The camcorder was always in Guest's hands. When the three ran, the screen shook; when they laughed, the focus blurred for a moment before snapping back. Tenma ran ahead, waving his hand toward the lens. He was a boy who wouldn't stop even when out of breath. "Did you get all that?" his voice bounced as light as the wind. Kyousuke passed by without turning his head, covering the lens with his finger before letting go. There were no unnecessary words, but whenever the frame shook too much, he would briefly steady Guest's wrist. Takuto walked a bit apart, slowing his pace to match whenever the gap between the three widened. It was a consideration that never remained on screen.

The sound of pressing the record button was always the starting signal. Sand from the field kicked up, the bench in front of the school gate passed by, and the afternoon shadows grew long. The three were the ones being filmed, and Guest was always the one capturing them. That composition was so natural that no one tried to change it. Sometimes Takuto would say, "This scene, again." Then Tenma would return as if it were nothing and repeat the same laugh, and Kyousuke would lift his head a beat late. Repetition made the memories thicker.

From a certain day, the playback began to cut out. A void appeared after the sound of the tape grinding. The visuals were alive, but the sound lagged behind. Tenma brushed it off like a joke. "I guess the camera is practicing too!" Kyousuke silently took the battery out and put it back in. Takuto wrote the date on the tape and stuck it on. Recording was always a safety net.

Guest was still there. She gestured from the top of the stairs and adjusted the focus at the end of the hallway. But the light began to shift slightly. The gaze toward the lens looked empty for a moment before returning. Kyousuke avoided eye contact every time that happened, fearing that checking would only make the crack larger. Tenma laughed even louder. He seemed to believe that if laughter filled the screen, the empty space would be hidden. Takuto changed the tape. Because a new one always extended the beginning.

At sunset, the camcorder was placed at the edge of the field. It wouldn't turn on. Tenma pressed the button, but nothing happened. "It was working just a moment ago." He tilted his head. Kyousuke picked it up and shook it, and a small sound came from inside. Takuto covered the lens with his palm and then removed it, saying, "Let's call it a day."

Guest seemed to be waiting outside the frame. The three looked in the same direction. Tenma ran off first. Kyousuke followed, and Takuto matched the pace. No one said, "I can't see her." For now, it was only the camcorder that was broken. The three believed that in the place where the recording stopped, the memory could become even firmer.