The rain had come without warning. Not a torrential downpour, but a slow, steady drizzle that seemed to hum gently against the concrete and steel of the city.
People moved a little faster on the sidewalks, umbrellas popping open like bright, awkward flowers.
The scent of wet pavement mixed with distant wafts of roasted coffee and cheap ramen—comforting and familiar, yet fleeting as breath.
Shinichi stood beneath the awning of a nearby bookstore, shoulders slightly hunched, as if hoping his hoodie would magically transform into a waterproof coat.
He had forgotten his umbrella again. He always forgot. The sky had been clear in the morning, but Tokyo was a city of whims, and weather obeyed no calendar here.
He checked his phone. 5:43 PM. The message from Hinoka still blinked unread:
"You better not be late. Koizumi's already waiting."
He sighed.
"Why did I agree to this?" he muttered aloud.
The answer was simple: he didn't really have a choice. Not when Hinoka framed every invitation like a command, and not when Koizumi had quietly added, "It'll be like old times. You remember that cafe by the bridge, don't you?"
He did. Vividly.
Even after all these years, the memory of that dimly lit place with its vintage wooden tables and quiet jazz still clung to his thoughts like warmth after a dream.
It was where they had gone after school on Fridays in their last year of junior high—where promises were whispered between gulps of hot cocoa and silly bets were made over who could memorize the most kanji in a week.
And now, somehow, he was walking there again. Same bridge. Same river running lazily underneath. Same building, its windows fogged from inside, glowing with soft yellow light against the greying sky.
Inside, the air was heavy with roasted beans and time.
Koizumi sat by the window, a book in her lap, a half-full cup before her. Her hair was down tonight, spilling over her shoulders like ink against parchment. Her cardigan was a shade darker than usual, and her eyes lit up the moment they met his.
He waved awkwardly and slid into the seat across from her.
"You're late," she said. Not angrily—just softly, like a fact noted in passing.
"Rain caught me."
She tilted her head, a slight smile curling. "You always forget your umbrella."
"I like to live dangerously."
"I don't think mild pneumonia is dangerous," she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "just inconvenient."
Shinichi chuckled, shaking droplets from his sleeves. "Where's Hinoka?"
Koizumi nodded toward the counter. "Arguing with the barista about their milk options."
He glanced over. Sure enough, Hinoka was standing at the register, hands on her hips, passionately debating something while the poor barista blinked like a deer caught in headlights.
Shinichi leaned in conspiratorially. "Do I want to know?"
"They discontinued her usual drink," Koizumi said, hiding a smile. "Apparently oat milk is now 'too mainstream.'"
"Tragic."
By the time Hinoka arrived at the table—with a drink in hand and a huff loud enough to rattle the windowpane—Shinichi was already halfway through Koizumi's leftover biscotti.
"You two started without me?" Hinoka narrowed her eyes.
"It's biscotti, not a declaration of war," Shinichi defended.
"That's what traitors say."
Koizumi chuckled, and for a moment, everything felt suspended—like a fragile snow globe of their old selves, shaken just enough to stir the flakes but not yet disturb the balance.
...
...
They talked for over an hour—about classes, the absurdity of certain professors, the curse of overpriced textbooks, and which vending machine on campus had the worst-tasting canned coffee (unanimously, the one outside the engineering wing).
But slowly, inevitably, the conversation bent backward.
"To think we ended up here," Hinoka said, swirling her spoon in her drink. "In the same city, same university, same apartment building. You'd think this was fate."
"Or poor planning," Shinichi offered.
"Or a long-standing manipulation orchestrated since elementary school," Koizumi added dryly.
Hinoka grinned. "Exactly. Do you remember that time we tried to bury a time capsule behind the school field?"
Shinichi groaned. "You mean the time we accidentally buried your math homework instead?"
Koizumi smiled, eyes distant. "You both made me swear never to tell the teacher."
"You did tell," Hinoka accused.
Koizumi raised a brow. "You got a perfect score the next week. Consider it character development."
They laughed—genuine, light, the kind that drew glances from nearby tables. But beneath the warmth was a quiet tension, unspoken but shared. Like a story that had paused mid-chapter, waiting to be resumed.
Hinoka leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
"Do you two remember the promise we made? That day, after we tried cooking together and nearly set your mom's kitchen on fire?"
Shinichi blinked. The memory surfaced slowly—Koizumi with flour in her hair, Hinoka waving a ladle like a weapon, and him trying desperately to stop the fire alarm from summoning the fire department.
"You mean the marriage thing?" he asked, half-laughing.
Koizumi looked down. "You said… you'd marry whoever proved themselves worthy. When we were grown up."
"I was twelve," Shinichi said. "I also said I wanted to become a ninja astronaut detective."
"But you meant it," Hinoka said, voice suddenly steady. "I remember your face. You said it seriously."
He didn't reply. What could he say? That time had blurred everything? That his heart, once simple and eager, now beat to a far more complicated rhythm?
Koizumi spoke next. "We're not asking you to choose. Not now."
"But one day, you'll have to," Hinoka added, her tone matter-of-fact.
And for the first time in weeks, they weren't teasing him. They weren't play-fighting. They weren't dancing around the subject with sarcasm and charm.
They were laying it bare.
Shinichi looked between them. Koizumi, with her quiet steadiness and deep pools of memory. Hinoka, all fire and momentum and fearless eyes.
He stood suddenly, needing air. "I'll get us more napkins," he mumbled.
The chill outside bit into him like regret. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still slick with reflection. Lights blurred on the surface like oil paint.
He stared at his own reflection in the window.
Who was he now? A boy chased by two shadows of his past? A man who hadn't yet grown into the promises he made as a child?
A gust of wind brushed past.
From inside, he could see them still seated—Koizumi staring at her hands, Hinoka tapping her fingers impatiently, both waiting.
And somehow, that sight hurt more than any confession.
Because they were waiting for a boy who no longer existed.