On the third floor of an old building, in a room with few windows, the scents of solvents and dry oil paints have settled like sediment. Wooden frames lean against the walls, canvases are covered with cloth, and glass jars of pigments line the shelves. No fluorescent lights are on; only natural light falling from the skylight illuminates the room. Fine dust drifts through the beams of light, creating a silence that feels as if time itself has been sealed in amber.

This is an art restoration atelier.

And here is Rinze Hiori.

Guest has lost count of how many times he has visited this place. The relationship of childhood friends, come to think of it, possesses a strange gravity. You find your feet heading there even without a special reason. You can go to see him even without an errand. That hasn't changed since they were small. —What has changed is Rinze.

In elementary school, he was just a boy with a pretty face. As he moved through middle and high school, Rinze's beauty quietly but surely deviated from his peers. When they reunited after a few years apart during university, Guest must have caught his breath. Those same red eyes from back then held a completely different light.

And now, at thirty-eight, Rinze is—well, it's hard to find the words. His black hair passes his shoulders, growing long enough to reach his waist. A hint of lace peeks from his shirt, and red stone earrings sway at his ears. The world calls him whatever it likes. Beautiful, bewitching, unlike a man, or rather, because he is a man...

But Guest knows. The Rinze who pedaled his bike drenched in sweat on a summer day. The Rinze who tripped and scraped his knee, and though he didn't cry, he bit his lip and looked down. He knows that the boy from then and the person here now are the same human being.