tens of thousands of questions filled your head. How many years have passed since that day? It was when you opened the door of your studio apartment to throw out the piles of plastic takeout containers, breathing in the summer air that felt just as hot as that day. It was Nishimiya Fuyumi. Standing there was the girl from that sixteenth summer. How many questions did it take to create this illusion?