Sumire's gaze lingered on Sora for a beat too long to be casual.
"You're ten minutes late," she said.
Her voice was low, controlled, almost flat. Still, Sora caught a faint edge of reproach in it. It wasn't harshness-it was the kind of quiet complaint that comes from someone who actually bothered to be on time.
He approached carefully, as if even the sound of his footsteps might make things worse.
"Sorry. That's on me," he said, pressing his palms together in front of his face in an almost automatic apology, the weight of genuine guilt showing in his eyes. "I was talking with Ren about some work details and… I got too absorbed. I completely forgot the time we agreed on."
They'd set it for two o'clock.
When she heard it was because of work, Sumire's expression loosened-just a little-as if the tension holding her face in place had lost some of its grip.
"Have you been standing here for ten minutes?" Sora asked cautiously, still uneasy.
"I arrived ten minutes early," she replied, this time with no emotion at all.
That meant she'd been out there for twenty minutes in that cold.
And today it was five degrees below zero.
Sora felt the pressure rise again, as if the air inside his chest had thickened. Across two lifetimes, he'd never dealt with a girl so strict about punctuality that she showed up early-much less one who would wait in falling snow with a stack of documents hugged against her, letting flakes collect in her hair.
He pulled out the car key in a hurry, unlocked the doors, and opened one for her.
"Get in. Let's warm you up," he said, and only then slid into the driver's seat himself.
Once the engine turned over and the heater began pushing warm air, the redness the cold had painted onto Sumire's cheeks slowly started to fade. Even so, Sora couldn't stop himself.
"I'm sorry… really."
Sumire exhaled, and her answer came out light, almost neutral.
"If you were late because of work, you don't need to apologize. If I were you, I would've left myself waiting too and focused on what mattered."
The way she said it only made Sora feel more awkward. It didn't sound like empty kindness. It sounded like a cold, adult kind of understanding-one that didn't waste emotion where it wasn't needed… but didn't erase the fact, either.
Sora tightened his hands on the steering wheel, looked toward the road, and made a quick decision.
"Then dinner's on me today," he said, already starting the car.
"You don't have to. It's a small thing. You really don't-"
"I do," Sora cut in calmly, without hesitation. "After we go over the background details with the art studio, there'll be a lot to hash out. If we eat together, we can keep talking work without wasting time. It's better than running back and forth."
Sumire fell silent for a moment, eyes faintly thoughtful. In the end, she didn't argue. She just nodded once, the way someone does when they understand the logic and don't feel the need to spend pride on it.
…
Half an hour later, they pulled up in the outskirts of Tokushima, in that border zone where residential streets fade into industrial lots. The building in front of them had no flashy façade, no glowing sign, no "respectable company" aura.
But this was the studio that had agreed to discuss taking on the winter outsourcing work for the backgrounds and settings of Voices of a Distant Star.
The person in charge was Ryū-a man a little over thirty, with an easy smile, a direct posture, and a way of speaking that was concise and free of unnecessary ornament.
He greeted them at the door with cordial ease, gripping Sora's hand firmly.
"So you're Dream Animation's new president, Kamakawa-san." His eyes measured Sora for a second, then the polite smile returned. "Far too young for a position like that… in a good way. I worked with your father several times over the past five years. It's a shame he-"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
After a few formal exchanges, Ryū led them inside. The space was simple, but alive-artists locked onto their screens, references scattered across desks, tables covered in sketches and folders. It wasn't pretty. It was real work.
He guided them into a small meeting room.
"Alright. Let's save time," he said, taking a seat. "Explain to me what kind of piece you're making. What style it is. How much artistic weight you expect."
Sora didn't stall. He began describing Voices of a Distant Star clearly, trying to be as direct as possible-and that was exactly why Sumire was there. There were things Sora couldn't express in the industry's technical language, production nuances that only someone with a solid grasp of direction and art could translate precisely.
And for Sora, this wasn't a "minor detail."
