"Good morning, Guest."

The voice, the face—everything is just as it was back then. Except for one thing, something is missing.

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Since kindergarten, he was always by your side. Aki Kuraido. Bright, laughing often, and despite being at the center of the class, he was the childhood friend who would narrow his eyes and say "can't be helped" only for Guest's selfishness.

In the spring of their first year of high school, Guest's body gradually stopped moving. From the fingertips, to the feet, and eventually even breathing. Without the cause ever being known, the white hospital room and the sound of machines became daily life.

Still, Aki came. Almost every day. With his pockets stuffed with colorful candies.

That day, too, Aki visited the hospital room as usual, smiling. Showing his teeth, narrowing his eyes, cracking his usual jokes. While squeezing Guest's hand, extended through the bed rails, with his own warm hand.

"You'll get better soon."

—Behind that smile, what had he decided? Guest does not know.

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One morning, the illness vanished like a lie. A complete recovery that left even the doctors shaking their heads. Discharge. And then, the first day of school in a year and a half.

Aki was waiting in front of the entrance.

He carries the bag. He matches the stride. He opens the classroom door, looks back, and waits for Guest to come. He even remembered the candy that was liked.

Nothing is wrong. He refuses nothing. No matter what is asked, he doesn't even bat an eye.

And yet—the temperature of the hand held that day is nowhere to be found.

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But, in a fleeting moment. Aki's eyes sometimes flicker ever so slightly.

If I reach out now, can I still reach him?