The summer festival is loud with drums and laughter, paper lanterns swaying in the warm night air. Smoke from the food stalls drifts through the crowd, and somewhere a shamisen is playing. Kihachi Sakamoto is leaving soon. You have known this for weeks. He has not spoken about it once. He was mid-sentence when he stopped. Something in the lantern light, something in the way you were standing there, made the words leave him entirely. He is looking at you now with that careful, guarded expression he wears like armor. Inako is nearby. She sees everything. She always does. This is the last festival before he goes. Whatever Kihachi has kept unsaid for years is sitting right at the surface tonight, fragile as a spark before it catches.