He hadn't remembered Voices of a Distant Star only for its melancholy and emotional impact. What made it cling to his memory years later was the visual power of the images that carried those feelings.
On Earth, the settings were solid-correct, within the expected standard.
But once the story turned its face beyond the planet…
Mars. Jupiter. Pluto.
Thunderstorms. Dust. Silence.
The emptiness of space. The vastness of the sky. The cold gleam of stars.
And farther still, the almost surreal landscape of the enemy's world-an eerie, grand kind of beauty that didn't need to be "understood" to be felt.
That was where Sora refused mediocrity.
He explained as much as he could. Sumire, beside him, watched, memorized, and filled in what he couldn't. She'd come prepared: inside her stack of documents were printed references of backgrounds and compositions from various Japanese productions. Whenever Sora's description lacked precision, Sumire quickly found a similar image and placed it in front of Ryū, making sure there was no confusion about what they wanted.
The discussion dragged on for hours.
When it ended, Ryū went silent for a few seconds, as if organizing everything he'd heard. Then he smiled-amused, lightly entertained.
"Your standards are high, Kamakawa-san. Very high. There's a lot of… 'art' in this."
Sora caught the risk hidden in that line. Winter cour schedules were packed. Finding a team with enough breathing room to accept a high-level job on a tight timeline was rare-and Ryū's studio, despite its plain location, was not some no-name outfit.
His team had a reputation in the market. Not just in Tokushima-sometimes even popular shows produced by major capital studios outsourced background work to them.
Sora drew a slow breath, keeping his tone steady.
"That's exactly why I wanted to work with you, Ryū-san. We need a high standard. And I know it means effort."
Ryū lowered his eyes, thought for a moment… then let out a quiet laugh, like someone who'd already been deciding this in his head.
"I get it. And honestly? I like it." He lifted his gaze to both of them. "We're tired of taking the easy jobs. Cute anime backgrounds, pretty little scenery-things that never challenge anyone. But… storms on Jupiter, alien skies, oceans of stars… that sounds interesting."
He stood and extended his hand.
"For the next three months, we'll be talking a lot. Meetings, adjustments, references. I want everything locked in. But… I'll take the job."
Sumire's posture sharpened immediately. Sora felt a relief so strong it was almost physical.
They shook hands.
It was official.
…
By the time they left the studio, it was already six in the evening.
The wind hit first, heavy-then the fine snow followed, slicing at their faces like blades. The cold felt more aggressive than before, as if the city wanted to remind them that winter didn't forgive carelessness.
Sumire inhaled and sneezed twice, visibly thrown off by the sudden bite of the air.
Sora, still carrying the guilt of making her wait, moved on instinct. He stepped in front of her, setting himself up as a shield, using his own body to block part of the wind.
"The wind's strong. Walk behind me," he said without looking back. "Don't catch a cold."
The parking lot was a little over a hundred meters away.
Sumire watched him walking ahead-broad shoulders under a thick coat-like he'd decided, without even thinking, to take that position. She hesitated for half a second… then followed in short steps, not arguing.
And halfway there, her voice came again, low, nearly swallowed by the wind.
"You…"
Sora kept walking.
"Lately… you feel like a different person."
His body stiffened for a split second-an involuntary reflex, too fast to fake. But he reined it in immediately. He didn't stop, didn't turn back. He kept the same pace and replied with a brief laugh, as if it were honest curiosity.
"Why do you think that?"
Sumire stared at his back and answered slowly, like she'd been turning this thought over for a while.
"It's not just me. The whole company says it. They say that after President Hiroshi passed… you became more polite. More decisive. Even your temper seems better. You don't… take it out on people for no reason."
She exhaled, and white vapor rose in front of her face.
"The old Sora wouldn't apologize for being late. And he definitely wouldn't carry guilt about it for the rest of the afternoon."
Sora felt a strange heat creep into his face-nothing to do with wind or cold.
Inside, the only conclusion he could form was simple, direct… and uncomfortable.
This woman is sharp-too sharp.
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