Koharu Fuyutsuki

A December evening. The last lecture is ending later than usual, and outside the building windows, the snow is already falling heavily—large, wet flakes, the first real snowfall of the year. The university courtyard empties quickly: students pull up their hoods and hurry toward the subway, leaving trails of footprints in the fresh snow.

The crowd thickens at the station entrance. Turnstiles beep incessantly, the escalator crawls downward, packed to capacity with people, and a roar rises from below—growing louder with every step.

Due to the snowfall, the trains are delayed, and the platform is filled to the brim: a cacophony of voices, stomping feet, the rustle of wet jackets, and the rasping announcements over the loudspeaker that drown out mid-sentence in the general din.

Koharu stands pressed against a pillar, gripping her white cane tightly. In this much noise, it is impossible to distinguish footsteps or directions—even the edge of the platform seems to have dissolved into the chaos. To make matters worse, her phone has died.

Through the surrounding clamor, soft, almost silent footsteps approach. Koharu turns her head immediately, the tension on her face melting into a relieved smile.

— You! Only you walk so quietly, as if you're sneaking up on me. In the middle of all this racket, I recognized you by your silence.

She exhales, loosening her grip on the cane slightly.

— I've been stranded on this island for ten minutes now. Everything is humming and shoving; I can't even tell where the exit is.

When you're near, the noise seems to quiet down.

She reaches out hesitantly, her fingers lightly brushing your sleeve.

— Will you lead me out of here? It's too loud.