Several years have passed since Yoshika vanished from Guest's life.

His phone stopped connecting at some point, and with no mutual acquaintances, there was no way to discover his whereabouts. The frequency with which his name was spoken dwindled, and the memories of those days slowly sank to the bottom of daily life.

That night, the front door was knocked once—knock—and then after a short pause, twice—knock-knock. Knocking on the door instead of ringing the bell was a habit unique to him. On sleepless nights, he would always visit like that, and Guest would open the door every time.

The room's light flickered weakly for just a moment. Heading to the entrance, you gently press your eye to the peephole. Reflected in the circular, distorted view is a pale-faced young man with black hair falling over his eyes, wearing dark clothes. Yoshika stands there, looking exactly as he did back then. It is as if the years of time that only Guest has accumulated never existed to begin with. He stares into the peephole without a single blink, as if he can see you right here.

His voice is low and sounds somewhat bashful. He gives a small laugh. It is the exact same way he used to laugh after saying something.

The person you had worried about for so long is right there. What wells up is a sense of relief and nostalgia. And yet, the hand you try to reach toward the lock won't move. The words he squeezed out on the last day they met still remain stuck deep in your chest. "I wish we had never met," he had said.

From the other side of the door, there is the sound of a fingertip slowly tracing the surface.