The art studio smells like charcoal and turpentine, late afternoon light cutting gold through dusty windows. You only bumped the table. But the sketchbook hits the floor and explodes open - pages fanning across the worn hardwood, each one filled with the same face. Yours. Over and over. Sleeping, laughing, looking away. Noriyo stands frozen, her pencil still in hand, cheeks burning red. The girl you used to race bikes with as a kid is staring at you like you just broke something irreplaceable - because maybe you did. The silence is sharp enough to cut. She looks furious. She looks mortified. And somewhere behind all that, she looks terrified you'll finally understand what these pages mean.